Lord Malachai had come to appreciate the value of a peaceful morning.
Unfortunately, peaceful mornings had become an endangered species.
"My Lord, we have a situation."
Malachai looked up from his breakfast.
Mara stood in the doorway holding a tablet.
"Is it Bastion?"
"No."
"An assassination attempt?"
"No."
"Another government demanding my surrender?"
"Not today."
Malachai relaxed slightly.
"Excellent. What is it?"
"The goats."
He slowly lowered his coffee.
"Mara."
"One has been located."
"Wonderful."
"In the executive elevator."
"Less wonderful."
"The other remains missing."
Malachai stared at her.
"How does one misplace a goat inside a fortified headquarters?"
"We believe it has learned to operate the doors."
Silence.
Malachai considered this.
"That is deeply concerning."
Mara nodded.
"Security agrees."
He sighed and returned to his breakfast.
District Nine had survived another night without a major incident. Nearly five thousand people remained under his protection, including Guild heroes, villains, Justicars, Dark Paladins, retired supers, families, and a truly unreasonable number of household pets.
It was becoming increasingly difficult to determine whether he was running a criminal organization or a particularly ambitious community center.
At least the cafeteria was functioning.
Mostly.
A raised voice came from the other side of the room.
"You cannot seriously expect me to eat beside him!"
Malachai closed his eyes.
So much for breakfast.
A Guild hero stood beside a table, glaring at a masked villain who was calmly buttering toast.
"He's wanted in six countries!"
"Seven," the villain corrected.
The hero looked horrified.
"SEVEN?"
"Switzerland recently updated its records."
"That's not something to be proud of!"
"I wasn't bragging. I was correcting your information."
Malachai approached.
"Gentlemen."
Both turned.
"My Lord," the villain greeted politely.
"Dark Lord," the hero answered less politely.
Malachai gestured toward the table.
"Is there a problem?"
"He's a criminal!"
"Yes."
"He belongs in prison!"
"Possibly."
The villain stopped buttering his toast.
"Possibly?"
Malachai glanced at him.
"Your presence here does not constitute immunity from prosecution."
The villain considered this.
"Fair."
The hero blinked.
"Fair?"
Malachai folded his hands behind his back.
"District Nine is currently providing emergency sanctuary to people threatened by Bastion. That protection does not erase anyone's previous actions. Once the immediate danger has passed, legitimate charges may be addressed through appropriate proceedings."
The hero stared at him.
The villain shrugged.
"See? Reasonable."
"You robbed the Central Bank!"
"Allegedly."
"You livestreamed it!"
"Poor judgment on my part."
Malachai pointed toward the empty chair.
"Now, unless either of you intends to endanger the people around you, I suggest you sit down and enjoy breakfast."
The hero reluctantly sat.
The villain returned to his toast.
A moment later, the villain pushed the jam toward him.
"Strawberry?"
The hero hesitated.
"...Thanks."
Malachai walked away.
He had barely returned to his coffee when the building shook.
A distant explosion rolled across District Nine.
The cafeteria fell silent.
Mara's communicator screamed.
Malachai looked toward the ceiling.
"Of course."
Another explosion followed.
Then the emergency announcement sounded.
"SECURITY ALERT. EASTERN PERIMETER BREACHED. MULTIPLE HOSTILE CONTACTS."
Malachai stood.
"Evacuation protocols."
Mara was already moving.
"Underway."
"Children and noncombatants to the reinforced shelters. Medical personnel to protected stations. Combat-capable volunteers may assist only under established command."
"Understood."
He turned toward the cafeteria.
"Everyone, please remain calm."
A third explosion shook the windows.
Malachai sighed.
"And kindly refrain from starting any additional wars while I deal with this one."
Several villains looked mildly disappointed.
Outside, Bastion had arrived.
Again.
This time, they had brought considerably more firepower.
White-armored soldiers descended from armored transports while heavy mechanical walkers advanced through the eastern district. Energy weapons carved trenches through the pavement, and drones spread across the rooftops.
Their commander stood atop a hovering command platform.
"Primary objective: destabilize sanctuary cohesion."
A subordinate checked the tactical display.
"Enemy combatants are concentrated inside the district."
"Expected."
"Sir, our estimates indicate several hundred enhanced individuals."
"Also expected."
The subordinate hesitated.
"Several thousand, potentially."
The commander turned.
"Clarify."
"Apparently, a substantial number of retired heroes and villains are sheltering here."
"Retired?"
"Yes, sir."
The commander dismissed the concern.
"Then they are no longer relevant combatants."
It was, historians would later agree, an exceptionally unfortunate statement.
The first Bastion squad entered District Nine's retirement lounge at precisely nine seventeen in the morning.
Inside, six elderly men and women were playing cards.
One was reading a newspaper.
Another was knitting.
A television displayed a cooking program.
The squad leader raised his rifle.
"EVERYONE ON THE GROUND!"
Nobody moved.
An elderly gentleman wearing slippers lowered his newspaper.
"Excuse me?"
"ON THE GROUND!"
The old man looked toward the others.
"Is he speaking to us?"
A silver-haired woman adjusted her glasses.
"I believe so."
"How rude."
The squad leader advanced.
"This facility is under Bastion authority!"
The old man folded his newspaper.
"Young man, this is a quiet area."
"YOU HAVE THREE SECONDS!"
The woman knitting sighed.
"Oh, dear."
The old man stood.
He was thin, slightly stooped, and wearing a cardigan.
"Son, I survived the Great Villain War, three assassination attempts, and forty-seven years of marriage."
The squad leader tightened his grip.
"LAST WARNING!"
The old man smiled pleasantly.
"You're going to have to be considerably more frightening."
The next three seconds were difficult to reconstruct.
Security footage showed the elderly gentleman raising one hand.
Then every weapon in the room folded into a small metallic sphere.
The soldiers stared.
The old man flicked his fingers.
Six armored operatives flew backward through the doorway and landed in a neat pile.
The woman knitting didn't look up.
"You're getting sloppy, Edgar."
Edgar adjusted his cardigan.
"I haven't fought anyone in twelve years."
"Your left side is still open."
"Margaret, must you criticize everything?"
"Someone has to."
Another Bastion soldier staggered upright.
Margaret finally put down her knitting.
"Oh, honestly."
She tapped her walking cane against the floor.
The soldier froze.
So did his armor.
So did the air around him.
He remained suspended several inches above the ground.
Margaret returned to her knitting.
"Much better."
Edgar picked up his newspaper.
"Now, where were we?"
"Your turn," another retiree answered.
"Ah. Excellent."
Outside, the fighting had spread.
Guild heroes intercepted Bastion drones above the residential blocks. Villains who ordinarily specialized in robbing armored transports were now using their expertise to disable them.
A speedster hero raced between collapsing buildings, evacuating civilians while a notorious teleporting thief opened portals to the medical shelters.
Neither appeared particularly happy about cooperating.
"YOU'RE SLOW!" the thief shouted.
"I'M CARRYING SIX PEOPLE!"
"EXCUSES!"
On another street, a Justicar shielded a Dark Paladin from incoming fire.
The Paladin immediately retaliated, destroying the attacking drone.
"You saved me."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because you were about to be shot."
The Paladin considered this.
"Acceptable reasoning."
They resumed fighting.
Near the eastern barricade, Solin slammed his shield into a Bastion walker, forcing its cannon skyward.
Nyxara's chains wrapped around its legs.
"Darling!"
"Yes?"
"Remember our first date?"
Solin grunted as the machine struggled.
"Now?!"
"You said I was too destructive!"
"You set the restaurant on fire!"
"It was a romantic fire!"
She pulled.
The walker collapsed.
Solin struck its power core.
The machine exploded.
Nyxara smiled.
"See? We've grown as a couple."
Solin stared at the wreckage.
"I need a vacation."
"Together?"
"...Preferably."
Meanwhile, inside District Nine's logistics wing, Dr. Calder Hex was having an argument.
A very serious argument.
Mara stood between him and a large metallic machine.
"No."
Hex spread his arms.
"You're being unreasonable!"
"You are attempting to install experimental weaponry inside a food-preparation facility."
"It's not weaponry!"
The machine unfolded six mechanical appendages.
Mara stared.
Hex hesitated.
"Not primarily."
One appendage produced a pizza.
Another extended a rotary cannon.
Mara slowly turned toward him.
"Doctor."
"Yes?"
"Why does your pizza machine have a gun?"
Hex looked offended.
"Self-defense."
"Against what?"
"Pizza thieves!"
A distant explosion shook the building.
Hex pointed triumphantly.
"See? Hostile operating environment!"
Mara rubbed her forehead.
"You are not deploying that machine."
"But—"
"No."
A Bastion drone suddenly smashed through the window.
Both turned.
The drone raised its weapon.
Hex pressed a button.
The pizza machine rotated.
Its cannon fired.
The drone disintegrated.
A freshly baked pepperoni pizza emerged from the opposite side.
Silence.
Hex slowly looked toward Mara.
Mara stared at the smoking wreckage.
Then at the pizza.
Then at Hex.
"...Temporary authorization."
Hex beamed.
"SCIENCE!"
"Do not make me regret this."
"Too late!"
The machine began playing celebratory music.
Mara closed her eyes.
She was going to need another vacation request form.
Malachai, meanwhile, was standing inside the central evacuation corridor.
He had not yet joined the fighting.
That was deliberate.
His employees were guiding civilians toward reinforced shelters while Guild personnel and Justicars maintained the evacuation lanes. Dark Paladins guarded the entrances, and several villains had volunteered to carry supplies.
Elara approached him.
"Dad."
"Yes?"
"The eastern barricade is holding."
"Good."
"Nyxara and Solin are handling the walkers."
"Excellent."
"Hex apparently invented a combat pizza oven."
Malachai stopped.
"...He did what?"
"Something about pepperoni and suppression fire."
Malachai slowly looked toward the logistics wing.
"I specifically told him not to."
Elara shrugged.
"It seems effective."
"That is not the point."
Another explosion shook the corridor.
A child began crying.
Malachai immediately turned.
A little girl stood beside her mother, frightened by the noise.
He knelt.
"Hello there."
She looked at him.
"Are the bad people coming?"
Malachai smiled gently.
"They're trying."
"Are you going to stop them?"
"Yes."
"Promise?"
He held out his little finger.
"Promise."
She wrapped hers around it.
Malachai stood.
Then his expression changed.
The warmth remained.
But something colder settled beneath it.
He looked toward Elara.
"Stay with the evacuation teams until the last civilian is secured."
She nodded.
"Understood."
"And Elara?"
"Yes?"
"Be careful."
She smiled.
"You too, Dad."
Malachai walked toward the eastern battlefield.
By the time he arrived, Bastion's commander had begun questioning several important life decisions.
His troops were losing.
Not because District Nine possessed superior numbers alone.
Not because Malachai had personally entered the battle.
They were losing because nearly every person they encountered had some extraordinary history they had failed to account for.
A retired heroine had dismantled two armored walkers using nothing but her walking cane.
A former supervillain had turned an entire platoon's armor into decorative garden sculptures.
Three elderly former archenemies had coordinated to destroy a Bastion artillery position while arguing about which of them deserved credit.
And someone had apparently weaponized pizza.
The commander stared at the tactical feed.
"How?"
His subordinate looked miserable.
"Sir, the retired personnel are significantly more dangerous than projected."
"Impossible."
"One of them defeated an entire squad while wearing slippers."
The commander stared.
"Slippers?"
"Yes, sir."
Another transmission crackled.
"COMMAND! WE HAVE A PROBLEM!"
"What now?!"
"THERE'S A GOAT!"
The commander blinked.
"A what?"
"A GOAT!"
A scream followed.
Then static.
The commander slowly lowered his communicator.
"What kind of organization is this?"
A voice answered from behind him.
"One with excellent benefits."
The commander turned.
Malachai stood at the edge of the platform.
No dramatic entrance.
No thunder.
No declaration of conquest.
Just a tall, elegantly dressed gentleman whose expression suggested he had been interrupted during something considerably more important.
The commander immediately raised his weapon.
Malachai glanced at it.
"Please don't."
The commander fired.
The energy bolt vanished into a small distortion of void energy.
Malachai sighed.
"How predictable."
The commander drew a second weapon.
Malachai raised one finger.
The weapon disappeared.
The commander stared at his empty hand.
"Where—"
"Somewhere inconvenient."
Malachai approached.
"Now, I believe we need to discuss your employer's decision-making."
The commander activated his armor's emergency systems.
Silver energy erupted around him.
He charged.
Malachai stepped aside.
The commander struck empty air.
A void tendril caught his ankle.
He hit the platform face-first.
Malachai looked down.
"That was unfortunate."
The commander struggled upright.
"YOU THINK THIS IS OVER?!"
"No."
Malachai folded his hands behind his back.
"I suspect it is merely beginning."
The commander activated a concealed detonator.
Malachai's expression changed.
A black claw emerged from his hand.
The device shattered.
The commander's armor locked.
Void energy wrapped around him, lifting him several feet above the platform.
Malachai approached slowly.
"Let me explain something."
The commander struggled.
"You are interfering with an active Bastion operation!"
"Yes."
"Your resistance is being recorded!"
"Good."
"Your decisions are part of the experiment!"
Malachai stopped.
There it was.
The answer he had been waiting for.
He looked toward the battlefield.
Bastion troops had begun surrendering.
Guild heroes were collecting weapons.
Justicars secured prisoners.
Dark Paladins helped evacuate the wounded.
Retired villains complained that the battle had been disappointingly short.
Malachai turned back.
"What was your actual objective?"
The commander remained silent.
Void energy tightened slightly.
Not enough to injure him.
Enough to remind him of the situation.
"Your assault was poorly planned," Malachai continued. "You attacked a fortified district containing thousands of enhanced individuals, several legendary retirees, and enough combined firepower to discourage a small invasion."
The commander said nothing.
"You knew you would lose."
Silence.
"Didn't you?"
The commander finally laughed.
"You think victory was the objective?"
"No."
Malachai's voice became quiet.
"I think you were sent here to force choices."
The commander's smile widened.
"Correct."
Malachai waited.
"Thousands of civilians. Limited evacuation routes. Multiple factions with conflicting loyalties."
The commander looked toward the shelters.
"Whose families would receive protection first?"
Malachai's expression hardened.
"Guild families?"
No answer.
"Villain families?"
The commander continued.
"Justicar dependents? Dark Paladin relatives? Your own employees?"
He laughed.
"We expected prioritization conflicts. Internal disputes. Abandonment of less valuable subjects."
Malachai stared.
"Less valuable."
"Operational terminology."
"Of course."
The commander smiled.
"Every organization has priorities."
Malachai nodded.
"Indeed."
"Then you understand."
"Oh, I understand perfectly."
The Dark Lord stepped closer.
"You assumed that when danger arrived, everyone would protect only their own."
The commander said nothing.
"You assumed a hero would abandon a villain's child."
Silence.
"A villain would leave a hero's parent behind."
Malachai's eyes narrowed.
"A Justicar would refuse to protect a Dark Paladin's family."
The commander struggled against the void restraints.
"Those outcomes were statistically probable."
Malachai smiled.
It was not a particularly comforting smile.
"Then your statistics are dreadful."
He turned toward the battlefield.
A Guild hero was helping a wounded villain onto a stretcher.
A Dark Paladin carried a sleeping child toward the shelters.
A Justicar stood guard beside a henchwoman distributing water.
Nyxara was loudly arguing with Solin about whether destroying an armored walker counted as a romantic gesture.
And near the retirement lounge, Edgar was demanding that someone repair the window because the draft was interfering with his afternoon reading.
Malachai looked back at the commander.
"Your employer has misunderstood something rather important."
The commander sneered.
"And what is that?"
Malachai's voice remained perfectly calm.
"I don't employ heroes and villains to decide which innocent people deserve saving."
A pause.
"I employ people who save them."
The commander stared.
Malachai continued.
"And the people sheltering here are not all my employees. They made that choice themselves."
For the first time, the commander's expression faltered.
Malachai lowered him onto the platform.
"Now, you will surrender, receive appropriate medical attention, and answer several questions."
The commander blinked.
"Medical attention?"
"Yes."
"You intend to treat me?"
"Of course."
"After everything?"
Malachai tilted his head.
"Would you prefer we violate our own principles simply because you've behaved poorly?"
The commander had no answer.
Malachai activated his communicator.
"Mara."
"Yes, my Lord?"
"One Bastion commander for processing."
"Alive?"
"Naturally."
"Understood."
A pause.
"My Lord?"
"Yes?"
"The goat has been located."
Malachai closed his eyes.
"Which one?"
"The second."
"Wonderful."
"It attacked a Bastion operative."
Malachai opened his eyes.
"...Did it?"
"Yes."
"Is the goat injured?"
"No."
"The operative?"
"Minor injuries."
Malachai considered this.
"Excellent."
Mara hesitated.
"What should we do with the goat?"
Malachai looked toward the commander.
Then toward the battlefield.
Then back toward his communicator.
"Promote it."
Silence.
"...My Lord?"
"Honorary security officer."
Another pause.
"Understood."
Malachai disconnected.
The Bastion commander stared at him.
"You promoted a goat."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"It demonstrated initiative."
The commander closed his eyes.
He had been defeated by an organization that provided dental insurance, employed supervillains, sheltered heroes, and promoted livestock.
He suspected his report would be poorly received.
Later that evening, District Nine began repairing the damage.
The wounded received treatment regardless of affiliation.
Captured Bastion soldiers were secured.
Families returned from the shelters.
And the retirement lounge reopened after Edgar personally supervised the replacement of its windows.
Malachai stood overlooking the district with Vale beside him.
"Any civilian fatalities?" he asked.
"None confirmed."
He exhaled.
"Good."
"Several injuries. Mostly minor. The medical teams are handling them."
"And structural damage?"
"Manageable."
Malachai nodded.
Vale looked toward him.
"You knew it was a test."
"I suspected."
"And you still let everyone fight?"
Malachai looked at her.
"I let them defend their home."
Vale smiled faintly.
"That sounds suspiciously heroic."
"Please don't spread such damaging rumors."
She laughed.
For a moment, they stood quietly.
Then Mara approached.
"My Lord."
Malachai turned.
"Yes?"
"We've completed the preliminary damage assessment."
"Excellent."
"The eastern barricade requires repairs. Three transport vehicles are destroyed. The retirement lounge needs new furniture."
"Understandable."
"And Dr. Hex has submitted a patent application."
Malachai stopped.
"For what?"
Mara looked down.
"The Tactical Pizza Defense System."
Silence.
Vale covered her mouth.
Malachai stared into the distance.
"Of course he has."
"He also wants to know whether the organization will fund mass production."
"No."
Mara typed.
"Understood."
A moment passed.
Malachai sighed.
"...Was the pizza any good?"
Mara hesitated.
"Apparently excellent."
Malachai considered this.
"Tell him the culinary division may evaluate the nonweaponized version."
Vale started laughing.
Malachai looked offended.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"I support innovation."
"Of course you do."
"Within reasonable safety parameters."
"Naturally."
Far away, inside Bastion's hidden facility, the Architect reviewed the results.
The assault had failed.
The predicted loyalty conflicts had not occurred.
Instead, cross-faction cooperation had increased.
Again.
An analyst approached.
"Architect."
"Report."
"Operational losses exceeded projections."
"Expected."
"Sanctuary cohesion remains stable."
"Also expected."
The analyst hesitated.
"Then why authorize the assault?"
The Architect studied the recordings.
Malachai protecting civilians.
Retired villains fighting beside heroes.
Dark Paladins defending Justicar families.
Guild personnel treating wounded enemies.
The Architect's expression remained unreadable.
"Because now we know."
"Know what?"
The Architect enlarged a recording of Malachai speaking to the captured commander.
I employ people who save them.
The Architect watched it twice.
Then closed the file.
"External pressure strengthens their cooperation."
The analyst nodded.
"Yes."
"Personal threats strengthen their attachments."
"Yes."
"Shared danger strengthens their sense of community."
"Yes."
The Architect leaned back.
"Then the next test must not threaten what they share."
A pause.
"It must challenge what they believe."
The analyst frowned.
"Another information release?"
"No."
The Architect opened a new file.
PHASE III — MORAL CONTRADICTION PROTOCOL
"Give them a choice where protecting one principle requires betraying another."
The analyst stared at the screen.
"And if they refuse?"
The Architect smiled faintly.
"Then we will learn what their principles are actually worth."
Elsewhere, the Deceiver observed the same development.
For several moments, they said nothing.
Then they began laughing.
"Oh, you poor fool."
A notebook appeared.
The Deceiver wrote:
Experimenter dissatisfied with results.
Experimenter increases intervention.
Experimenter mistakes personal preference for objective methodology.
The pen stopped.
The Deceiver smiled.
"You're not studying them anymore."
Another line appeared.
Experimenter has become emotionally invested in proving the hypothesis.
The Deceiver leaned back.
"You're arguing with your subjects."
A quiet laugh.
"And you're losing."
Then the Deceiver looked toward the latest Bastion protocol.
The smile faded slightly.
Moral contradiction.
That was more dangerous.
Much more dangerous.
Because heroes and villains could cooperate against an enemy.
They could protect one another's families.
They could even learn to understand each other.
But understanding did not erase disagreement.
And some disagreements could not be resolved with pancakes, shared shelters, or a surprisingly effective goat.
The Deceiver closed the notebook.
"Now..."
Their expression became thoughtful.
"...this might actually be interesting."