Danny Hebert POV-

  I sat alone at the kitchen table, the same ugly laminate surface Annette used to insist we replace “one of these days.” The overhead light buzzed faintly from that cheap bulb we got all those years ago. Annette was sure as hell to think that little bulb would last their whole lives, never got around to fixing it.

  Reminded too much of her, and the shadows in the corners of the room seemed thicker than they should’ve been for a long, long time. Brockton Bay at night had that effect in these cold, lonely nights, or maybe it was just me.

  The beer in my hand was warm. I’d opened it half an hour ago, maybe longer. I couldn’t make myself drink it, but I also couldn’t throw it away. So it sat there, sweating on the table, while I stared into it like it had answers buried at the bottom.

  Two years.

  Two fucking years, and somehow the house still felt wrong without her.

  People said grief had stages. Steps, they say, like a ladder you climbed until you reached the acceptance par,t like it was some kind of quota you filled when building a house. Whoever came up with that never lost someone, especially someone like Annette. Her absence wasn’t a step. It was a hole. A hollow carved into the centre of everything that made me who I am and when she died, that part of me was taken away too as a piece of wood chunked away somewhere.

  I took a breath that shook on the way out.

  Her laugh used to echo off these walls during the Summer; now the silence pressed in on me within these same walls.It used to be sunshine and rainbows; now it’s just thick and stale. I’d tried filling it with work, kept me busy on things like the union stuff, managing the hiring for the docks, the never-ending dance with the mayor and his pigheadedness and the gangs around like the E88 and the ABB. For a while, things almost seem a little normal again for me.

  But when the meetings ended, and I came home, the quiet followed me in like a stray dog. Tail down. Eyes sad. Too loyal to leave like shackles upon my dark, broken, shadowy soul, too far gone to think of anything else other than mire in this slow dark swamp I put myself into.

  I missed her. God, I missed her so much.

  I missed the way she’d sit across from me with a mug of tea, her hair tied up haphazardly, her face half buried in a book, reading about history, contemplating Plato with that pretty smile of hers. I missed the soft footfalls upstairs when she’d check on Taylor at night, calling her Little owl and singing that lovely lullaby.

  I missed the arguments, even. The stupid ones about the prices of groceries, about my awful taste in striped shirts and how I kept wearing the same shirt for the past 20 years with holes in it and arguing about patching the 4th hole, about leaving coffee rings on the table and forcing me to buy a 5 dollar mug to replace it which I haven’t gotten to replace it now that I think about it.

  I missed being someone who wasn’t alone.

  And Taylor…

  Taylor…My daughter barely talked to me anymore. Not really. She said words, “sure”, “okay,” “fine,” “school was fine,” but she’d drifted somewhere far away, and I didn’t know how to reach her. Every time I looked at her, I saw Annette’s eyes, tired where they should’ve been bright. I freeze up.

  Maybe that was on me.

  Maybe everything was.

  I swallowed and finally took a sip of the beer. It tasted bitter, harsher than usual. Or maybe that was guilt.

  I wished I’d been there the day Annette died. Wished I’d driven with her on that day or something, maybe remind Taylor to keep her promise to call her mom that day..something. Wished I’d known what to say to Taylor when we got the call. Wished I could stop picturing Annette’s hands, the way they fluttered when she talked, like she was conducting something invisible to explain things.

  Annette’s mug was still on the shelf; it was hers, not mine, because mine had a hairline crack, and she always reminded me to replace it, so I never did. Her scarf was still hanging by the door. I kept telling myself I’d box it up someday, but every time I reached for it, my hand just… stopped. Like some part of me still expected her to sweep in with a stack of books under her arm, complaining about how the faculty insisted on holding pointless meetings.

  I kept replaying that day. The phone call. The hospital.

  The way the doctor’s face looked before he even spoke to me, before they told me how she died,I still didn’t understand how a world full of capes with people who could fly, bend steel, still let a good woman die in the most mundane, stupid way. Wrong place, wrong time. If I started thinking too long about that, I got angry.

  If I thought even longer, I just felt tired. Part of me wishes I could travel back in time to bring her back. Too bad I ain't one of those capes who could do that. What I would do to have superpowers that day. Too late for regret now.

  I stared at the wall for a long time, listening to the house breathe around me. The grief didn’t get smaller. People loved saying it did. “Time heals,” like grief was a cut and not a missing limb. No, fuck no…the grief stayed the same size. You just learned to walk with the weight of it dragging behind you.

  But some nights when you’re left alone with your thoughts, nights like this, the leash snapped, and it caught up all at once.I rubbed my eyes, exhaled through my nose, and tried to steady myself. I took another drink. The bitterness settled on my tongue, heavy as guilt.

  Just had a tiff with the Mayor.

  The thing about the Dockworkers…god, it always came back to them.

  They were good people. Hard-working. Stubborn. The kind of men and women who’d hold the line on a pier in hurricane winds, because someone had to keep the city running. They deserved much more than what this city does to them, the way how they treat them.

  And for a long time I tried to help. I really did.

  I would remember all of their faces too,Harlan with his busted knee, Marcy who worked double shifts because her kid needed the money for surgery, Luis who never missed a day until the Behemoth attack took his brother. They weren’t just employees to me,They were the closest thing I had to a second family after Annette died. People who showed up with casseroles and beer because they didn’t know how to help me grieve, but they tried.

  And what had I given them in return?

  A union holding itself together with duct tape and a prayer because the mayor didnt care one bit. Budget spreadsheets that never added up after they stopped operation.Promises I wasn’t sure I could keep like providing them with jobs to keep them and their family fed.

  I should’ve fought harder. Pushed the city council more. Screamed louder about the budget cuts. I let the Docks bleed out while I was bleeding inside. And they trusted me anyway.

  Annette would’ve said I was being too hard on himself. That no one man could patch over economic collapse and parahuman gang violence with a single union newsletter with all the things going on these days, the world kept changing and leaving everything else behind, and he just couldn’t adapt to it.

  The Docks. My Docks!

  The people who’d stood shoulder-to-shoulder with me through strikes, through collapses, through every bad year Brockton Bay coughed up. Good men and women who worked themselves raw and still couldn’t get the city to give a damn.

  And yesterday, in that office with its spotless windows and polished desk, I’d finally snapped. The argument with the mayor replayed in my skull again and again, like someone had jammed the needle on a vinyl record. Mayor Christner was a fucking idiot..

  I remember my voice rising since yesterday as it kept playing in my head, “People are starving, Roy. The companies have pulled out, half the piers are rotting through, and you still won’t sign the restoration proposal? What else do you want, a mass funeral?”

  He’d sighed, the kind that made me want to knock the expensive framed degrees off his wall. “Danny, we don’t have the budget. Not unless we cut one of the ongoing redevelopment projects.”

  Redevelopment. As if the docks weren’t part of his damn city.

  Then he had the gall to blame the ABB’s recent attacks, the Merchants loitering around the edges of the Boat Graveyard, the cape chaos, everything except his own inability to take a risk for people who actually kept Brockton Bay alive. Even blamed the new Tinker taking residence near the docks making it impossible to go through it without severe backlash from a cape.

  I’d stepped in closer, close enough to smell his citrus-mint cologne. “My workers are bleeding out there. Guys who have put years into this port. Guys who remember when this city still respected honest labor. You think they can wait another quarter? Another year?”

  He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even look uncomfortable.

  Just repeated the same line over and over again like a damn puppet.No budget. No guarantees. No political capital to spend on a decaying shoreline.

  That was when I realized he’d never cared. Not once. I remember slamming my palm on his desk. Loud. Startling him. Maybe I shouldn’t have, but God, it felt good.

  “Then you tell them yourself,” I’d said. “You face the widows, the families, the men who can’t buy groceries because you want to funnel money into condo towers that’ll never sell.”

  He told me to calm down. To “think rationally.” To “work with the system.”

  And I walked out before I said something that would’ve ruined what was left of my dignity. Now, a day later, sitting alone with nothing but fading beer foam and a livid heart, it gnawed at me: the shame, the fury, the helplessness. Maybe I shouldn’t have exploded. Maybe it made things worse.

  But those people deserved someone angry on their behalf. Someone who remembered what this city used to be before capes, gangs, and bureaucrats carved it up like a carcass. Annette would’ve known the right words. She always did. Two years, and I still reached for her in moments like this, still waited for her voice to guide me.

  But she wasn’t here.

  Then, I got a call from Jason.

  Came out of nowhere that one.

  Still didnt know how to feel about it since morning till now.

  I didn’t know what to feel.

  The bowl of beef noodles in front of me steamed gently, fogging my glasses every time I leaned forward, giving me one more excuse to blink and look away from the young man sitting across from me. Jason, quiet kid I’d met down at the Docks once , really it was just that one time,polite to a fault, listen to my troubles when Frank asked for a job that day and I had to turn him away like I always do. Being the hiring manager aint easy.

  Didnt expect that meeting the kid once would change alot of things.

  Laozhang’s Noodles was already half full despite the early hour. Old fishermen slurping breakfast, chinese ladies chatting in quick Cantonese, someone’s kid running around with a plastic sword. It should’ve been comforting if only we werent in ABB territory. Never been there myself. Never dream of coming here at all if it werent for Jason.

  I had my doubts after all. A young Chinese man, even if his eyes are a solid green, rare and unique I suppose but his mannerisms and the way he talk doesn’t seem local. Still didn't know what I was getting into, I thought he was part of a gang too at first. It’s hard not to be cautious of people like him due to the nature of the ABB.

  But all I could hear was the echo of my phone notification, over and over, like it was still ringing.

  $100,000.

  Deposited just like that.

  My bank notification didn’t lie. The kid hadn’t lied either. And that, God help me was what scared me the most. Because honest propositions didn’t come with numbers that big. Honest propositions didn’t fall into the laps of men who barely dragged themselves out of bed anymore.

  I tried to speak twice before anything came out.

  “And you’re just… offering it?”

  “Yep.” He said.

  “Why?” I finally managed, staring at him over the rims of my glasses. My voice sounded too small, even to me. “Why me? Why the dockworkers?”

  He only smiled as earnestly as a man can be, like this was the most normal thing in the world. Like he hadn’t just handed me something powerful enough to turn the Docks upside down. “ “Because… the city needs the docks,”

  And he continued-

  “And the docks need workers. Not criminals, not mercs, not people running guns. They need dock workers. People who want a paycheck to get this city’s economy back.”

  And maybe my life with it.

  I gripped the edge of the table under the guise of adjusting my seat. My hands were shaking. Not from fear, not really. I’d been afraid plenty these last few years. This was different. A feeling I hadn’t had in a long, long time.

  Hope?

  It clung to me uncomfortably, like a shirt I’d outgrown. Still thinking about what just happened that morning, till this evening, pop a beercan and…a hundred thousand dollars. Enough to hire crews. Enough to put tools in their hands. Enough to start doing the work the mayor refused to sign off on work we needed, work that kept families fed.

  But it was too much. Too sudden. And from a kid who should’ve been worrying about exams or girlfriends or whatever normal young people did.

  “Danny,” he said “You don’t owe me anything. Just… hire who needs hiring. Fix what needs fixing. Let the Docks breathe again.”

  I turned to look down at my beer still unsure about all of it.

  This wasn’t how the world worked. Not Brockton Bay’s world, anyhow. People didn’t give without wanting something. They didn’t help you unless they wanted leverage. And another part of me… the part that used to stand straight, that used to believe in rebuilding things instead of letting them rot… didn’t want to ruin it.

  Didn’t want to lose the first real chance the Docks had gotten in years because fuck the mayor. Fuck this city, if a chinese kid wants to bring back the docks who am I to refuse it?

  “I don’t know what to feel,” I admitted not to him, not really, but to myself. The truth sat heavy in my chest, warm and aching. “I don’t know if I can trust this.”

  But I also knew, deep down, that I wanted to.

  I wanted the Docks to rise again.

  I wanted my people, the men and women who’d stood by me through the strikes, through the layoffs, through Annette’s death to have something real to hold on. I dunk my beer into the sink. Sat down at the dining table, got the list with all the names of men and woman who stood by the docks even when the work dried up and the city gave up on us.

  My thumb hovered over the first contact. Screw it. If this was a miracle, I wasn’t going to waste it.

  I dialed.

  “Frank?” I asked. Still no sound from the other side.

  There was a pause, then a groggy grumble. “Danny? Jesus, it’s early. Something wrong?”

  “Something right, for once.” My voice felt strange saying that. Too hopeful. “You still looking for work?”

  A bitter laugh. “Always. You got a lead?”

  “I’ve got more than a lead. I’m calling the crew back. We’re restoring the docks. Real pay, union rates.”

  Silence, then I heard a hitch in the voice, after that silence again…long enough for me to think the call dropped. Then Frank choked a little like he was starting to breath again: “You serious, Danny? You’re not–fuck man, this isn’t some city thing that’ll get pulled again, right?”

  “No. It’s real. Show up this Friday.” I said smiling in relief.

  “…Hell. Hell, Danny. Yeah. Yeah, I’m in..fuck..sob*..Martha’s gonna be glad about this…oh god.. Gotta tell my wife. Talk to you later Danny. Thanks for this..” Frank seems almost joyful at the thought of getting his job back

  I hung up. My chest tightened a little if it means that much to Frank, I knew he had trouble; Martha, his wife, has just gotten sick after all, after working double shift.

  One down.

  Next number: Mercy.

  “Danny? Everything okay?”

  “I’ve got work.”

  There was a sharp inhale. “Dock work?”

  “Dock work.You dont need to work doubleshift anymore. Standard Union Pay like the old days.”

  Suddenly, she was shouting off-phone in Spanish at someone I caught the sound of Mercy in the background trabajo! Lo dije! before she came back. “I’ll be there. God, thank you Danny!.”

  Then, Harlan, with a busted knee, never stopped him from operating the crane anyway. Then Callum, who answered with something that might have been a curse while sobbing thank you over and over. Then Dave, who had to sit down before replying while her daughter kept asking “Who wuz dat daddy?” he cried…of course. Never seen a 6ft tall man cry before over the phone, there’s always a first time for everything.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Then I called Janice, who cried quietly and muttered she hadn’t had good news in months, All those months back then, Nothing much I could do for Janice back then, I could now.

  Then Rodriguez, who said he’d call five more guys before I even hang up. Guess I dont need to call his other members of the family then. And maybe his cousins too. Big family.

  By the tenth call my voice was cracking. By the fifteenth, I had to stop and rub my eyes, pretending it was just the dry eyes doing its thing I leaned back in the chair, staring at the ceiling.

  I didnt do this . A kid gave me a hundred thousand dollars to do this.

  I heard the front door click open while I was still hunched over the kitchen table, phone in hand, the list of dockworkers spread out like a desperate map of second chances. I’d called nearly twenty people already, some were skeptical, some suspicious, some crying with relief when I told them there was honest work waiting for them. Work I could finally give.

  I didn’t even notice Taylor until she’d taken two steps into the room.

  “Dad…?” Her voice was cautious, uncertain, like she wasn’t sure if she was interrupting something I looked up and my throat tightened. My daughter stood there in her too-large hoodie, backpack slipping off one shoulder, hair pulled back in that loose way she liked. She looked tired.

  She always looked tired these days.

  “Hey, kiddo,” I said, trying to sound normal, steady ..more than…whatever I’ve been these past few days, anything but the jittery, overwhelmed mess I was feeling. “You’re home early.”

  “It’s six-thirty,” she said. “That’s… not early.”

  Right. I glanced at the clock. My sense of time had slipped somewhere between the fifth and sixth phone call after Janice crying, After Dave…damn it.

  She moved closer, eyes narrowing at the stack of papers, at the half-empty cup of water instead and saw the beercan in the sink, while she gaze at me doing a thing at the phone in my hand mid-call. “Are you…Dad?” she asked. “…is everything okay?”

  Am I okay? I dont know.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Yeah. I think… I think things might finally be okay.”

  She didn’t look convinced. Taylor never took surface answers at face value, not anymore. Not since Annette. Not since the silence in this house had grown thick enough to choke on. She pulled out a chair, sat across from me with her hands folded awkwardly on her lap.

  “Dad. Tell me what’s going on.”

  I hesitated. How was I supposed to explain it to her? that a young man I barely knew someone I’d met once in passing on the docks had dropped a hundred thousand dollars into my lap? That he’d told me to fix the docks, hire everyone who needed hiring, no questions asked? That I was scrambling to feel grateful instead of terrified?

  “Well,” I said, clearing my throat. “I… got an offer.”

  “An offer?”

  “For the docks.” I ran a hand through my hair. “Funding. Enough to hire the whole Association if they want the work.”

  She stared at me.

  She blinked a few times like a little owl then stared again, harder.

  “Where did you get that kind of money?” good question my daughter. I didnt. Someone gave it to me. It is the truth.

  “I told you,” I answered, forcing calm. “A man I talked to a while back. He said he believes in what the docks could be again. He… he made it possible.”

  She frowned and leaned back, suspicion crossing her face. “Dad, that sounds shady as hell.”

  I let out a breath that was almost a laugh. She’s not wrong. It is shady. What if Jason is part of some Chinese mafia, and I’m using the triad money? What if he really is funded by Lung and his ABB? But the money did come in. The banks don't seem to find anything wrong with the account as it came from a legitimate source. “I triple-checked the transfer. It’s real. Legal. Clean.”

  “But why you?” I asked the same question since this morning.

  “I don’t know, I am the docks hiring manager afterall” I admitted softly. “But I do know what I’m going to do with it. I’m calling everyone. Anyone who needs work is getting it. We’re rebuilding the docks from the ground up.”

  Something flickered in her expression but it was small, hesitant. Like she wanted to believe me but didn’t want to hope too much.

  “That’s… good,” she said. “Really good.”

  I looked at her, at the dark circles under her eyes, the stiffness in her shoulders, the way she clutched her sleeves like armor.

  “Taylor… we’re going to be okay,” I said. “I mean it. For the first time in a long time… I think things are turning around.”

  “I hope so, Dad.” She doesn't seem to truly believe that.

  Before I could say anything else, the phone buzzed in my hand, another dockworker texted back or probably someone asking if I really was offering the job,. Another piece of the future waiting to be built.

  “Go ahead,” Taylor whispered.

  So I answered. And she stayed sitting across from me, listening quietly as it came from Kurt. It was a message stating they had a change of plans. Kurt and Lacey had asked if Danny and Taylor wanted to have dinner, but it was cancelled at the last minute.

  I turned to my daughter and asked “ Wanna eat out for dinner?”

  Small family diners are the kind of place where time sticks to the wall around Brockton Bay, more so here at where we live. You walk in and nothing’s changed in twenty years, same laminated menus, same cracked vinyl booths, same fryer smell soaked so deep into the floorboards it might as well be part of the structure. Brockton stopped moving forward since the city suffers an economic downturn and never recovered from it.

  Taylor and I ended up in one of those spots.

  Betty’s, just off Boardwalk, the kind of place I used to take Annette when we were both too tired to cook and too stubborn to admit it but it’s been awhile since we’ve been here. The bell over the door jingled when we stepped in. The place was mostly empty today, just a couple of longshoremen nursing coffee and a woman in scrubs half-asleep over a plate of pancakes.

  The waitress recognised me, gave a nod that said Rough day, huh? I didn’t have the heart to tell her it had been a rough couple two years since we stopped coming here, appreciate the fact that they didnt pry into the matter.

  Taylor slid into a booth by the window, hugging her coat close like she was trying to disappear into it. I sat across from her, and for a long moment, the silence felt too big like the world had shrunk down to just the two of us and every unspoken thing between us. The sudden realisation that I haven’t been taking her out for dinner. Just take outs like pizza..

  When was the last time…we ate out?

  The waitress came over and gave Taylor the kind of warm smile teenagers pretend they don’t like.

  “What’ll it be, sweetie? Menu’s on the table, but if you want anything special, just say so.”

  Taylor glanced at me first, like she was checking for permission. God. She shouldn’t have to do that.

  “Anything you want,” I told her. “Really.”

  She nodded, picked up the menu, and looked it over with a seriousness people normally reserve for important life decisions, her cheerful little girl was nowhere to be seen after Annette left us, and perhaps this is also my fault as well. When she finally ordered, it was not her usual favourites, fried chicken, hash browns, extra gravy, and a chocolate milkshake…the waitress raised an eyebrow but wrote it down without comment.

  I stuck to a burger. Something simple and classic, Didnt have the appetite, not until all of this matter with the dock is settledown. I already informed everyone who needs to know about the job, but haven’t informed Jason yet,W hen the waitress walked away, Taylor leaned back in the booth, her fingers tapping against the table.

  “You’re… really hiring everyone?” she asked.

  “Everyone who wants to work,” I said. “We’re going to rebuild the docks without the city’s funding”

  She didn’t smile, exactly, but something in her expression loosened, like a knot in her chest untying a little. What would a 13-year-old girl think about this? I didn't really know. But she seems relieved.

  “That’s good,” she said. “Everyone deserve it.”

  “They do,” I agreed. “And… you deserve better from me too.”

  Her eyes flicked up, brief, unsure. “Dad…”

  But she didn’t finish. Or couldn’t. And I didn’t push. Even with that, I felt a twinge of guilt. My apology was sincere in feeling, but I was making it with the knowledge that I would probably do the same thing again. It felt wrong. But I can't help but worry, and I dont know how to help her. Was it right to give her space and respect her boundaries?

  Annette would know what to do.

  When the food came, steaming and heavy, she dug into hers with the kind of hunger I hadn’t seen from her since she was small. I watched her for a moment, trying so hard not to take up space and yet devouring a plate built for a grown person or perhaps its just how a growing girl eats..

  Something in me ached. But it it wasn’t grief. Not entirely. It was something like a realisation that I wondered if I even knew my own daughter.

  Halfway through her meal, Taylor glanced up, a smear of gravy on her fork.

  “Are we… okay?” she asked quietly.

  I swallowed, throat tight.Not sure how to reply to my daughter. Do I tell her everything is alright? I dont know. Frankly, I just dont know. What if the money is temporary?

  To based on my hope on a single person giving us to means to get back? But for how long? He did say if the money runs out to just ask. But how could I even believe him?

  Nobody gives away free money without something. I turned to my daughter and said, “I think…we’re gonna be fine. We have to, at least I’m trying to…”

  She nodded and took another bite.. Neither of us said anything. Not much to say to each other as we kept eating this quiet meal.

  And in the glow of this cheap diner, it felt like maybe we could stitch something back together, even if I dont think I’ll ever get past Annette's death. It still hurts. Still miss her, still wish she were here.

  Even if it was small, even if it was a fragile hope, there’s a part of me that will never let Annette go. I dont think I can ever do that, at least not in the immediate future, even if it was just us, sharing dinner in a booth that smelled like grease and memory.

  It was something. And right now, something was more than enough. Fuck..I said to everyone to meet at Friday but forgotten to tell Jason about it. Hope Friday is okay. I sent a message to Jason saying the recruitment is done, asking him is Friday is ok. He gave me one reply.

  “Be there at 8 on Friday”

  Seems like Friday is okay. Good…

  —---

  Meanwhile-

  2 days later-

  25th July 2010- Dockworkers Association Office.

  Ferry Station North.

  Morning came too early.

  I’d set the alarm for 7 am, but nerves dragged me out of bed at six-thirty. Too much riding on today. A hundred thousand dollars dropped into my lap by some mysterious, polite, overly-generous kid who claims he is homeless, ate noodles like it was nothing, unusual to casually bankroll blue-collar salvation giving out a hundred thousand dollars to a stranger just because he heard the docks were in dire need of development. And now… now I had to make it real.

  The sky over the bay was still dark when I pulled into the lot by the warehouses, engine rattling like it shared my anxiety. Cold wind blowing off the water. Seagulls awake before anyone else, but at least they aren't pooping on anyone just yet.

  The silhouette of the ruined docks stretched out like broken teeth from neglect since it closed down Familiar, and still painful.

  But this morning, for once, there was movement.

  A couple of figures stood by the gate already,

  Mike from crane ops, bundled in his jacket, and old Rourke, leaning on a thermos like it was the only thing keeping him alive. More shapes trudged in from the parking lot. Some still half-asleep. Some confused. All of them looking at me like I’d pulled off a miracle.

  Which I hadn’t. I’d just answered my phone at the right time and didn’t chase the kid away.

  “Morning,” I called, louder than I meant to. My breath fogged. Fifteen pairs of eyes drifted my way. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Boss,” Frank grumbled, “you didn’t say what the hell this job actually is. You sure this isn’t some… city thing? Cleanup? PR stunt?”

  I shook my head. “No city involvement. This is our project. Restoration of the docks. Real wages. Real hours. Starting today. As many of you as want the work.”

  Murmurs spread. Disbelief. Hope. Suspicion. The usual cocktail that they were used to, we all know that sometimes it happens, the city has given them false hope too many times before.

  Mike rubbed his face. “But… how? Where’d the funding come from? Last I checked, we barely had enough to keep the union office lights on.”

  I felt the weight of the secret I wasn’t sure I understood myself.

  “A private donor,” I said finally. “Someone who wanted to help without credit. That’s all I can say.”

  That earned me more looks. I braced for pushback, but instead, nods. Shrugs a weird acceptance everyone seems to acknowledge. Dockworkers had seen stranger things in Brockton Bay. Parahumans, exploding warehouses, weird gangs in bug masks. A mysterious benefactor wasn’t even top ten, or just tired from getting shafted again by the City Council.

  “Alright then,” one of the younger guys said. “What’s first? Clearing the yards? Inventory? Getting the old cranes working again?”

  I clapped my hands together. “First is getting everyone signed in. Then we’ll split into crews. Mike, you take group A to the north stacks. Frank, group B at the storage lots. We need everything catalogued before eight am..”

  And then in the distance, a rumbling sound can be heard, something akin to the sound of an aeroplane taking off. Several of em coming this way.

  One moment I was trying to corral thirty-odd dockworkers, half awake, some of them half hungover, all of them confused as hell seeing several mechs carrying various equipment just blast through us and the next, the air filled with the whirring, clanking, and mechanical chirping of… whatever those things were building along the Dock.

  Are these things building walls?

  These mech construction robots were flying low across my dockyard like they owned the place. Yellow hazard plating. Blocky arms. Welding torches. Hydraulic claws. One even waved at me

  Why could it waved?!

  Before trundling off to unload a crate of steel beams twice its size. Whatever they are loading, its heavy.

  And Jason…yes that Jason, same person that bank me a hundred thousand dollars walked in ahead of them wearing a costume like a damned cape.

  A black-and-blue with gold accent looking like some military getup, crisp, tailored, with sharp lines and enough authority baked into every inch of it that half my workers instinctively stood straighter. He had pauldrons. Actual pauldrons. And a long coat that caught the morning wind just right, giving him this heroic, commander-of-some-space-fleet aura.

  I just stood there, feeling my brain shut down in stages. Jason. The kid who bought breakfast last week. Jason… lives in the dockyards. Jason… gave me a hundred grand to help my men.

  Jason… was a cape?

  I felt my stomach twist as everything I thought I understood about this situation flipped on its head. He approached like this was normal. Like showing up with an army of construction robots and a superhero uniform was just another Friday morning.

  “Yo Danny! Chou san Tailou!” he called, cheerful as ever in that weird Cantonese accent.

  The workers flinched. One of the SCVs chirped approvingly, another one even clapped with its metal claw and Welding torch cutters.

  All I could think was: A cape. He’s a Chinese cape. A cape has been living under my nose in the Trainyard, and he gave me money. And sent robots. and-and..oh god, is he part of ABB? God help me, my daughter-fuck! Taylor is going to have questions if she finds out I work with a gang.

  I managed to lift a hand and wave, though it felt like it belonged to someone else. Inside, my thoughts were a mess:

  He’s a cape. He’s a fucking cape! And he’s helping us. Why? How? What does this mean?

  But one thing cut through the panic, sharp and grounding:

  “Chill out, Dannyboy, you look like you’re about to barf. I brought gifts, presents for the restoration of the dock. Me and my little bots are gonna repair the place and keep it secure,” he said, wearing that military helmet of his. It really is him, sounds like him..so it must be him and there's nothing little about those giant mechs!

  I came closer to the cape regardless of everyone panicking, he doesn't seem to mind the guys one bit I leaned in closer and whispered, “what the fuck, Jason! You didn't tell me you were a Cape kid!”

  I thought I’d seen everything the Bay could throw at me. Lost contracts, collapsing warehouses, half-sunken barges, the mayor’s endless excuses, none of it surprised me anymore. But nothing prepared me for the sight that walked into the dockyard that morning.

  Except it wasn’t the Jason I’d met at the docks before, not that quiet kid, polite, maybe a little odd, who claims he built stuff, but never, I thought he built all of this! No.

  This Jason walked in wearing some kind of… military sci-fi cape getup. Armour plates. A long coat with symbols I didn’t recognise. Boots that clanked like metal on metal.

  Jason just laughed it off, " Cape, yesss...I am one, I suppose. Might have forgotten to tell that tiny tidbit, didn't want you to refuse it if I let you know just uhh..Call me J, my alias."

  I shook my head at what he's wearing as well "And the military stuff? You look like Chinese Hitler," I said.

  Jason gasped and even seemed offended, "Hey! Don't call me Chairman Mao! fuck that guy! This is military chic-Neo Militarism fashion. Get it right!"

  A half-dozen squat blue giant mechs stomped forward, each looking like a construction mech designed by someone who thought OSHA regulations were optional.

  They whirred, beeped, and trundled across the cracked pavement in perfect formation. Men who’d spent their whole lives working cranes and forklifts froze in place like kids seeing their first parade.

  “Jesus,” I muttered under my breath. “Could have told me you’re… a cape.”

  I felt the panic rising in them, the men and women I’d called, the ones who trusted me. They didn’t know what we’d just invited into our lives. Hell, I didn’t know.

  But Jason only smiled, like this was all normal. “Bah, you’re worrying too much, check it out. Got you the equipment you wanted, hope it's enough”

  Then came the equipment.

  One after another, the machines lifted metallic crates and dropped them at our feet. The workers stepped back, cautious, hesitant, as the boxes might explode. Jason cracked one open with the casualness of a man opening a cooler of drinks.

  Out came-

  Suits.

  Not work overalls. Not wetsuits. Power armour.

  He just presented them as “ CMC power armour for mining, maintenance, works like a space suit for the tough and rowdy. Wear one when you’re going underwater to cut stuff. Everything is waterproof, Oxygen tank replenishes after an hour. Just come offshore, and it will automatically store it. No batteries needed. Thing runs on infinite Lithium technology”

  The new power armour was Bulky, waterproof, and reinforced with plating. Painted hazard yellow. They looked like something out of a video game or a sci-fi mining colony. Next to them were handheld devices, sleek metal rods with coils and vents, humming faintly. And he brought at least several sets of them. For each mech here, they all carry at least four boxes of those, and I counted twenty.

  Jason said they were cutters. “H5 Flash Plasma Cutters.”

  The workers stared as he demonstrated slicing a rusted steel beam clean through like it was stale bread. No sparks. No struggle. Just a smooth line of superheated metal melting under the tool.

  He then continues to explain to everyone, “It works as a welder too at the push of a button” He clicked the button, and the Plasma Cutter folded into a welder.

  My stomach dipped a little at that tech display. This wasn’t just any ordinary… This was technology that didn’t belong in Brockton Bay. T-they called it tinker tech? Why is he giving away Tinker Tech?

  I didn’t know how to feel.

  So I decided to introduce him to everyone, "Guys, this is our benefactor. He's a cape, and he goes by the name J... I suppose. For now just trust me, the gear is ready, all we need to do is to clean up the docks. what do you say?"

  Frank asked first of course " You trust this guy Danny? I dont know...sounds a little sketch. Hey Mr J, you really paying us just to clean up the docks?"

  Jason turned to Frank and answered it promptly before I could get a say in it" Yeah, just cut the stuff and bring back the metal, my SCV's will process them and at the end of the day, everyone gets paid."

  I rub my neck a little from the stress, "Just...yeah. Everyone got an advance already, I'm having the bank to process it as soon as it opens. Just...start working, standard procedure. Safety first everyone."

  Jason turned to everyone, even when they stared at him wearily and just smiled, “ Come on, you’re all working men, aren’t you? The hell are you trying to be shy about? Go test the suits out. Just slot it, grab some gear and try it out. Got any issues with the gear? Just ask me. I'll teach you how to use it. It's not that hard.”

  Part of me was terrified. Because no one gives away gear like this without wanting something. No cape just strolls into the Docks and hands out enough hardware to rebuild half the city.

  But another part of me, the part that remembered the look in my people’s eyes when work dried up, when another warehouse shut down, when another family had to move because there was nothing left here.

  The men were already trying on the suits. Laughing. Testing the cutters on scrap metal.

  The tall giant mechs stood by. Most of them were already building some sort of Wall, the others were just waiting for orders like the world's most obedient construction crew. The dockyard, for the first time in years, buzzed with energy.

  Jason then clapped his hands “Alright, the rest of the SCVs that aren't building any damn wall. I want a supply depot here in this empty spot”

  And the rest of the mech went to work, building some sort of elevator platform almost instantly from the metal they held from the back. All of it was sheets of metal used to build the stuff, it's almost mesmerising to watch these big giant mechs work, like magic, seeing tinker tech to live.

  And all I could think was: This shouldn’t be happening. Not to us. Not to me. I felt overwhelmed. Grateful. Suspicious. Relieved. Terrified. And above all, painfully aware of how much this meant to the people depending on me. I swallowed hard, watching the suits glint in the morning sun, watching lives begin to shift on the spot.

  I certainly didn't expect this in the morning

  “Oh, right, Danny, have you…”I gulped..thinking about what he’s gonna ask.

  “-find out a way to get rid of the piss smelling shit at the trainyard?”

  ….

  ….

  ….

  What?

  "And yeah...about the veterans. Army guys..military stuff. You got wind of anyone?"

  Right, he did mention he needed those guys.

  "Alright, they wanna meet elsewhere if that's alright"

  **********************

  AN/

  Not much to say. Thought it would be great to write from Danny pov. Had to scrap some ideas but eventually Id just write this one instead.