(GMR) CHAPTER ELEVEN: REGISTRATION

Greg wasn't exactly dressed to impress.

His latest makeshift costume wasn't great. It wasn't even good. A hoodie, some basic motorcycle protective equipment underneath, and another cheap mask he'd picked up at a costume shop. It barely felt passable, but it was all he had.

So, here he was. Standing outside PRT Headquarters.

The building loomed over him, a monolith of sleek glass and reinforced concrete. The bold black PRT logo gleamed under the morning sun, stark against the pristine white facade. Armored troopers stood watch at the entrance, their visors impassive as they scanned the street. It was the city's centerpiece for all things cape-related. Where real heroes worked. Where the Wards trained. Where the Triumvirate showed up when things got really bad. And now… where he was supposed to walk in and sign himself up.

Greg swallowed, shifting his weight. His heart pounded harder than it had during the fight with Oni Lee. He could still turn back. Could still pretend none of this had happened.

But that wasn't who he was anymore.

"This is stupid," Weiss muttered in his head. "They'll never take you seriously dressed like this."

"Better than showing up in cargo shorts, or in your other costume, considering it's torn and covered in dirt and blood," Yang countered.

Greg took a slow breath and squared his shoulders. He wasn't going to back out now.

He pushed open the doors and stepped inside.

The lobby was big. Too big. Polished floors stretched out beneath towering ceilings, crisp white walls reflecting the sterile glow of overhead lights. It felt intentionally designed to make people feel small, and intimidated, with security stations lining the entrance and troopers positioned at key points. Despite his earlier bravery, he took some solace in the people that milled about: civilians applying for permits, PRT staff moving around, and an out-of-town cape in regulation costumes passing through on official business.

Nobody stopped him, no alarms blared, and no sudden Tinker gadgets scanned him for fraud. So far, so good.

At the front desk, a bored-looking officer glanced up.

"Business?"

Greg swallowed. "I'm here to register as an independent hero. Armsmaster told me to come."

That got his attention. The man typed something into his console, then gestured toward a waiting area. "He will be with you shortly."

Greg sat. He didn't fidget, didn't tap his foot, and didn't bounce his leg. Instead, he listened. The murmurs of people passing by. The faint hum of electricity. The chaotic rhythm of his own breathing.

And the ever-present voices in his head.

"Relax," Yang said. "You fought Oni Lee. You earned this."

"You really should have worn something more presentable," Weiss muttered.

"I think it looks fine," Ruby chimed in. "You've got that whole mysterious rookie vibe!"

"Or you look like a kid trying to play hero," Blake countered.

Greg exhaled. They weren't helping.

Time stretched longer than it probably was, each girl reacting differently—Weiss keeping him focused, Blake uncertain, Ruby eager, and Yang amused—until the door to the inner offices finally opened.

Armsmaster stood there, his presence somehow dwarfing the already imposing lobby. His halberd was folded at his side, his visor reflecting the overhead lights as he appraised Greg in a single glance.

"You called," he said. "And now you're here."

Greg swallowed. "Yeah."

"Follow me."

He rose and did as he was told.

The hallway was quieter than the lobby, though no less sterile. The walls were lined with framed images of iconic moments in PRT history, and official portraits of Protectorate heroes. Greg's gaze lingered on a photo of Eidolon standing tall amid the wreckage of a collapsed building, civilians huddled behind him. The sheer weight of it all, the history and the expectation, pressed down on him.

Armsmaster led him into a side room. Small. Utilitarian. A desk, a few chairs, a monitor embedded in the wall. No windows. No unnecessary decor.

Greg sat as Armsmaster moved to the terminal, tapping a few controls. The screen flickered to life, asking for login information and casting a faint glow that brightened the room considerably.

"I assume you've thought this through," Armsmaster said.

Greg hesitated. "As much as I can."

The quiet lingered. The only sound was the hum of the terminal.

Then: "Registration process is straightforward," he said, typing something into the console. "You'll need to complete an evaluation to ascertain your combat ability, threat assessment, and general competency. A probationary period may be required."

Greg tried not to shift under the scrutiny. "And if I pass?"

"You'll be recognized as an independent hero with the rights and responsibilities that entails." Armsmaster's visor met his gaze. "Assuming you prove yourself capable."

Greg exhaled, nodding. "Alright."

Armsmaster tapped a final command into the console. The monitor beeped, and a new screen appeared with a registration prompt.

"Then let's begin."