The briefing room was suffocating, not from the lack of space—though admittedly, most chairs were filled, so most had to crowd the walls—but from the sheer weight of urgency pressing down on everyone inside. The steady wail of the sirens outside had become part of the ambience itself, a constant reminder of what loomed over them.
On the wall-mounted screen, Brockton Bay glowed with projected overlays. Streets were marked in red for predicted flooding, green for evacuation routes, and yellow for staging points where reinforcements would try to hold back the inevitable. Everyone in the room knew the truth: plans lasted only until the Endbringer appeared. After that, survival was improvisation and last-minute orders. Still, Piggot insisted on this briefing, hammering down assignments so no one wasted time in the field.
Harry slipped in behind Battery, trying to make himself as unobtrusive as possible, though eyes still found him. Some glances were quick and curious while others lingered, but he ignored them all.
At the head of the table, Director Piggot sat braced forward, thick fingers splayed against the tabletop. Her grimace hadn’t shifted once since Harry stepped in, not that it ever did. To her right, Miss Militia rested a hand on her knees, her expression calm but pinched with worry. Armsmaster forwent a seat to stand on the opposite side, visor glowing as he scrolled through incoming data.
The Wards were clustered in the back, too young to be here, and though Harry hoped against hope that they’d be sent home, he knew better. In this situation, it was all hands on deck.
“Sit,” Piggot ordered without looking at him.
Harry stayed on his feet.
Her eyes flicked up once, irritation sparking, before she snapped, “Fine.” Then she moved on.
“Armsmaster, Dauntless, Battery, Triumph, and Assault will be part of the main attack. Velocity, Gallant, you’ll run evacuation alongside New Wave, then I want you on search-and-rescue. Kid Win, Aegis, Vista, Shadow Stalker, and Browbeat are also on search and rescue. Miss Militia will coordinate.”
One by one, names were called and assignments fell into place. It was all logistics, not strategy, because from what Battery told Harry on the way here, strategies were rendered moot when facing the Endbringers. Still, it was a bit demoralizing that nobody spoke about how they would stop Leviathan. It was as if they already knew there was no stopping a force of nature, only limiting the scale of destruction and loss of lives. As if seeing that the lives lost were fewer than the last city’s was victory enough.
When Piggot was done, silence pooled heavy in the room. She let it hang, daring anyone to question her. No one did.
Then her gaze fell on Harry.
“You’re to remain with the medical team in the infirmary,” she said flatly.
Harry didn’t wait to voice his displeasure. “Respectfully, Director, I can—”
“No,” she cut him off, her voice cracking like a whip. “You’re not part of the Protectorate, you don’t have the clearance, and I won’t authorize a civilian to throw himself at an Endbringer.”
Harry swallowed back the immediate surge of anger, but he took a step forward before he could stop himself. “Healing isn’t all I can do. You’ve seen that.”
“And I’ve also seen what happens when an Endbringer decides to swat away a nuisance,” Piggot shot back, her jaw clenched hard. “I don’t care what tricks you can pull, your ability to heal makes you more valuable there than on the field. I will not gamble the lives of my people on a civilian playing hero.”
There were ripples of unease across the room—Miss Militia made to stand, only to be held back by Velocity—but no one interjected.
Harry’s fists curled at his sides. “You don’t understand. I don’t know if my magic can hurt it, but if it can—” He stopped, searching her expression for the smallest hint that he could reason with her. “If it can, then maybe I can stop it. Do you understand what that means?”
“And if it can’t?” She leaned forward across the table, the overhead light casting shadows deep into the grooves of her tired face. “Then you die pointlessly, Potter. Do you understand what it means if we lose you?”
Every word made sense. He knew it, even as frustration burned in his chest. She was right, in the cold, tactical sense, but every word still felt like iron shackles locking around his wrists.
He pressed on anyway. “Director, I can teleport. I can survive in ways no one expects. Let me, at least, try.”
The silence after was deafening. Every cape avoided looking directly at him, trying not to get caught in the battle of wills playing out at the table, or pretending to not be interested in the outcome.
Piggot’s lips pressed into a thin line before she exhaled once, hard through her nose. “You will remain at the infirmary, and that is final,” she said. “If you disobey, Potter, I promise you will not like the consequences.”
For a long moment Harry stood there, chest rising and falling as every part of him strained to argue. But the words stuck in his throat, so he forced himself to look down at the glowing map instead. Endbringer battles usually left the cities uninhabitable. He might not have been here for long, but he had come to appreciate Brockton Bay for what it was. And he didn't want it to be destroyed.
“Dismissed,” Piggot barked.
Chairs scraped back and boots pounded as the Wards shuffled out first, some glancing back at him once before dividing according to their orders. Protectorate members followed in tighter groups, clipped voices trading last-minute details.
Harry lingered just for a second, long enough to meet Piggot’s impassive stare and realize there would be no changing her mind, before turning on his heel and leaving.
She wanted him safe, tucked away in the infirmary, and healing the few survivors that managed to reach him. But Harry Potter had never been one to sit on the sidelines, not when he knew—deep in his bones—that he might have the power to end the fight entirely.
Not when the city would be destroyed if he didn't act.