(LIMITLESS) INTERLUDE: CONSEQUENCES

The warehouse was quieter now.

Not silent—there was always noise in the aftermath. A dripping pipe. The distant whine of sirens. The ragged breathing of men too injured to flee. But compared to the chaos from minutes before—the shriek of tearing metal, the howl of something not quite human and not quite monster—the worst of it had faded.

Taylor stood among the ruins, breathing evenly. Three dogs whimpered softly from the remaining cages, thin limbs trembling under matted fur, ribs jutting out. The fourth, the smallest and cleanest—though that wasn't a high bar to pass—gave a low, rasping bark.

Taylor moved toward it, crouching slowly and cautiously. 

The cage was barely bigger than a shopping cart. Inside, the dog pressed itself against the back of its enclosure. Brown fur, mostly intact, with a scar on one ear. It couldn’t have weighed more than thirty pounds, and it looked like it hadn’t eaten properly in weeks.

She extended a hand, careful to deactivate her forcefield before she brushed past the bars. The dog flinched, but didn’t pull away.

“You’re okay now,” she said, voice barely louder than a breath. “We’ve got you.”

A soft light glowed beside her. Gallant didn't speak but he knelt beside the next cage, his movements surprisingly quiet. Comfort. Reassurance. Not just for the dogs—for her, too. It was one of the things she was starting to understand about him—how he used his power not just to fight, but to soothe. To heal.

She was grateful. Though she didn’t say it.

Without his power, the dogs might have panicked and injured themselves or worse. Hurried hands, strange smells, and the lingering scent of Hookwolf and the other E88 members would have been too much. But instead, they stayed still, trembling but not snapping.

Together, they opened each cage one by one. One dog limped out, spine hunched low. Another paused, ears pinned, then stumbled forward to nuzzle the hand Gallant offered. He pulled a protein bar from a pouch from somewhere on his person, unwrapped it, and held it flat in his palm. The mangy shepherd mix sniffed cautiously, then nibbled slowly on it as he murmured something reassuring. 

Taylor, meanwhile, reached up and tapped her comms.

“Hebert to Console,” she said, keeping her tone clipped and professional. “We have four canines on-site, signs of abuse and neglect. Requesting emergency animal rescue. Priority medevac.”

She paused, eyes sweeping over the unconscious or groaning E88 members sprawled across the floor—one of them still twitching, half-conscious, where Gallant had dropped him with a flash of light.

“And notify Brockton PD,” she added. “We have five suspects. Confirmed Empire Eighty-Eight. Incapacitated. No active hostiles remaining on site.”

“Copy, Hebert,” came the calm voice in her ear. “Transport team en route. ETA ten minutes. Good work.”

Gallant nudged one of the unconscious men with the toe of his boot—not hard, just enough to roll the guy’s swastika tattoo on his arm into view. “You’d think they’d learn by now.”

Taylor didn’t reply. She was back with the brown mutt, brushing dirt from its scarred ears with gentle fingers. She said something—soft, too quiet for him to hear, even with his suit’s sensors. But her expression wasn’t hard anymore. Just tired.

Gallant watched her for a moment before asking quietly, “You good?”

Taylor stood slowly. 

“I will be,” she said. “Once they’re safe.”

True to Console’s words, the van arrived minutes later. A PRT handler team exited with tranquilizer kits and animal carriers. Taylor hovered nearby, her shoulders rigid with barely restrained tension until she saw how carefully they moved—how one handler knelt instead of towering, how another whispered before lifting a shaking animal after offering it water.

Gallant gave a subtle nod of approval as the dogs were gently sedated—only mildly—and crated for transport.

Only then did Taylor relax.

The cleanup took another hour. 

Gallant stood to one side, quietly finishing the upload of his incident report through his HUD. He didn’t mention Hookwolf. The four E88 members were enough to justify their response, and Taylor… Taylor was already skating on thin ice with the Director. Reporting that she’d gone toe-to-toe with an Empire lieutenant without prior clearance—much less played with him—would only raise flags, maybe even disciplinary action.

So he kept it hidden.

For both their sakes.

Taylor hadn’t spoken much since the call. Just kept watching—always watching—as the last of the dogs were placed in the van. But as they prepared to leave, she stopped beside one of the dogs: the scarred one. A handler was tagging it for intake, scribbling notes onto a clipboard.

“Where’s he going?” she asked.

The handler glanced up. “There’s no ID tag, but we will check our reports for any information on the owner. If nothing comes up, the city pound or a rescue org.”

Taylor hesitated. Then reached into her belt and pulled out the little scrap of paper the boy from earlier had handed her.

She passed it to the handler.

“His name’s Milo,” she said. “He belongs to a kid. Make sure he gets home.”

The handler blinked, then nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

Taylor didn’t correct him.

She just watched as the van was closed, the van started, and the tail lights disappeared into the night.

. . . . .

Elsewhere, That Same Night…

Hookwolf limped into the steel-and-glass monolith that served as Medhall Corporation—a seemingly respectable pharmaceutical front that masked the Empire Eighty-Eight’s true operations. The building stood tall in downtown Brockton Bay, its mirrored façade reflecting the city’s slow decay back at itself with corporate indifference. But behind the public-facing offices, through a nondescript alley and a security door coded only for trusted lieutenants, the real face of the Empire revealed itself.

Brad didn’t bother acknowledging the guards stationed at the rear entrance. They recognized him, and more importantly, they recognized the state he was in and hurried to let him in.

His boots rang off the polished concrete as he made his way through the back corridors. Medhall’s pristine veneer didn’t extend to this part of the building: bare utility walls, shuttered labs, and converted office space that stored weapons, cash, and worse. These halls weren’t meant for clients. They were for the initiated, or so most members spouted. 

He reached the private elevator. No buttons—just a biometric scanner. He pressed a bloodied thumb against the reader, and after a beat, the doors slid open.

The elevator ascended in silence.

By the time he reached the top floor, his breathing had evened out, but the pain in his side still throbbed. He flexed one arm, watched as the metal knit halfheartedly around a damaged joint before slipping apart again. 

He’d fought dozens of capes. Fought better-known names. Stronger ones, on paper. Had spent years honing his instincts in blood and violence. But this girl—Hebert—hadn’t just beaten him. She’d dismantled him. Toyed with him like she had all the time in the world.

It was a sobering thought that in all his years, none had damaged him as much as the girl did. 

The elevator opened to an empty floor.

No secretary. No waiting room. Just cold marble and the quiet hush of carpet leading to a steel-framed double door.

He pushed them open without knocking, wincing slightly as the movement jarred something in his side.

Kaiser—Max Anders in his custom-tailored shirt sleeves—stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking down at the city like a man surveying his empire. Light glinted off his blond hair, his posture straight, the picture of control and corporate civility. 

He didn’t turn when Hookwolf entered.

“Brad,” he said evenly. “You’re late.”

Hookwolf stepped in, blood leaving tiny stains on the carpet. “Ran into a complication.”

Now Kaiser turned, cool eyes narrowing at the sight of his lieutenant.

“I can see that.”

His gaze lingered on the cuts and bruises peeking through his tattered clothes. Hookwolf’s regeneration was slow—delayed. That, more than anything, caught his interest.

“Who?”

“That girl. Taylor Hebert. The one with the forcefield.”

“She did this to you?”

Hookwolf grunted, dropping heavily into one of the leather chairs before the desk, uncaring that he stained the expensive leather. “Didn’t just do it. She played with me. She knew I couldn’t touch her and took full advantage of it.”

Kaiser walked to his desk. His fingers drummed against the dark wood as he processed the information.

“She’s a Ward now.”

“Doesn’t mean she’s off-limits,” Hookwolf snarled. “She’s arrogant. Could’ve killed me or handed me over to the PRT gift-wrapped. She didn’t. Instead, she crushed me into the ground like the fucking Simurgh. I couldn’t move—couldn’t do anything without her permission.”

Kaiser nodded slowly, sitting at last. 

“The PRT will try to leash her, but that power… it’s not meant to be leashed.” He leaned back in his chair, expression considering. “And if they fail—if they let her grow unchecked—she won’t just be another Ward with an attitude problem. She’ll be a problem. For all of us.”

Hookwolf leaned forward, eyes gleaming beneath a bloody brow. “So we hit her back.”

Kaiser raised an eyebrow. “You want revenge?”

“I want to remind her who runs this city.”

Kaiser turned to the window again, the cityscape glittering before him. “She’s already made fools of some of our soldiers. Now she has bloodied a lieutenant. That kind of narrative spreads.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“She embarrassed you. Fine. But we’ll make her fear us. Not just for her sake, but for anyone watching.” He straightened. Decisive. “I’ll contact Night and Fog.”

Hookwolf stiffened. “You sure about that? They’re…”

“I’m aware,” Kaiser interrupted coolly. “But even monsters have their uses. And this girl—she’s a threat. Not just to us, but to the order we’ve built. To the image we project.”

He turned away, reaching for a slim phone tucked into his desk drawer. “It’s time to remind the PRT why we shouldn't be underestimated.”

Hookwolf said nothing, just flexed his bloodied hand and felt the sluggish crawl of his regeneration still failing to catch up.

Kaiser’s voice was quiet. Absolute.

“it’s better she learns now. Before she becomes too powerful.”