CHAPTER NINE

The conference room in the Brockton Bay PRT headquarters was uncomfortably silent.

On the projection screen was a still frame taken from a security drone footage: a tall figure dressed in black, white-haired, and blindfolded. Hands in his pockets. Smiling faintly, like he knew the camera was there, and simply didn’t care.

Director Emily Piggot leaned forward. “You’re certain this is the clearest image we have?”

Armsmaster nodded once, stiffly. “Yes, ma’am. Attempts to capture additional visual or audio from within varying proximity to him experience glitches, frame skips, and distorted audio.”

From the wall monitor, Dragon’s voice filtered in. “I’ve run the available footage through eight iterations of filtering. The problem isn’t the signal. The problem is that space around him doesn’t behave correctly. It’s like trying to film a black hole from the inside.”

Piggot squinted at the figure on-screen. “So what is he?”

“Unknown,” Armsmaster said. “Velocity made contact before the Squealer incident. Identified himself as Gojo Satoru. Also claims he’s not from this world.”

Piggot grunted. “Cape delusion?”

“Unclear, but not likely. He’s not in any database. Not PRT, nor any civilian ID registry we’ve cross-referenced. No fingerprints, no DNA match, no known alias. Facial recognition returned zero hits.”

Piggot arched an eyebrow. “That could just be a data loss issue. We’ve had entire archives wiped out in Endbringer attacks.”

Armsmaster didn’t shake his head, but the tightening of his jaw said enough.

“Possible. But also not likely.”

He brought up a secondary display—an enhanced close-up of Gojo’s face.

“We’ve run voice analysis, gait tracking, microexpression mapping. Everything we’ve got.” He tapped the side of his helmet. “Linguistics places him as native Japanese. Clean accent, no regional distortions. His name lines up. His features too.”

Piggot frowned. “So he’s from Japan.”

“That’s the issue,” Armsmaster said. “He’s from a Japan. Just not this one.”

That earned a pause.

He continued, undeterred. “The way he speaks, the way he moves—no cultural bleed. No pop references, no visible markers of shared history. It’s like talking to someone who grew up adjacent to Earth Bet. Similar enough to pass. Off just enough to be wrong.”

Piggot steepled her fingers. “A Case 53?”

“No. No biological markers. No disfigurement. No memory loss.”

She exhaled sharply through her nose. “So what are you saying?”

Armsmaster didn’t hesitate.

“If he says he’s from another world, we should consider the possibility that he’s telling the truth.”

There was a pause—long, heavy.

Miss Militia exhaled slowly, speaking for the first time. “What do we know for certain?”

Armsmaster keyed in another file—this time, high-resolution drone footage from the aftermath of the Squealer incident. The camera panned to a damaged heavily-modified vehicle. 

“The damage made no mechanical sense.” The camera showed Armsmaster crouched near the wreckage, visor scanning, data scrolling across his HUD at a rate most humans couldn’t follow. “The front end was crushed as if from impact, yet there were no signs of a collision—no discernible collision vector, no burn marks, shockwave patterns, or electromagnetic residue typical of most Tinker weapons. Instead, the vehicle seemed to have folded inward on itself, almost as if hitting an invisible wall.”

“Which is why,” Dragon added gently, “we’re tentatively classifying his ability as a form of spatial exclusion. Or displacement. Either he exists in a pocket of space where nothing else is allowed to exist, or nothing can reach him unless he chooses to let it.”

“A forcefield?” Miss Militia offered.

“Might not be in the traditional sense.”

Piggot leaned forward. “So what did he say about the incident?”

“Eyewitness accounts indicate that, when questioned, Gojo’s only comment was, quote: ‘She rammed into me.”

Piggot tapped the table. “So he’s invulnerable.”

“Functionally, yes,” Armsmaster confirmed. “It is consistent with Velocity’s report: no visible damage to him or his clothes.”

“Any weaknesses?”

No one spoke.

Finally, Dragon said, “We haven’t found any.”

Piggot stared at the screen for a long moment. “What’s his angle?”

“So far,” Dragon answered, “he’s only acted in response. One confirmed cape neutralization. Minimal collateral. No indication of premeditated hostility. But he’s… observing.”

“Observing what?”

“Everything.”

Piggot pinched the bridge of her nose. “Has he stated any goals?”

“No affiliations. No demands. No contact attempts,” Armsmaster said. “Velocity tried probing him during their encounter. He described powers as ‘clinging to people like threads.’ He sees something, Director. And I don’t think it’s a metaphor. But what he’s seeing—”

“—isn’t visible to anyone else,” Dragon finished. “And certainly not standard-issue.”

Miss Militia frowned. “So he’s a Thinker?”

“Maybe. But if so, his range of perception includes things we didn’t even know could be perceived.”

Armsmaster continued. “More observation is needed before a conclusion can be made. But no signs of hostile intent, disregarding the Bakuda incident.”

Piggot’s expression darkened. “Intent can change.”

“Agreed,” Armsmaster said. “But if it does—containment won’t be possible. Not with current assets.”

Silence.

Piggot finally spoke, sitting back into her chair. “So let’s recap. We have an unclassified individual with no known origin, no recognizable powers, no technological support, who has already dismantled a dangerous Tinker threat. And, might I add, claims to see powers.”

Her voice dropped. 

“Find out what he wants,” she ordered. “And pray he doesn’t decide to change his mind.”

She turned off the screen.

The room stayed quiet.