INTERLUDE: THE PATH TO BROCKTON BAY

The jungle stretched endlessly before it, thick with the scent of life. Insects swarmed in dense clouds, unseen creatures rustled in the undergrowth, and somewhere in the distance, a predator shrieked as it made its kill.

Yet their instincts warned them of something unnatural in their midst—something that did not belong. It moved through it all without sound, the constructs it had birthed from Steelback’s knowledge trailing in silent reverence. Crude mockeries of life, but obedient. For now, that was enough.

They did not attempt to attack, and even if they had, it would not have retaliated. There was no need. It no longer hunted—not here. Not anymore. It had already taken what it required.

No. 9 had learned. It had evolved.

The battle with the mercenaries had been enlightening. They had wielded weapons designed to counter beings like it, forcing adaptation in ways it had not considered before. And now, its body was something new. No longer crude flesh and bone—its structure had refined itself. Beneath its outer shell, new layers had formed: reinforced biological plating, shifting in density as needed. A flexible lattice of muscle and sinew ran beneath, stronger than steel yet pliant. It no longer reacted solely to immediate threats; it anticipated them. Prepared for them. And dealt with them expeditiously.

Its senses had expanded beyond human comprehension, picking up electromagnetic shifts, heat signatures, even the subtle pulses of life hidden beneath the earth.

But power alone was not enough.

It needed knowledge.

And that was why the greater reward had come after, in the mind of the Parahuman—no, Thinker.

Understanding.

The Thinker had glimpsed something vast, something ancient. Fragments of knowledge, incomplete but tantalizing. The shards. The source of this world’s powers.

They were not mere accidents.

They were seeds. Experiments. Something had placed them here, bound them to hosts, driven them to conflict. The details were beyond No. 9’s grasp—for now—but the implications were clear.

If it wanted to ascend further, it would need more.

. . . . .

No. 9 did not act with haste. Its failures—few as they were—had taught it caution. Patience. Evolution was a process, and it would not squander its advantage by exposing itself carelessly.

The Thinker’s knowledge had given it a starting point. There were places in the world where Parahumans clustered, where the shards’ influence was strongest. Cities where conflict thrived, where hosts fought and died, feeding the cycle.

One name surfaced again and again.

A destination.

Brockton Bay.

It did not know why the city was special. It did not need to. All that mattered was that it was a nexus of power. A place to hunt. A feeding ground.

But it would not go unprepared.

There were others in its path—Parahumans that lived in the shadows, unknown to the world’s larger forces. Some had isolated themselves, their powers warping them into something less than human. Others had been abandoned, their potential left untapped.

They would serve their purpose.

It would learn from them. Consume them. Grow stronger.

And by the time it reached Brockton Bay, nothing would stand in its way.