Greg Vs Server: 8-2

The flag atop the PRT headquarters had seen better days, the gusts tearing it flat against the pole with sharp snaps of fabric. Colin Wallis—known to the city as Armsmaster—stood alone at the edge of the plaza, helm tilted slightly up, watching it strain against the stormfront.

As bad as it seemed, the rain hadn’t truly started in earnest. That truly couldn’t be blamed for the chaos and the poor visibility. The precipitation itself was still thin, misting, just barely skimming the surface of his helmet, water trickling down the plates of his new finished frame in thin, semi-ordered rivulets.

No, it was the wind, the same wind that made the small rain move horizontally, that was the real problem. Yet, Colin could feel the uptick in particulate agitation, a lowering of barometric pressure. Rain would pick up properly in fourteen minutes, give or take.

Armsmaster took a moment to adjust his stance, the weight of the Cerberus Frame shifting slightly around his shoulders. Efficient posture: solid, mobile, ready to respond. Even now, even here, discipline mattered.

The asphalt beneath his boots was damp, the old concrete patched and re-patched a dozen times over the last few years. It would flood easily if the rain kept up. Another problem for another department. He filed the observation away, just in case.

Across the parking lot, PRT vans pulled into their designated rows—one by one, two by two. Capes disembarked, some in full costume, others with helmets tucked under their arms, moving with the kind of hollow urgency unique to Endbringer deployments. There were no shouts, no casual greetings, no banter.

Just grim nods, tight gestures, potentially a tight glance at the looming stormfront over the bay.

Colin’s internal chronometer ticked onward. Each passing minute ratcheted the tension another notch tighter as Leviathan made it’s way closer to landfall, closer to further ruining the city he had spent his entire life fighting for some order of control and maintenance.

Armsmaster stood alone on the marble steps of PRT Headquarters, arms crossed loosely behind his back, gaze set toward the parking lot where the first vans would arrive. His armor systems ran internal diagnostics every six seconds—perfect cycle timing. No system faults. No energy overdraw. He still shifted his weight minutely, recalibrating joint flexion against the wind slicing off the bay.

Everything had to be ready. There would be no margin for error.

Behind him, the reinforced glass doors of HQ stood open, security teams moving briskly inside. The flagpole above strained against its moorings as the wind picked up, the PRT emblem snapping hard enough to be audible even over the ambient city noise. A bad sign. Tactile atmospheric pressure drop confirmed by HUD sensors. Storm intensity escalating by 3% every seven minutes. Forecasts already obsolete. Rain would arrive within fourteen minutes, give or take. Inconvenient, but expected.

It fit.

Armsmaster flexed his gauntlets automatically, feeling the brief resistance of servos syncing to his fingers as they tightened around him automatically. Not to the point of uncomfortability, but a near-perfect adjustment to his digits and muscles by the frame. Another unnecessary check, another ritual of precision that masked the inefficiency gnawing under his armor.

Yesterday’s chaos still flickered in the corners of his mind, tagged and archived, reviewed and analyzed.

However, it was far from dismissed.

Thomas Calvert—Deputy Director Thomas Calvert.

Decorated PRT Officer.

Hero of Ellisburg.

And now, a dead man.

No, worse. Exposed.

Exposed as Coil. The traitor had been operating within their walls for months, possibly years, while they debated policy minutiae and bureaucratic reform measures.

Armsmaster parsed the facts again, clean and cold.

• Calvert eliminated.
• Publicly, a tragic casualty of cape violence.
• Internally, a black mark so deep they couldn’t allow it to surface without shattering PRT public trust metrics nationwide.

The internal investigation was already spinning up. Paperwork, classified hearings, silenced reports. They couldn’t afford the truth. If the public found out a PRT official had moonlighted as a crime lord—had orchestrated kidnappings, killings, and who-knew-what-else—the fallout wouldn’t be containable.

The mercenaries they’d scraped up in the aftermath—parahumans and human freelancers alike—had been remarkably cooperative from their hospital beds. Confessions streaming like open taps, a dozen variations of the same story: Hardkour—no, the boy, Greg Veder, White Knight, whatever name he was wearing today—hadn’t attacked Calvert due to mistaken identity. All of them were working for the now dead Coil.

“We can’t tell the public. Not without collapsing trust in the entire organization.”

Director Piggot’s words, still clear in his mind. Delivered with that mix of bitterness and tired inevitability she used when forced to choose between operational necessity and ethical pretense.

The optics demanded a narrative. Thomas Calvert: a fallen hero. Murdered by a rampaging cape high on hormones and… well, by the time the media was done with him, possibly heroin too.

Hardkour. Void Cowboy. White Knight. The boy was building a pantheon of identities as if changing names could stave off consequence. Greg Veder. The boy did not understand the depth of his actions, the hole he had dug for himself getting deeper each and every day.

And they had to pile the dirt on him. Because regardless of reality, some fictions had to be maintained. Because the optics of truth were worse than the optics of omission.

Armsmaster’s jaw flexed, tension unseen beneath composite plating.

He should have found Coil first. Should have paid more attention. Should have seen the signs. If he had—

Armsmaster shook his head and moved the thought aside like clearing a fogged visor. Control what could be controlled.

The soft rumble of engines reached him before the first convoy appeared. Five black PRT transports nosed up the drive, rain beading on armored glass. Capes emerged in staggered formations—Protectorate, Wards, unaffiliated locals pressed into the shield line. Sullen nods. Tight jawlines. Half-hearted greetings exchanged with the flat professionalism of men and women walking toward execution they intended to survive by sheer stubbornness.

A flash of white light tore a vertical line through the heavy clouds, and the boom came an instant later, bouncing off the gutted skyscrapers and washing over the plaza like a tide. A blue and white comet that landed with almost deferential grace atop the courtyard flagstones, rain finally touching his skin as Legend descended from the sky, feet kissing the pavement in a controlled burn that barely stirred the puddles.

Armsmaster moved to meet him, boots clicking sharp on wet marble.

“Legend,” he said, inclining his head with calibrated respect.

“Armsmaster,” the older man returned, voice steady. Reassuring by design.

Legend’s blue costume darkened by the rain, his face firm but not angry. There was a familiarity between them.

They spoke without smiling. No need. Legend’s presence alone stabilized the field—the unspoken affirmation that, yes, the heavy hitters had arrived, and yes, they still had a fighting chance.

Legend glanced past him, surveying the assembling crowd. “You believe the boy’s stable?”

A loaded question, weighted beyond its casual phrasing.

Armsmaster considered his response with automatic precision. Stability was a gradient. Control was a function of environmental loadout, psychological state, and operational fatigue. Given Greg’s demonstrated behaviors—emotional instability offset by situational hyperfocus, reckless tactical improvisation supported by overwhelming raw output—the only correct answer was:

“He’s… contained. For now.”

Legend’s mouth tightened almost imperceptibly. “We may need to decide if that’s enough.”

No disagreement offered. None expected.

Legend exhaled through his nose after a few moments of silence. “How’s morale?” he asked, glancing sideways at the assembling capes.

Colin allowed himself a small, factual shrug. “Functional.”

Legend gave a faint huff of amusement. “I’ll take it.”

They stood together for a moment, surveying the crowd.

More were arriving by the second: New Wave capes in gleaming colors, independents in mismatched armor, a few recognizable villains slinking into the back rows with the desperate pragmatism that Endbringer calls always inspired.

The rain thickened, each droplet heavier now, slapping against the growing sea of capes with a mechanical insistence. Armsmaster scanned the line automatically—width of shield formations, coverage gaps, aerial overwatch frequencies. Cataloging flaws. Planning corrections. Instinctive.

The next group of capes was arriving. Teleport signatures flaring across the battered skyline. Crowds thickening into knots and clusters. Nervous motion. Nervous silence.

His HUD parsed motion vectors. Filed threats by probability. Noted vulnerabilities in spacing. Imperfections everywhere. He could feel his blood pressure rising—but muted, controlled.

From the far side of the lot, moving with deliberate purpose through the floodlights and driving rain, he saw a figure break from the dispersing arrivals.

Legend’s gaze sharpened, fixing on the exact same figure moving in the middle distance. “Is that him?” he asked quietly.

Colin didn’t need to look to confirm.

Blue and yellow stood out against the white, blue cape fluttering in the rising storm. His shoulders were broader from the way he stood months ago, helmeted head tilted slightly down—not out of deference, but purpose as he moved with a measured stride, his weight balanced perfectly between steps.

White Knight.

Armsmaster’s HUD tagged him instantly, cross-referencing the three separate visual profiles the boy had accumulated in less than a year. Hardkour. Void Cowboy. Now this. The cleaned-up image. A paladin, not a wild card. A symbol fit for public consumption.

He watched the boy pass through the gathering ranks. No hesitation. No wasted motion. No fear.

“Hmph.”