INTERLUDE

Eidolon had to die.

The Path offered no branches, no alternatives. No clean resolution that allowed him to live. Just the single, immutable line that began with her stepping through the door and ended with the sound of a gunshot echoing in the small, steel-lined transport truck.

It was the only way.

Fortuna mourned. Contessa acted.

The video of Eidolon’s battle with Superman had been seen by millions within the hour. Livestreams. Cellphone footage. News broadcasts. Close-ups of terrified bystanders fleeing as capes clashed overhead. Eidolon, rambling about himself, about worth, about the slow rot at the heart of heroism. And Superman—so resolute, so human in his refusal to kill, to try again and again to reason with the man—bearing the brunt of the man’s breakdown.

People were injured. A few even died. And property damage stretched for miles. 

But the real devastation was in what couldn’t be repaired.

Trust.

The people had believed in Eidolon. Believed in the PRT. He had been a pillar of their image, their most powerful parahuman, their reassurance that there was always someone stronger, someone watching, someone capable.

And now, the world had seen that shield crack. Worse, they had seen what lay underneath.

No narrative spin could undo the damage. No PR campaign could erase the footage of Eidolon striking out in madness—screaming about his need for validation, about his need for a justification for his continued existence. The public didn’t see a man buckling under the weight of impossible expectations. They saw betrayal. Hypocrisy. Madness. And danger. 

Even if the PRT salvaged its reputation someday, the scar would remain. And so long as Eidolon lived, it would fester. He would always be a symbol of the old lies.

He had to die.

Doctor Mother had known this. Contessa had agreed. Rebecca had accepted it, in her way—saw to it that the transport would be lightly staffed. Satyr was at the wheel, loyal to Cauldron, and Eidolon’s containment cell rode empty but for him.

He could have broken out at any time, If he’d truly wanted to. The restraints were ceremonial—cuffs that might as well have been ribbons for all the good they’d do against a man who could use any power imaginable. 

But he remained seated. 

Because deep down, he knew.

He wasn’t bound by force, but by recognition. Recognition of what he had become. Recognition that there was no path forward—not for him, not after what the world had seen him do. The man who once stood beside Earth Bet’s greatest heroes as an equal, who once carried the weight of nations, had lost himself somewhere along the line. And the worst part was that he’d known. The need for escalation, the subconscious search for challenge—it had warped him. Driven him to atrocities he’d rationalized in the moment, then buried afterward.

He had always feared stagnation. Had always needed to matter. But now, exposed, powerless in a way no strength could fix, he saw himself clearly.

A relic.

A mistake.

Contessa stepped through the door, emerging into the space behind him with the quiet stillness of inevitability only she could command. She did not rush. She did not speak—not yet.

For a moment, she just watched him. Watched as he looked ahead, out the narrow viewing slit. His posture was loose. Resigned.

Then:

“You needed worthy opponents,” she said.

A long pause. Then a small sound—a breath let out, somewhere between understanding and relief.

She watched his shoulders lower slightly, as if a weight had finally dropped.

He sighed. “I know.”

That was all. 

He didn’t try to flee, because there was nowhere left to run that would mean anything. He didn’t beg or plead, because there was nothing left to say that could justify it—not to her, not to himself, and definitely not to the world. Didn't struggle because part of him welcomed the end. Not out of despair, but out of exhausted understanding. For all his power, he hadn’t been able to save himself from what he’d become.

So he sat, quiet, waiting.

Not for forgiveness. Not for redemption.

But for the consequence.

Contessa raised the gun. The Path guided her aim.

One shot.

Clean. Precise. 

Final.

It wasn’t personal.

That was the lie she clung to as she stepped back through the door and closed it behind her.

But Fortuna—the girl who had once admired David for his strength and single-minded focus on heroism, who had worked closely beside him when Cauldron was still new, when the world still made a little sense—mourned him. 

Mourned a man who could be considered her friend. 

Mourned what he had become.

What they had all become.

Contessa buried the feeling.

There were no tears.

There were still monsters to face. Still a world to shape before it tore itself apart.

And no more room for the broken.