It had been months since Missouri. Months since the Operator and his specters had turned the Slaughterhouse Nine into a memory. Since then, Ten-Zero's reputation has grown faster than anyone expected—including the Tenno.
To maintain that momentum, he'd spent the time since building bridges: meetings with PRT directors, coordinated operations with the Guild and Protectorate, and the occasional carefully managed "public appearance" to keep their image polished without revealing more than they wanted to.
The meeting with the PRT in particular had been interesting and had been scheduled to happen in the "Big Apple" not even twenty four hours after their kills were confirmed. The Operator wasn't sure why it was called that though, there wasn't one anywhere in the city. Not even a statue.
They chose New York as the meeting point because it was home to one of the Protectorate's strongest and most influential capes: Legend of the Triumvirate. The Operator had hoped to meet him, to gauge the man's reaction to them and to begin building standing within the organization faster by acquainting themself with him.
Legend, of course, had been out of the city the entire time—busy helping another branch of the Protectorate dismantle some criminal syndicate calling themselves the Teeth in Boston.
So instead of a Triumvirate member, the Operator got Director Wilkins.
The conference room at PRT ENE headquarters was clean in the way places got when they expected cameras. The long table was polished dark wood, its surface reflecting the overhead lights and the silhouettes of those seated around it.
At the far end of the table sat Ivara, the Operator resting comfortably within her frame. Trinity stood to her right, posture straight, hands folded in front of her. To her left, Excalibur Umbra loomed like a silent guardian.
They'd swapped out the Excalibur Prime specter before coming planetside because leaving Umbra on the ship to do nothing would be cruel. Rhino's specter also wasn't present so as to put everyone more at ease by giving the impression that Ten Zero had less firepower in the room. Plus, it was better not to have him around so as to not accidently level the building in the slight chance a fight broke out.
Opposite them sat Director Wilkins and the assembled weight of the PRT's New York leadership and an agent from the Whitehouse.
Wilkins herself was a woman in her forties, the lines around her eyes carved more by stress than age. Her suit was sharp, her posture sharper. To her sides sat a pair of male and female PRT lawyers with tablets, a federal representative with an easy, practiced smile plus two capes, Cashe and Ursa Aurora.
Names were exchanged, titles recited. Ivara, Umbra, and the specters emoted where necessary. When the Operator was questioned on why his teammates didn't talk, it was waved off as Ten-Zero policy that there was only one speaker per squad. The PRT let it go after realizing that they weren't going to get any more details on that.
Someone tried a joke about it and the laughter that followed was as polite as it was fake.
Director Wilkins let it die, folded her hands on the table, and didn't waste any more time with pleasantries.
"Ten-Zero, once again, on behalf of the PRT, Protectorate, and the good people of the U.S.A, thank you for eliminating the Slaughterhouse Nine. You've done us a great service." She began as her gaze fixed on Ivara's optic through the jellyfish like veil. "But as professionals I'm sure Ten-Zero understands that you are simply too powerful to be allowed to operate indefinitely on U.S. soil with zero oversight."
The room tightened and the Operator felt the change as clearly as a shift in gravity. Shoulders tensed. Breaths caught. One of the Lawyers went pale, fingers whitening around a pen. Ursa Aurora twitched, gaze moving between Ivara and her teammates as if expecting someone to make the first move.
"And frankly," Wilkins continued despite the reactions, "'Ordis has already demonstrated that lack of oversight is not a hypothetical concern. We can ignore impersonating the PRT for the sake of evacuating civilians during your fight with the Nine, but what he did on PHO is unacceptable."
Umbra's posture, which had been slowly growing hostile the more she talked, stopped its subtle shifts and transformed into an outright hostile one. His shoulders dipped and his sword arm was outstretched. He was ready to summon his blade the moment they tried anything.
The Operator would normally tell him to stand down quicker but he could understand why Umbra was so tense. This meeting would have felt awfully like an ambush If not for the genuine surprise flickering across several faces and the fact that one of the lawyers shot Wilkins a quick, sharp and panicked look.
It seemed Wilkins had stepped off whatever script they'd prepared. If this wasn't a negotiation ploy, good. Better an honest person unafraid to speak their mind than a bureaucratic sock puppet. If it was, they wouldn't find them anything to use against Ten-Zero.
Ivara lifted a hand, causing more of the room's inhabitant to flinch, and rested it on Umbra's shoulder, fingers curling tight enough to transmit intent even without transference.
Stand down.
Umbra didn't relax completely, but he stopped looking ready to pull his Exalted Blade and carve up the entire building. As a result, the capes also stopped looking ready to pounce at a moment's notice.
"We are aware," Ivara said, "of how the PRT and the government at large may view Ten-Zero. We are after all an unregistered, highly trained, advanced, and high-impact strike team with the demonstrated capacity to combat and kill S-class threats and disappear at a moments notice."
Wilkins nodded her head in agreement.
"We are also aware," the Operator continued, "that Ordis's… overreach… on Parahumans Online did not help."
Over internal coms, Ordis made a wounded sound. "Overreach? Operator, I was appropriately reaching. The information was deeply relevant to public interest and THEY WERE SAYING TERRIBLE THINGS ABOUT YOU!"
"Not now Ordis," the Operator ordered and the cephalon cleared coms. He wasn't mad at Ordis but he needed him to be quiet so he could think clearly.
Wilkins' jaw tightened even as her shoulder relaxed from realizing that the Tenno were not taking offense. "Overreach is a generous term for cyber terrorism. He hacked into multiple foreign governments and organizations, ripping out classified material, and dropping it in the middle of a civilian forum."
She tapped at her tablet before turning it over and showing the forum in question, still open because Ordis had done something to the site that prevented anyone from deleting it. "Thanks to your Thinker's little stunt, several of those entities are now rattling sabers at us. They see us as complicit because the leaks were posted on a U.S.-hosted platform by a U.S.-based cape team."
That was what she was saying but the Operator knew that conflict and diplomacy issues were not the root of the problem.
The U.S. had the Triumvirate, the Protectorate, and enough parahuman and conventional firepower to make any open conflict into someone else's tragedy. The regimes Ordis had gutted were also already enemies or adversaries of the U.S.. Their outrage was theater.
What Wilkins and her people were really afraid of was someone able to do that to them.
"From where we sit," Wilkins went on, "Ordis isn't just an over enthusiastic PR Manager. He's a destabilizing geopolitical factor. And he's tied to you."
One of the lawyers leaned in. "Which brings us to why we need more… assurances from Ten-Zero If we're going to look past Ordis's blatant disregard of the law and work with you. We need him to answer for his crimes."
The Operator let the silence sit a moment longer than was necessary to show that he was not feeling the pressure they were trying to stack on him before answering with a calm and collected tone. "I hear your concerns and I want to be clear: we did not come here to tell you to ignore them. We came here to address them, make amends, and show that Ten-Zero is willing to work with the PRT."
"But not be accountable to them, correct?" The federal representative asked pointedly.
He wore a sharp suit and glasses. The operator wondered why he was even here stepping on the PRT's toes to be in this meeting. Maybe he was the one applying pressure to Wilkins to be more aggressive with negotiations? No, the PRT would have to have addressed it anyways. It didn't truly matter why he was here though, his presence wouldn't change anything.
"We're not here to become a division of the PRT. Ten-Zero will not be folded into your chain of command. That is not on the table. But we are here to build a working relationship that respects both of our positions. And since Ordis is a high ranking and essential member of our organization, we will not be handing him over." Was the Operator's answer to him.
It seemed the tension increased a notch again at the defiance but one of the capes, Cashe, seemed to have found his confidence and interjected by raising a hand slightly.
"Then how about something simple," he said with slight nervousness. "Tell us more about your organization. Numbers. Structure. Some idea of your origin. I'd go a long way to bridging our organizations if we knew more about you."
The Operator had expected they'd ask about their number and it was decided days ago to be the current number of rediscovered warframes plus the Lotus and Ordis.
"In total," Ivara said, "we currently have sixty-one members."
The number hit the room like a dropped stone.
Cashe and Ursa's mouth fell open. Even Wilkins' who had been stone-faced this whole time had her eyes narrowed slightly in what had to be disbelief.
"Sixty-one," the cape repeated before swallowing and asking another question like he dreaded the answer. "How many operate at the same level as you?"
"Thanks to our armour, all our members operate at comparable levels to me," Ivara said smoothly. "Obviously we are not all identical, but we each are equivalent in overall impact when it comes to our power specialization. We deploy in teams according to the threat but usually one of us is enough."
The first lawyer latched onto the perceived opening. "And those teams operate under… What structure? Cells? Squads? Is there a central command figure? A council? We can't coordinate effectively if we don't know who to talk to or how your chain of command works."
"There is a structure," Ivara said. The Operator was beginning to see that this man was more than just a lawyer. He seemed very interested in prying for information that had nothing to do with the law. "But it is more extensive than we can reasonably cover in this meeting. You will receive a formal document with the details we're willing to share, once we've had time to prepare it properly."
"That's not—" the other lawyer started, then stopped when Wilkins gave her a look. She rephrased. "We would prefer at least broad strokes today."
"You have broad strokes," Ivara replied. "We are an independent, mobile organization with sixty-one current members. We operate under a unified leadership. We conduct operations according to our own threat assessments and priorities, which, at present, align with yours."
The federal rep pressed with a frown. "And your origin?"
"Also extensive," Ivara said, without hesitation. "And not something we intend to rush through in this session. We are here to collect the bounty on Nine and formalize a partnership with the PRT Syndicate."
The lawyers and others bristled at being called a syndicate, so the Operator made note not to use that term with them again.
The female lawyer clicked her stylus against her tablet, betraying her own irritation. "You're asking us to put a lot of faith in you."
"And you," Ivara said while gesturing to the whole room. "are sitting at a table with people you watched fight the Simurgh in orbit and win. Yet you are still trying to pry information out of us with subtle threats when Legend isn't even in the room right now. Faith is already clearly involved."
That hushed the room for a good bit, it seemed the PRT needed a reminder about who exactly they were talking to here. The Operator didn't particularly dislike their fierce negotiation tactics and he could understand their reactions on some level. The talking was also less annoying than dealing with the rival syndicates back home who had an annoying habit of occasionally sicking squads of eximus unit specters on them. However, patients had limits, and with this much posturing and prattling he was reaching his.
Tenno weren't known for savvy negotiation tactics for a reason.
"All right, let's talk about power testing then," Wilkins redirected. "Standard procedure for any cape team working with the PRT is baseline power testing and classification. It's not just bureaucracy; it's about safety. Knowing what you can do helps us plan joint operations and evacuations and save more people."
Ivara inclined her helm agreement. "We understand the purpose. In principle, we are not opposed to power testing."
"In principle?" The lawyer echoed.
"In practice," the operator continued, "our members are usually occupied. For example, Rhino isn't here because he's on a mission. Others are on assignment elsewhere.We will not drag them all into a lab for your convenience while there are still threats to be stamped out."
"We can however schedule," Ivara added. "When our operational tempo allows and when we're satisfied your facilities can handle us without catastrophic failure. Until then, you will have to rely on field data. Luckily, there is plenty we will be able to provide for you."
The female lawyer brightened at that. "If you're willing to share raw combat footage and other data, perhaps an exchange of technology may be in the cards."
"It is," the Operator confirmed. "Within reason."
The federal rep leaned forward, eyes alight with greed. "If you're willing to share your technology, that makes this exchange more even. But that still leaves Ordis actions unaccounted for."
The female lawyer chimed in again. "As previously mentioned, his actions didn't just adjust the trending page on a cape forum. He breached and released classified files from multiple hostile and rival governments and organizations overseas."
"Which admitable," the federal rep cut in smoothly, "we can handle. We've dealt with their tantrums before. That's not the part that keeps people in D.C. up at night."
"The part that does," Wilkins joined in, "is having a parahuman—attached to a powerful, unaligned combat team—who can do the same thing to us if he decides we've become an annoyance."
There it was, finally spoken plainly.
"We understand," Ivara said."It was quite apparent this was the case from the beginning."
"Call it institutional self-preservation," Wilkins said. "If Ordis stays out there, unbound and unaccountable, The PRT will keep getting pressure—from politicians, from the military, and everyone else with a dirty secret—to treat him as a primary threat. Some of that pressure is already coming with words like 'containment' and 'neutralization' attached.
"And as I've said, he is one of ours. We are not handing him over," the Operator spoke with no room for argument. "Nor will we give you his information that could compromise him, like his face, name, or his location."
"Then what are you offering?" the lawyer asked. "You should understand that as a law enforcement agency, we can't just let this incident go with a slap on the wrist. Work with us here."
The Operator paused as if in consideration, Ivara fingers joining together to sell the idea she was concentrating before speaking. "Allow us to handle his discipline internally. In return, you get three things."
Ivara lifted a finger.
"First: a formal, public apology issued by Ten-Zero for his actions both through our channels and, if you wish, jointly with the PRT. We will acknowledge that what he did crossed a line and will be held accountable."
A second finger.
"Second: a commitment, written into our agreements, that Ordis will not repeat those actions against U.S. systems or platforms. No unauthorized breaches of U.S. government, PRT, Protectorate, or allied infrastructure. No large-scale manipulation of civilian networks without immediate, post-fact notification in clear, imminent life-threatening crises."
A third finger.
"Third: a log of his previous actions on Parahumans Online and the related leaks. Enough for your people to see exactly what he did and did not do. Who he targeted, and who he specifically avoided. That will give you a realistic picture instead of the worst-case scenario your more… excitable… advisors are painting."
The federal rep's smile grew, no doubt loving the idea of knowing how Ordis managed to breach those foreign systems so they could replicate it themselves.
"And if he breaks that agreement?" the lawyer pressed.
"Then," Ivara spoke with what seemed like surrender, "we will let the PRT do its job."
Not that Ordis being arrested would ever happen. Not only would Ordis not touch an allied syndicate's data without permission but the PRT certainly wasn't capable of space travel to get to his Orbiter, much less removing it from the void. So it was really an empty promise the Tenno was making.
Wilkins drummed her fingers on the table in contemplation for a few seconds, probably not expecting the Operator to give in after so vehemently denying them access to him, but she nodded slowly regardless of her thoughts. "Acceptable. If we can tell Washington that we've got a signed commitment, visibility into what happened, and a promise that further issues will be dealt with by the PRT should there be a repeat, that will be enough to keep the more extreme responses off the table."
"Then we have an understanding," Ivara said.
From there, the lawyers went to work on language.
They argued over what counted as "U.S. systems." Over which agencies had to be listed explicitly. Over how fast "immediate" notification had to be in emergencies. Over whether "life-threatening crises" included economic collapse or only the sort with visible fire and screaming.
To Wilkins credit, each time someone pushed too hard for more hooks into Ordis, she reined them in before the Operator could shut them down.
By the time the provisional agreements were drafted, reviewed, and marked up enough to be called "good enough for now," the air in the room had shifted into something more peaceful and Ten-Zero left the room as recognized partners of the PRT and very very rich.
The official apology for Ordis's actions soon after had done its work. The gesture was apparently unnecessary, given how positive public opinion of the Tenno already was, but it soothed ruffled feathers in high places—both politicians and big media personalities unnerved by capes who operated without oversight or accountability.
The truth, however, was that Ordis still quietly ruled the site from the shadows. Only the moderators and the PRT suspected, but none could prove it. The Operator would have ordered him to stop, yet after Ordis reported the discovery of an unknown but seemingly benevolent digital intelligence also moderating the site, he had decided to let the cephalon keep watch.
The bounties on the Nine also brought in the numbers that were obscene—hundreds of millions across the board—and overnight Ten-Zero had become what one news anchor dubbed "the one percent." The Operator hadn't liked that label—too Orokin-sounding for his taste—but he couldn't deny the advantages that came with it.
Most of the wealth didn't stay with them for long though. Millions were donated to organizations aiding survivors of the Nine's massacres, all carefully vetted by Ordis. The rest went into constructing a "public headquarters" in Manhattan—a glass-and-steel monument to transparency and heroism. Cameras loved it. People adored it. The PRT tolerated it. Businesses wanted a piece of it, and parahuman merchants—or "Rogues," as they were officially classified—clamored to be a part of despite the only thing special about the building was the iconic Tenno insignia on the front of it.
Construction, however, was still far from complete, leaving the place more of a tourist attraction than an actual command center. The real base would remain the Orbiter—hidden from all of Earth Bet, parahuman or otherwise because as convenient as having a real forward operating base on earth was, the Orbiter was safer. During the first week, Ordis and the Operator had discovered that parahuman powers seemed tied to the planet itself, unable to extend beyond its atmosphere. Another piece of proof that the Simurgh was not parahuman at all.
Speaking of her—the Tenno hadn't seen her since that day. They had made sure of it. Every deployment to Earth was carefully calculated, entering from the opposite side of the globe from where she drifted. It wasn't fear that kept them apart—quite the opposite. The Operator wanted a rematch, but he knew that if another fight in Orbit with her didn't end within the opening blows, it would escalate until what was left of Earth's satellite network was obliterated in the crossfire.
Around half of it had already been destroyed during their first encounter and that alone had nearly sparked a global incident once word spread that Ten-Zero had been responsible for the battle in orbit. Certain members of the United States government—most notably the Director of NASA—had been particularly vocal in their outrage. Yet that fire was swiftly smothered by an overwhelming wave of global support.
Ordis had made sure of it. He flooded the net with footage of Ten-Zero striking the Simurgh harder than any army or parahumans had before. For the first time in history, humanity saw its supposed "hope-killer" brought low—and they loved every second of it.
That didn't mean diplomacy hadn't been necessary.
The first time the Operator walked into NASA as Ivara, the outrage was already waiting for him—neatly pressed, professionally dressed, and barely concealed.
The conference room was long and narrow, one wall nothing but glass overlooking the Florida coastline and the clustered silhouettes of launch complexes. The opposite wall was a bank of screens: orbital debris maps and red LOSS OF SIGNAL markers.
Ivara took the seat at the end of the table, unbothered by the emotions in the room. After the song and dance with the PRT, this was almost relaxing.
Trinity Prime's specter wasn't with him. She was in New York "power testing" with the PRT by quietly emptying a hospital's critical ward of anyone the doctors thought was beyond help. Umbra was also gone, in the field with a PRT strike team dismantling a foreign cape group trying to set up a staging ground near the capital. Rhino's specter was doing a fan meet at a famous local gym with PRT Brutes, letting people take photos of them holding impossible weights and signing anything shoved under their hands.
Today, here, it was just Ivara. Well Ordi's was also here but like with the PRT he'd remain silent unless asked to speak or an emergency happened.
Opposite her, much like the PRT, NASA had brought its best faces and its sharpest knives.
Administrator Rose sat at the center—silver hair, dark circles, posture like a coiled cable. To her right, the Associate Administrator for Space Operations, their tablet already filled with numbers and casualty lists in the form of hardware. To her left, NASA's Chief Engineer, gaze fixed on the debris maps as if he could will each lost satellite back into existence before turning eyes full of blame on Ivara.
Further down the table sat the program manager for their main communications constellation, a systems engineer with a worn mission patch sewn discreetly inside his blazer cuff, a White House science advisor from the National Space Council, a DoD space liaison in uniform, a PRT national liaison, one lawyer who looked like they lived on caffeine, and two industry representatives from major aerospace contractors with hungry eyes and expressions and somewhere between anger and opportunity.
"Ten-Zero," Administrator Rose began, voice very calm in the way people got when they'd already shouted themselves hoarse in private, "I hope you understand just how much work it took to get to this point after the Simurgh first appeared."
She didn't wait for an answer.
"Years of negotiations. International committees. Every launch a fight. Every satellite justified three times over to people who want to shut us down every time she twitches." One finger tapped the table, sharp and steady. "And after all that, we finally put a fragile but functioning network in orbit… and then your battle takes out half of it in an afternoon."
Around her, the others shifted. The program manager stared at Ivara over folded hands, jaw tight. One of the contractor reps looked like he didn't even want to be in the same room as the looping debris footage.
"We are aware," Ivara said sincerely. "And we are truly sorry for the damage that incident caused."
"That apology is the only reason we're having this conversation," Rose said. "Some people wanted sanctions. A formal declaration of Ten-Zero as a threat to national infrastructure—"
The Tenno nearly sighed. If he'd been in his own body, they would have seen him roll his eyes.
"Spare us the threats, Administrator Rose," Ivara said, voice almost bored but not dismissive. "They're unnecessary and unhelpful, especially when you already know we intend to correct the issue."
Before anyone could argue, the Operator raised Ivara's hand, palm up.
Light blossomed above it—a rotating hologram of the Liset, sleek and alien to their eyes, hovering over the center of the table. The room's quiet anger tripped, stumbled.
"This is the Liset," Ivara said. "As many of you are no doubt aware by now, it is a highly advanced spacecraft. It can reach orbit in seconds, without launch windows, without worrying about weather, or even fuel. With it, we can put hardware exactly where it needs to be, when it needs to be there."
The Chief Engineer's eyes widened despite himself, no doubt already forming in his head what he thought their plan was. One of the contractor reps leaned forward, momentarily forgetting to look annoyed. The Operator imagined that when some of them had dreamed of being astronauts as children, this was closer to what they'd pictured flying—or at least something in the same category.
"But if I was here to just offer a transportation service," Ivara continued, "Ten-Zero would have sent an email, not me."
With a flick of her fingers, the Liset shrank and slid to the side. In its place, another hologram unfolded: a compact satellite, panels nested tightly against a central bus. It rotated slowly, arrays blooming outward, emitters and sensor clusters highlighting as they extended along calculated angles. Orbital tracks appeared next—a web encasing the Earth, coverage footprints pulsing in soft light.
There were soft sounds now. A low whistle from the systems engineer. A murmured "holy…" from the program manager and similar reactions from everyone else because they all knew, instantly, what was being put on the table.
"A global network, unbelievable. And with this sort of tech…" the Chief Engineer said slowly, leaning in, "it has to be at least a decade ahead of current designs. The optics alone, those thrusters… they're not standard anything. So… it must be Tinker tech."
The words hit like a bucket of cold water. The room's excitement dipped into disappointment as if the words Tinker Tech were a curse.
"No," Ivara said immediately.
That got their attention. The Chief Engineer looked up at her. A few others straightened, hope recalibrating.
"Our organization includes very strong parahumans," she said. "Some of them have Thinker or Tinker-adjacent abilities and they did contribute to the designs. But we also used real, feasible science and engineering."
She gestured, and the hologram zoomed in on a cluster of components. Parts disassembled, cross-sections revealing layered, sensible machinery. No impossible geometries. No black-box cores. No "because the Tinker said so" nonsense to be seen.
"These designs are advanced, yes," she went on, "but they are still mundane technology. Your own teams can fabricate them from the ground up with your existing industrial base—as long as they have complete specifications."
"So this is actually reproducible, like Dragons…" the Chief Engineer whispered, more to himself than to Ivara.
His eyes flicked between the projection and Administrator Rose, practically begging her to do whatever it took to seal the deal for the designs. Her expression didn't move much, but the death grip she had on her own lap when she heard the word "reproducible" spoke volumes.
"Correct," Ivara said. "Once you have the design, you don't need us to assemble or maintain it."
"And because it's not classified as Tinker tech we don't need PRT Tinker approval to start using it," Rose stated quietly.
The PRT liaison heard and grimaced. "There would still be inter-agency consultation," he said. "But no. If the tech is non-Tinker and licensed appropriately, we don't get an automatic veto."
One of the contractor reps seized the opening like a starving man spotting meat.
"What would it take," he asked, leaning forward, "to buy these designs from Ten-Zero outright? Full schematics, full rights, exclusivity. Whatever number you're thinking of, we can get close."
The Tenno almost felt bad for them.
These satellite designs were primitive garbage by his standards. No cloaking, laughable encryption, mediocre lifespan, and a dozen other shortcomings. But that was to be expected when all the time he'd invested into them was maybe fifteen minutes—and Ordis had needed about a picosecond to simulate their validity. Even so, he couldn't just give it up. Securing funding for the future was necessary after using most of the money from the nine.
"We're not selling the designs," Ivara answered, her tone leaving no room for argument. "The intellectual property stays with Ten-Zero."
The man's jaw clenched. His colleague started to protest, but Rose lifted a hand, cutting him off without looking away from the hologram.
"Then what are you offering?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.
"Licensing," Ivara said. "NASA receives the right to produce this satellite family under your authority. You build them in your own facilities, with your own people. Ten-Zero provides the initial design package, training to build them, manufacturing tolerances, and consultation on integration."
The hologram shifted: Ten-Zero's emblem, NASA's logo, and a generic contractor icon appeared, linked by clean lines.
"In return," she continued, "for every satellite of this line you assemble and launch, Ten-Zero receives a fixed fee. Scaled by mass and function. If you want us to handle orbital insertion with the Liset for particularly sensitive or time-critical deployments…"
The Liset's hologram slid along a projected trajectory, dropping a satellite neatly into a highlighted orbit.
"…there will be an additional charge per launch."
"So you get paid every time we put one of your birds in the sky," the DoD liaison said. There was more acknowledgement than accusation in his tone.
He, like everyone else in the room, understood the real equation: even if Ten-Zero had access to the network, it would be too valuable not to build. The military applications alone would pay back whatever licensing scheme the Tenno demanded. And Ten-Zero offering this after making it clear they could build their own independent network was, effectively, them saying: join up or be left behind.
"And you," Ivara said, "get the most advanced satellite network this world has ever had—and as a bonus, if the Simurgh tries to mess with this one we'll send her packing again, free of charge."
Administrator Rose exhaled, long and tired, but there was something fierce and bright in her eyes now. The kind of look someone got when their entire career had been about pushing uphill, and suddenly the slope shifted in their favor.
"You're the only people on the planet except Scion that can say that and make me believe you." she said finally, turning her head to look at Ivara's main optic through the hologram. "If this holds up and gets approved, we'll take your license and your help getting back into the sky—as long as you're helping us build more of these than you're blowing up."
"That," Ivara said, letting a hint of a smirk enter her voice as the holograms fade one by one, "is the plan, Administrator Rose."
So yeah, most governments and organizations forgave them, aka the U.S and her allies.
But not all.
"Guzzleshaft"—a mocking nickname for Gesellschaft coined on PHO that the Operator quite liked—wasn't among them. Nor were the CUI or several other authoritarian regimes and criminal syndicates that viewed Ten-Zero, and Ordis in particular, as existential threats to their control.
Ordis hadn't gone so far as to reveal their capes' true identities—he knew to play by the so-called unwritten rules, even if only for pretense—but their finances and digital infrastructure had been… appropriated.
Many hadn't collapsed completely though—some had plenty of parahuman muscle and too many entrenched assets for that—but the damage was done. And there would be more before the Operator made his way home.
Not that there'd been much progress on that front. The Chief Director remained "too busy" to meet, even after months for a brief talk. The frustrating stagnation was softened only by visits from the Lotus and his siblings, and by the quiet discovery that his arsenal wasn't locked to the frames and weapons he'd first arrived with. Every two weeks, the available set located in the arsenal seemed to reshuffle.
He had learned that suddenly and inconveniently when he placed Ivara back in storage at the end of the second week and found Hydroid Prime in her place the next day. From there on, he had to use an Ivara specter to keep up public appearances until Umbra could slowly take her place as the public face of the organization. But every now and again, he had Ivara and the original trio of specters run missions or fan meet-and-greets to keep up appearances.
Honestly, the Operator considered the entire endeavor a monumental waste of resources—but he had plenty to spare, having long prepared for another Solar System-level disaster after Ballas. He wasn't worried about running low unless he somehow tried to field and outfit an entire army of specters. Plus it hadn't all been bad.
Still, resources were precious, and coordinating all of the specters on his own—even with Ordis's help—would eventually risk exposure of their inhuman nature or overextension. That was why he decided to begin investing in Earth Bet's talent pool and developing a new initiative: Echo Zero.
People who could play the role of the Tenno Operative's of the Origin…
"We are here."
The Operator's thoughts scattered as Ordis's voice echoed in his mind. He blinked, realizing how long he'd been staring blankly at nothing.
He exhaled through his nose, head resting on one hand, elbow propped against the door as his eyes drifted open. The interior around him was simple—unassuming leather seats, muted console lights. Nothing fancy by design, but far more advanced than it appeared.
Outside, muted daylight filtered through the tinted window. The Operator turned his head toward it, eyes half-lidded, watching the vague blur of motion beyond the glass. The car had stopped beside a curb, and through the smudged window he could see the shapes of students moving in loose groups, backpacks slung over tired shoulders, laughter and chatter dull through the glass.
He caught his reflection in the window—a stranger's face looking back.
Dark skin. Black hair. Eyes a deep, earthy shade that didn't glow with void power. Close enough to be familiar, but wrong enough to unsettle him if he wasn't already used to wearing different bodies.
He groaned softly, glancing down at his new human body—taller than he was used to, broad-shouldered and athletic. He turned his gaze back to the reflection, and for a brief, unwanted instant, the image of someone different yet so similar overlapped with another.
Isaah. Umbra's son.
That quiet, anxious smile he had as he stood beside his father on Lua before Ballas—
The Operator forced the thought away before it dug in too deep. He regretted designing this form but he hadn't realized it was so similar to the boy until he checked the foundry upon its completion—and Umbra had never conveyed a word about it till now, despite the emotion it stirred.
He turned his head toward the driver's seat. The man there was motionless, posture perfectly straight. Brown skin, dark graying hair, the hard lines of his jaw framed by a tailored black suit. His eyes were hidden behind tinted glasses, and gloves covered his hands completely.
"Is this really necessary?" the Operator asked.
Umbra didn't answer, but the faintest incline of his head was answer enough.
From the implant in the brain of this body, Ordis spoke again. "It was your idea, Operator."
The Operator groaned again, dragging a hand down his face. "Right. Of course it was."
"I think this might be good for you," Ordis continued, tone bright but with an undertone of concern. "Since Ballas, and especially since we arrived here, you've done nothing but work. A… change of pace could help you, don't you think?"
Umbra nodded once in agreement.
The Operator looked out the window again. The school loomed ahead—a squat, weathered building with peeling paint, cracked steps, and a faded sign that still managed to read Winslow High. Students shuffled through the front doors like a slow-moving current, their laughter and chatter dulled by the glass.
He thought back to his promise to the Drifter—the vow to try living something resembling a normal life, even if only for a little while. He could have chosen a nicer school, even a nicer city, but that would have been dull, unproductive, and counter to his goal of recruiting for Echo Zero.
Brockton Bay, by contrast, was perfect. It had the highest cape-per-capita rate in the US, the weakest Protectorate presence relative to its villain population, and an economy so in the dumps that even minor intervention could tip the scales.
The Operator figured he could kill three Grineer with one kunai by staying here for a few weeks: help the PRT clean up the city and ingratiate them even more to him, give the economy a nudge in the right direction to help the general populace, and maybe recruit a few stray parahumans along the way for his initiative.
He sighed, done trying to find excuses. "Fine," he muttered, reaching for the bag beside him. Slinging it over his shoulder, he felt the weight settle awkwardly against his borrowed frame. "Wish me luck."
"Good luck, Operator!" Ordis chirped as Umbra gave him a thumbs up. "And remember to have a great day!"
The Operator gave a tired half-smile and pushed the door open. Cool air brushed against his skin as he stepped out.
A few nearby students turned to stare—not at him, but at the sleek car he'd just exited. Whispers followed him for a moment, curiosity flickering and then fading as quickly as it came.
He adjusted the strap on his bag and started toward the steps. He spotted, in his peripheral vision, a group of what looked to be young E88 members pointing at him and whispering what were no doubt many obscene and racist remarks—but he ignored them.
He stepped through the double doors of Winslow High. The air smelled of old paint, disinfectant, and faint mildew. The halls buzzed with voices, laughter, the squeak of sneakers against waxed linoleum despite how tragic this place looked.
"Don't look so disappointed," Ordis murmured through the implant in his head. "It's an educational facility, not a Grineer cloning lab."
The Tenno's mouth twitched, almost a smile. "I'd honestly prefer the lab," he replied mentally.
He followed the signs toward his first class—Computer Studies. Rows of aging desktops lined the walls, their monitors thick-backed and dusty. A dozen students filled the seats, chatting or already tapping at keyboards. At the front, a woman in her forties looked up from her laptop.
"You must be the new student," she said, voice brisk but not unkind. "Isaac, right?"
"Yes, ma'am," he said easily. His tone carried calm confidence, his expression relaxed but unreadable.
A few students glanced up as he turned his head to face the room.
"Well, welcome to Winslow. I'm Ms. Knott. I know you're coming in mid-semester, but we'll do our best to get you caught up. Anything you want the class to know about you?"
He gave a faint shrug. "Not much to say. I'm from out of the city. And, uh… I have narcolepsy, so if I suddenly fall asleep, it's not personal."
That earned a chuckle from the class. Ms. Knott gave a polite smile. "I was already informed by the Principal, but thank you for letting me know. Find a seat anywhere you like, Isaac."
He scanned the rows. There were cliques everywhere—students huddled in pairs or trios, phones tucked between them, eyes half-focused on their screens, each other or him. Only one desk sat isolated, its occupant bent over her keyboard as if trying to merge with it.
The choice was easy after seeing that.
The girl didn't look up when he approached, though he saw her tense slightly.
"Mind if I sit here?"
A beat of silence followed by her quiet, "No. Go ahead."
Up close, she looked… tired. Pale skin, hair pulled back too tightly, shadows under her eyes that spoke of poor sleep. Her hands moved over the keyboard with a strange mechanical precision.
The Operator turned his own screen on and stared at the boot sequence of an operating system that should have been extinct centuries ago, his face showing little interest until he looked at the girl's screen. His lips twitched, almost amused. "So these are ancient computers, and look rougher than what they had in 1999."
She gave him a strange look. "It's not that old but yeah. The school can't afford to upgrade. You'll get used to it."
"I'll try." He frowned at the sluggish load time of his computer, pretending to squint at the interface when he started up the programming program. "What's the difference between this and, uh, other coding languages?"
That caught her attention. She hesitated, glancing toward him like she was trying to decide whether he was mocking her. When she didn't find any ridicule, she began explaining—carefully, methodically.
He listened with genuine interest, nodding occasionally, adding small questions that encouraged her to continue. In truth, he grasped the logic faster than she was explaining it, but he forced himself to go slowly, stumbling just enough to make her feel helpful.
"Thanks for explaining all that. Name's Isaac, by the way," he offered, holding out a hand.
"Taylor." She hesitated before shaking it once, quickly.
After that, they listened to the teacher drone on until she gave them an assignment on the board: a basic coding exercise. Taylor started typing immediately; Isaac decided to stare at the screen for a little longer, not doing anything.
"Do you need help?" she asked after a while, moving her eyes from him to her screen.
He turned slightly, feigning a bit of uncertainty. "Maybe a little."
She decided to help, and by the end of the period both of the assignments were done.
The bell rang echoing through the halls like the end of a battle more than the end of class. Chairs scraped, computers whined as students logged off, and Ms. Knott's voice rose above the chatter:
"Alright, that's all for today! Remember to save your progress—some of you lost work last time!"
Isaac leaned back slightly, stretching in his seat as the rest of the students surged toward the door. Taylor was slower to move, carefully shutting down her computer, methodical even in small motions.
"Thanks for the help, Taylor. You're a good teacher."
"No problem. It's not… hard or anything." She answered easily, though she still looked faintly surprised that someone had said something nice to her at all.
The Operator gave her a faint nod, wondering how much this girl had been beaten down before pushing away from the desk and following the flow of students into the hallway.
"Ordis, she's a bullying victim, right?" the Operator thought as he left Taylor behind.
"Correct, Operator. From what little I could glean from this school's shi-shi-shi—underdeveloped digital records—it seems Miss Hebert has been suffering for at least a year now. Extensive social and physical bullying resulting in slipping grades and increased absences, all culminating in being trapped in a locker filled with biological waste for hours months ago. No one was held responsible."
Isaac's jaw tightened. He didn't slow his pace, but his expression flickered—just enough for anyone passing to mistake it for thoughtfulness instead of anger.
"Names," he asked flatly.
There was a brief pause—Ordis pretending to hesitate. "Are you sure that's wise, Operator? Getting involved may attract unwanted attention."
"Names, please, Ordis."
"Very well," he answered happily. "The primary aggressors are Emma Barnes, Sophia Hess, and Madison Clements. There are others, but those three are where the complaints were mostly directed."
The Operator's brow furrowed. "Why ignore her though? I understand this place is a dump and people can slip through the cracks, but they shouldn't have any logical reason to ignore Taylor—especially when these girls are so well documented as her aggressors."
"Because," Ordis answered with carefully measured cheer, "Sophia Hess is also a Ward. Codename: Shadow Stalker."
The Operator nearly froze mid-step but continued walking. He knew the PRT weren't exactly one hundred percent clean or righteous—no syndicate was, especially when they occasionally recruited from the morally bankrupt—but letting a Ward moonlight as a high school bully seemed out of character for that PR-obsessed machine of an organization.
Ordis explained that the school benefited from having Sophia, receiving extra funding from the PRT. Having her sent away to juvie would likely cut that revenue stream, so it was more likely the school was covering it up than the PRT being negligent.
The Operator's tone turned dry, edged with faint annoyance. "This is why you have handlers for these types of human assets. Someone's supposed to keep them accountable, not cover up their mistakes."
There was a brief pause before Ordis responded, almost surprised. "She does have a handler, Operator. But it appears they are involved in the cover-up as well."
The Operator almost sighed. "Then it's not negligence," he said flatly. "It's corruption."
"Should I intervene?" Ordis asked carefully. "A subtle correction of files could lead to an investigation into the handler, the school, and…"
"Yes," the Operator cut him off, not needing to hear the rest. "But I don't want to draw any attention to this form by bringing a PRT investigation on our heads. So delay it for a bit. Still…I can't have her terrible treatment continue simply because I'd rather stay hidden from prying eyes. So for now, I'll take it upon myself to protect her and any others like her in this school."
He quirked his lips slightly, a hint of mischief visible in his face and apparent in his mental voice. "I might not know much about high school politics, but I did graduate from Scoria. How hard could this possibly be?"
Before Ordis could answer, a pair of kids from Ms. Knott's class caught up to him in the hall, weaving through the tide of students.
"Yo, Isaac!" one of them called—a lanky boy with a mop of brown hair and an oversized hoodie. "Wait up, man! Are you heading to Mr. G's next?"
The Operator glanced back, slowing his stride just enough for them to catch up. "If you mean Mr Gladly then yeah," he replied.
"Nice," said the other—shorter, wiry, carrying the nervous energy of someone always a little too aware of his surroundings. "We got that class too. Mind if we tag along?"
The Operator shrugged. "Not at all. Free country and all that."
"So, where are you from, anyway? You said you're not from the bay right?" Brown hair asked.
The Operator tilted his head slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Would you believe me if I said I was an alien?"
Both boys blinked, had a moment of dawning realization, then burst out laughing. "Oh, like an immigrant?" the shorter one said after finishing his snickering.
"Something like that," Isaac replied with a smirk.
In his head, Ordis giggled at the joke as well.
Isaac suppressed his own laughter, shaking his head slightly.
"Alright, since you're new," the shorter one said, adopting a mock-serious tone as they approached the next door, "here's a crash course on surviving Winslow."
The taller one raised a hand, counting off on his fingers. "Rule one: don't mess with any of the gangs. You got the ABB, the Merchants, and E88. If you can't tell who's who, just assume they're trouble and walk away."
"Rule two," the other added, "stay out of the bathrooms if you can. Merchants like to deal there, and E88 uses it for initiations."
Isaac nodded slightly, eyes flicking over the crowded hall and spotting some examples of the two walking by. "Mhmm, got it. So "
"Quick learner," one said with a laugh as they traced his gaze. But then their tone shifted—still casual, but with the undercurrent of something wary. "And, uh, if you're smart, don't hang around Taylor Hebert."
Isaac hummed with curiosity as he glanced at him, expression unreadable. "Why?"
"Because," the taller one said, lowering his voice, "the Queen Bitches—Emma Barnes, Madison Clements, and Sophia Hess—they'll make your life hell here if you do. Like, actual hell. They can get away with anything man. They're all pretty, popular, and Emma's dad's a lawyer so the school won't do squat about them."
The other boy nodded. "They're untouchable, man. You don't want that kind of attention."
Isaac's gaze drifted ahead, to the classroom door just a few steps away. His tone was casual when he replied, "Thanks for the warning."
The shorter boy grinned, taking it as gratitude. "No problem, dude. Just trying to save you some pain. You seem chill—would hate to see you end up on their shit list."
They reached the classroom door then, and one of the boys grinned, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. "Just looking out for you man. Gladly's class is chill, though—you'll like him."
Isaac offered a faint smile in return. "I'm looking forward to it."
As they filed into the classroom, Ordis's voice hummed quietly in his head, mischievous and amused. "You see, Operator? You're already making friends. Isn't this fun?"
Isaac gave the mental equivalent of a shrug as he followed the boys to their seats. "I appreciate them looking out for me Ordis," he thought back. "But I'll need them to have a little more backbone before I can call them friends."
"Try not to judge them too harshly, Operator." Ordis advised in a slightly chastising tone. "They aren't Tenno and they didn't grow up in the harsh future of the Origin System. Fear here isn't cowardice, it's survival."
He was right, the Operator conceded silently. Life on this version of Earth wasn't easy—he could see that already—but it also wasn't the Origin System, where exploitation, death, and endless war rolled in and out like the tides. Here, people still flinched from cruelty instead of embracing it. Here, they were never left to rot by their only heroes and saviors for years.
He slipped into a seat beside them just as the bell rang, leaning back slightly as he scanned the new room of faces again.
Moments later, Taylor walked in. She didn't look around much, just moved to what seemed to be her usual spot near the side of the room—sandwiched between a kid who looked half-asleep and possibly high, and another with a stiff blonde bowl cut who immediately launched into conversation, talking far too quickly for her to get a word in.
Her eyes flicked up for a moment, meeting his across the room.
He gave her a small, easy smile—nothing too forward, just polite acknowledgment. She blinked once, startled, before looking away almost immediately, her shoulders tensing slightly as she opened her notebook.
He frowned faintly to himself, wondering if he offended her somehow. The question lingered for only a moment before he pushed it aside and turned his attention to the man walking to the front of the room—a short, gregarious, and young-looking man who could easily be mistaken for a high school student.
His class passed fast.
Isaac had paid attention through World Issues because Mr. Gladly was interesting. He bounced from topic to topic with enthusiasm, tying cape politics to global policy, and for all its flaws and sometimes inaccuracy, it was… entertaining. Nostalgic even.
When the bell finally rang, the class erupted into motion. Binders slammed shut, chairs scraped across tile, laughter and gossip rose like a tide.
Isaac stood, stretching slightly before slinging his bag over his shoulder. He lingered long enough to let the rush die down, then made his way toward the door. Taylor was ahead of him, slipping her books into her bag as she moved.
He caught up as she stepped into the hall. "Hey, Taylor."
She turned hunched before recognizing his voice.
"Wanna grab lunch?" he asked, tone easy but not pushy. "Could use a familiar face for company."
For a moment she seemed to consider it before shaking her head. "No, sorry. I usually eat alone."
Her voice wasn't sharp or dismissive, just resigned. She didn't wait for his response before walking off down the hall.
"Dude," a familiar voice called. It was one of the two from Computer class —he really needed to figure out their names. "C'mon, man, don't waste your time."
The Operator turned his head slightly toward them.
"Listen to him," the shorter one said, falling in step beside him. "We told you Hebert's bad news. Not like it's her fault or anything, but… it's like she's cursed, you know?"
"Yeah," the other added quickly. "Trust us, it's not worth it to play prince charming. Don't get dragged into her mess."
Isaac regarded them both with neutrality, eyes flicking toward the where she disappeared. "You guys don't need to worry about me but I'll keep that in mind."
They took that as agreement and sighed, tugging him toward the lunchroom. He let them. He couldn't help Taylor by forcing his way into her solitude, not yet at least.
The cafeteria was alive with noise — a dozen conversations, trays clattering, the smell of overcooked fries and something pretending to be chicken. Isaac took a tray, filled it with whatever passed for food here, and followed the two boys to an empty table.
They sat, continuing to fill him in on the unspoken laws of Winslow, rant about girls, and parahumans. He didn't care for girl talk but parahumans was something he could add to considering he'd met many during his PR campaign.
"Soooo," the taller one asked leadingly after the conversation died down, "why'd you try talking to her, anyway? I joked about you being prince charming but are you actually the white knight type?"
Isaac speared a fry with his fork, thoughtful. "Hmmm, I suppose in a way I am. I don't really like the idea of leaving people I can help alone"
That earned a sigh from the boys.
"Dude, you're gonna need a hell of a lot more than white knight complex if you wanna help anyone in this shitty city, especially her."
Before he could answer, the Operator noticed something small and wet flew across the room. A water bottle, half-full, spinning end over end. He didn't even think — one hand shot up, catching it without looking. Isaac flicked his eyes toward the source — a table full of teenage skinheads with E88 gang colors. One of them was smirking, clearly expecting a different outcome than what was about to occur.
Without a word, Isaac turned the bottle in his hand and tossed it back. It sailed through the air, just barely grazing the space in front of the smirker's nose before sinking into the trash can beside their table with a soft thunk.
A quarter of the cafeteria went quiet for a heartbeat before breaking into a chorus of surprised exclamations and drawn-out "ooohs."
The E88 boy's grin vanished fast, replaced by something angry at being one upped. He half-rose, but froze as one of the teachers across the room turned to look. Isaac didn't move, didn't even glance up again — just returned to his food as though nothing had happened.
The two kids beside him hunched lower in their seats. "Jesus, man," the shorter one hissed under his breath. "You've got a death wish or something."
Isaac, eyes still on his tray, replied. "I'm not too worried about them."
"Well you should be!" The tall one panic whispered. "They're racist and you're black! They might jump you after school because of that stunt."
The Operator knew they meant well but he couldn't bring himself to care for their worry or explain himself more. They wouldn't understand that not only was he as close to immortal as possible, but that a couple of unpowered and untrained teenagers would need more than numbers and a couple weapons to hope to put a scratch on him, even in this body.
Tension slowly ebbed from the room, conversation resuming in bursts when they realized nothing was going to pop off. Then, inside his head, Ordis's voice whispered.
"Operator, I'm detecting anomalous activity nearby. Possibly parahuman. Location… appears to be a female restroom on this floor. There's a strange congregation of local insect life forming there. Shall I dispatch Umbra to investigate?"
Isaac froze mid-bite, eyes widening in excitement for something to do. "No," he answered in his head. "I'll handle it."
"Understood, Operator."
He pushed his tray away slowly then let his body slump slightly, as though nodding off mid-lunch.
The two kids looked at him funny but he kept it up. "Guess he wasn't kidding about that narcolepsy. Do we call the nurse or something?"
By the time one of them leaned over to nudge him, Isaac's consciousness was already gone. The Operator emerged inside the female restroom, invisible and intangible in void mode once more.
Taylor Hebert stood in the middle of it, soaked and trembling with anger, but unafraid of the insects that swarmed around her — crawling, buzzing, filling every surface and corner. But not touching her.
Her face was streaked with drying juice — stains cutting across her clothes and hair. It seems her bullies had struck.
Then, slowly, with a deep, shaking breath the insects retreated. The swarm broke apart like smoke in the wind, flowing out through cracks, drains, and vents until the room fell still again.
The Operator stood there watching as she got herself together and ready to leave. A smile crept across his spectral features — not cruel, but sharp with interest.
"Well," he murmured to himself, before void dashing back toward his body, "I think I've found my first recruit for Echo Zero."
___________
A/N: Hey everyone! I know some of you might still feel there isn't enough buildup here—I kind of agree. But I'm not writing Tensura, so I'm hoping it's not too big of a loss. I originally planned to add more to this rewrite than just two meetings, but my laptop charger got busted. Since this chapter was already sitting at around ten thousand words, and writing on my phone was slowing down the release schedule for chapter 12, I decided to make this the final result. I'll focus on adding proper buildup later on so there won't be any more awkward time skips. Thanks for sticking with me and expect chapter 12 this Friday. But for now, author out!