Dawn bled across Westvale in a copper haze, the city's jagged skyline outlined by smoke. Drones still drifted overhead, relaying ceaseless footage of the Juggernaut's wreckage and the silhouettes who had defied it.
On every feed, two hashtags scrolled side by side in a relentless duel: #QuishProtector and #CrimsonThreat.
Inside the Ampers' concrete safehouse, the glow of half a dozen holo-screens bathed the room in jittering light. Global anchors argued over whether the mysterious "Quish" was savior or destabilizer.
Grant stood near the back, arms folded.
Slha broke the silence first, her voice clipped. "Half the world's calling us heroes. The other half wants a firing squad. Efficient symmetry, at least."
Aldus leaned against the table, scowling at a scrolling headline. "Symmetry doesn't stop a warrant. We just painted bullseyes on every Gifted alive."
Nullis flickered into view beside a console, eyes bright with wary amusement. "Could be worse. They might start selling action figures."
Uncors, half-shadowed in a corner, spoke without lifting his mask. "Noise fades. Fear lingers. Plan for the second one."
Xylo cracked a faint grin, trying to ease the weight. "Guess I finally made prime time. My mom's going to lose her mind."
Acuent tapped a fingertip against a floating map, voice sharp but steady. "Visibility changes the equation. We can't vanish again. We set terms or the government will."
Rook lounged against the doorframe, bruised but grinning with quiet recognition. "Quish, huh? Took you long enough to make it official."
Anna—Glyph—caught Grant's gaze before he could answer Rook, her own glowing sigils dim in the morning light. "They needed hope last night. Maybe that's what we gave them… even if they don't know what to do with it."
Brakkon's eyes narrowed at the headlines. "Hope or not, Juggernaut was a test. Next one won't be a single machine."
The room sank into heavy quiet.
Grant felt every stare, every expectation. Outside, the city buzzed with arguments he couldn't control. Inside, the hum of red lightning under his skin matched the low thrum of the screens.
Symbol or threat, the world had seen them. And there was no going back.
****
The White House press hall was a hive of restless energy—camera rigs humming, reporters murmuring into headsets, the blue-and-gold seal of the presidency gleaming under studio lights.
Outside, a cold September drizzle slicked Pennsylvania Avenue, but inside the air was dry and sharp, the way it always felt when the nation held its breath.
The double doors opened. President Evelyn Marte strode to the podium with the precision of someone who understood the weight of optics.
Her navy suit was cut to military lines, her silver hair a deliberate contrast against the dark backdrop. She waited for the last camera click to settle before speaking, her voice low enough to demand silence.
"Good evening, my fellow Americans. Last night, our nation witnessed an unprecedented assault on the city of Westvale. Thanks to the swift and heroic actions of the Volts, the threat was contained and the city stands today."
The room murmured approval; the Volts' battered but unbowed images had already gone viral. Marte allowed a respectful pause, then let her tone harden.
"Intelligence confirms that this attack was not the work of foreign actors, nor of any sanctioned federal program. Instead, evidence points to a rogue paramilitary faction, aided by a gifted infiltrator capable of advanced shapeshifting. These criminals—operating outside any lawful chain of command—stole federal resources and misused them to create the machine known as the Juggernaut."
A wave of flashbulbs lit her features like a strobe.
"I want to be absolutely clear," she continued, eyes sweeping the press corps, "the United States government neither authorized nor condoned the Juggernaut initiative. We will cooperate with international partners and domestic agencies to bring these saboteurs to justice. The public deserves accountability, and you will have it."
Marte straightened, her gaze unflinching. "To that end, I am ordering a full-spectrum federal investigation into this conspiracy. We will not tolerate infiltration. We will not allow fear to define us."
The cameras drank in every syllable. Then, in a subtle shift that only seasoned watchers caught, the President softened her stance.
"Before we continue," she said, "I have invited a citizen whose expertise and candor will help illuminate the private-sector dimensions of this tragedy. Please welcome Victor Vorath, CEO of Vorath Dynamics."
The side door opened to a ripple of anticipation. Victor Vorath emerged in a charcoal suit so precise it looked drawn in graphite. His reputation preceded him: billionaire technocrat, architect of next-generation energy grids, a man who could move markets with a sentence. He approached the podium with an easy, rehearsed humility, offering the President a brief nod before addressing the nation.
"Thank you, Madam President." His voice was smooth as poured steel, carrying the calm cadence of a man who never raised it. "I come before you with deep regret. Months ago, an individual I believed to be a senior federal adviser approached me with a proposal—a defensive initiative meant to shield our cities from catastrophic Gifted conflicts. The documents were immaculate, the clearances impeccable. I believed it to be not only legitimate but essential."
He paused, allowing the weight of his next words to settle.
"I was deceived. That adviser was no adviser at all, but a gifted infiltrator—a shapeshifter of extraordinary skill—who exploited my trust and my company's resources to construct the machine you now know as the Juggernaut."
The room rustled with low, incredulous murmurs. Vorath raised a hand, silencing them with effortless control.
"My first responsibility is to the people of Westvale and to every citizen who watched their streets become a battleground. Therefore, effective immediately, Vorath Dynamics will establish a multi-billion-dollar restitution fund to rebuild Westvale and compensate all victims of this attack. No shareholder will profit until this debt to the public is paid."
Flashbulbs exploded like small detonations. Reporters jostled for position, but Vorath pressed on, eyes fixed on the central camera.
"And to the individual the world now calls Quish—whose crimson lightning shielded civilians when no one else could—I extend a direct and open invitation. Meet with us. Meet with the President. Let us turn chaos into partnership, for the stability of us all. The nation needs dialogue, not distance."
Questions erupted like gunfire—"Mr. Vorath, did you—?" "Madam President, will federal agents—?"—but the President stepped forward, her hand raised.
"Tonight," Marte said over the din, "we show the world that democracy does not break under pressure. We will investigate. We will rebuild. And we will protect every citizen, gifted or not, with the full measure of American resolve."
The broadcast cut to a wide shot: the President firm at the podium, Vorath a composed silhouette beside her, the press corps a storm of flashing light. Across the nation, screens flickered with their images, fueling a firestorm of speculation that would rage long after the cameras blinked to black.
****
The command room still smelled faintly of ozone and burnt circuitry from last night's hasty repairs. Rain ticked against the windows, a metronome to the flicker of a dozen live-feeds showing the President and Victor Vorath on endless replay.
Anna paced in a tight circle, crimson sigils flashing across her palms like restless sparks. "They bury Veynar's name and blame a phantom," she said, each word clipped. "We watched the Taskforce build that monster. We know whose fingerprints are on it, and the whole world's going to swallow this shapeshifter fairy tale because the President says so."
Xylo lounged against the edge of the holotable, trying for nonchalance but betraying a twitch in his jaw. "Vorath's tossing out PR blood money like candy," he muttered. "Bet his stocks rebound before lunch." He gave a short, humorless laugh. "Guess conscience pays dividends now."
Brakkon leaned forward from the shadows near the doorway, arms crossed over his broad chest. "Vorath never apologizes unless it profits him," he said, voice gravel-low. "The man's playing three moves ahead. If we walk into a White House meeting, we're pieces on his board."
Nullis drifted closer to the screens, her form flickering between solid and translucent, eyes scanning the scroll of global hashtags. "And if we don't?" she asked softly. "Every feed already calls Grant 'Quish.' They'll write the story without us. Symbols are louder than facts."
Uncors materialized from an empty corner, gold accents catching the room's dim light. He had been invisible long enough to overhear everything. "I've run the chatter nets," he said. "Half the world wants to canonize us, half wants us hunted. Staying underground keeps us safe… but it also lets them define us as fugitives."
Acuent tapped a finger against the table, a steady, deliberate rhythm. "Safety was never the mission," he said. "But rushing into the President's court without leverage is suicide. We need proof—something to expose Veynar before we speak."
Gule, silent until now, finally rumbled from his seat. His suit, a striking contrast with red and blue glowing lines running down the sides. "Proof takes time. Time we might not have if the Volts decide they're the only sanctioned heroes."
Colon's black suit shimmered with sleek contours, his black mask hiding any hint of expression. "So we either hide and watch the world crown Vorath and Marte as saviors, or we walk into their spotlight and gamble everything."
Grant stood at the back, crimson arcs faintly alive along his new black suit, absorbing each argument.
Anna stopped pacing and fixed him with a burning stare. "What about you, Quish? You're the headline. Do we stay ghosts, or step into the frame?"
Grant exhaled slowly, the room's tension drawn tight around him. He didn't answer yet. The decision wasn't just about them—it was about what the world would believe when they finally spoke.
****
Westvale's avenues, still scarred from the Juggernaut's rampage, now throbbed with a different kind of pressure.
On one side, Pro-Quish rallies marched beneath banners streaked black and crimson. Homemade sigils blazed across hoodies and placards—Our Red Shield. Voices lifted in a chant that rolled like thunder through the broken streets:
"Quish Saves! Quish Saves!"
Children perched on parents' shoulders, waving hand-painted lightning bolts. College students sprayed crimson streaks across cracked pavement, the paint still wet and gleaming under the drone lights.
Across the boulevard, anti-Gifted protesters answered with their own jagged chorus. Flags of pale blue—the color of the old Anti-Catalyst Movement—snapped in the rising wind. Signs shouted back: Gifteds Out! One Law for All! No Red Messiah! Their chant cut sharp as broken glass:
"Gifteds Out! Gifteds Out!"
Between the two fronts, media drones swarmed like mechanical carrion. Each hover-cam fixed on the most incendiary moments: a masked teen spraying a crimson Ampers' logo across a toppled police barricade; an older man in a city-maintenance vest shoving back, shouting that Westvale "will not be a Gifted colony."
Arguments flared in sharp bursts:
"Quish saved my sister!" a young woman yelled, holding a holo-tablet replaying last night's footage.
"He brought the fight here!" a shopkeeper shot back, waving a broom handle like a staff.
Police hovercraft formed a trembling line of blue light between the factions, their own orders divided. Officers barked warnings through megaphones, but the chants only grew louder, each side feeding on the other's defiance.
From a shattered rooftop sign, a lone reporter streamed live, voice tight with urgency. "Westvale is becoming the eye of a national storm," she said, the chants swelling behind her. "This is no longer just about the Juggernaut—this is about what the world believes Quish represents."
A sudden flare of crimson paint arced across the divide, splattering a pale-blue banner. Shouts became a roar. The drone lenses tightened, hungry for violence.
Above it all, the city itself seemed to hold its breath, the scars the battle now a stage for a different war—one of symbols, fear, and the fragile hope that a single figure in black and red might mean salvation…or something far more dangerous.