《Plan? What Plan? (Worm/Tinker of Fiction)》


 1.1 Wake

    Preface


    If Legendary Tinker is an exploration of what could have been and an exercise in worldbuilding, this fic is very much the opposite. I am intentionally going to rehash some played out tropes common to both the Worm fandom and American media at large, then try to put an interesting spin on them.


    Also, LT will still be updated on August 1. Don''t worry about that.


    Wake 1.1


    2010, August 28: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    "Bryce, you okay, sweetie?" I heard from behind my door. Mom was concerned. She was desperate. As far as she knew, her son had always been quiet, always been alone, always been depressed. She had no idea what to do and neither did Sierra.


    When dad died a week ago, this family broke apart. It didn''t shatter violently, but it crumbled, like a set of ruins on fast forward through the ages. Ironically, his death gave me the chance to build myself up again. After the funeral, in the quiet of my room, I triggered. John Kiley was the man who raised me in this life, the one who would sit me on his lap for hours with a guitar in hand. Losing him felt like losing the one good thing in my life. I know, everyone says that, but damn if it isn''t true. Both figuratively and literally, he was my music, my sound.


    I played dad''s favorite song at his funeral, fingers trembling and barely hitting the chords as tears dripped down my face.


    So yeah, that''s me, Bryce Kiley.


    Formerly Jonathan Kim. Formerly not of this world, this life.


    My memories returned when I was four years old, about as young as a child can be and still have the thinky-thinky bits. Is it any wonder then that I was a loner? Sorry if my twenty-seven year old self couldn''t stand to make friends with toddlers. Nonetheless, I was grateful for the second chance at life, grateful enough that I was happy to bear the indignity of daycare.


    Then I found out where I was: Brockton Bay, New Hampshire, also known as Cauldron''s Shitheap.


    I was in Worm and I had no powers. No random deity dropped by to give me magic. No CYOAs were filled out. I passed GO, but someone cheated me out of my two hundred. I died one day and I woke up as a four year old in Brockton.


    On the plus side, Worm was a story I knew well, almost to encyclopedic levels in fact. For whatever reason, though memories of my old life dulled like motion picture from an age before color, the memories of the stories I''d enjoyed remained fresh. Not just Worm, every story from the shittiest isekai guilty pleasure to the autobiography of that one Al Qaida defector I''d read. Fascinating book, that.


    Still, I thought I could be forgiven if this threw me into the pits for most of my life. If that was my gift from the powers that be, I felt I got ripped off big time.


    I tried to enjoy my second lease on life, but there''s only so much existential dread a man can put off before it all crashes down.


    "Bryce?" mom called again. I realized I never answered her.


    "Sorry, mom," I replied. "I''m okay. I''ll be down for dinner in a bit."


    My dad died. I triggered, luckily in the privacy of my own room as I cried myself to sleep.


    I finally felt like I had power, a way to make myself relevant, a way to give myself a fighting chance. Ironic that it was built on the death of the man I admired most.


    "How very Wildbow," I muttered.


    Mom, Sierra, and I tried our best to have a normal conversation, a normal dinner. I recognized Sierra of course. In less than a year, she would be one of Taylor''s most loyal lieutenants. And me? I was the snot-nosed punk kid who threw himself in with the Merchants following Leviathan. Looking at mom''s fragile smile and Sierra''s determined eyes, I swore for the millionth time that I wouldn''t be the Bryce I''d read about.


    X


    Back in my room, I put on some music. Nothing too loud, just the quiet strumming of guitars dad and I liked to have in the background while we worked. I turned on my PC and started to brainstorm. The power that I didn''t get when I was four? Yeah, I wasn''t bitter anymore. I doubt the existential dread would ever completely leave me, not until Scion was dead and gone, but my power had the potential to rival any of the Triumvirate, or even Scion, given time.


    I was the Tinker of Fiction. I knew, somehow, that I could translate anything and everything from any work of fiction into Earth Bet using what could vaguely be described as techno-magic.


    I discovered my current specialization when I saw a spider in the bathtub and thought of all the different genetic modifications I could make to it. I thought of spiders with elemental attacks, psychic powers, poison that could drop a dozen bull elephants, and more. I thought of containment devices in the shape of size-changing spheres and compatible healing units designed to restore six of these creatures to perfect health at a time. I thought of bottled medicine, mass produced, that could heal many injuries and poisons.


    I thought of Pok¨¦mon, AKA Cockfighting with Friendship.


    I grinned. It seemed only fitting that my favorite franchise would be the one to kickstart my cape life.


    Typically, stories I''d read that involved a tinker of fiction had shifting specializations. It was a mechanic used by the author to both introduce fresh skillsets and ensure the main character didn''t get too overpowered too quickly. Now, that mechanic was a major part of my life. One month. Like it or not, I would get exactly four weeks with each specialization before someone upstairs rolled the cosmic dice. After that, anything I made could be maintained, I could even make more of whatever I''d already made, but nothing new could be accessed.


    It only took a cursory overview of the franchise for me to conclude that having Pok¨¦mon as my first fiction was a mixed blessing.


    One would think that a Pok¨¦mon specialization would make me the greatest biotinker ever. One would be wrong. I had access to the technology, not the creatures. If it couldn''t in some way be achieved by human hands, it was by extension beyond mine.


    That meant I couldn''t just take a goldfish from a pet store and tinker with it until it became a gyarados, the quintessential city-busting sea serpent of Pok¨¦mon fame.


    Even if I could, I wasn''t sure that I would have embraced my inner biotinker.


    I was in Brockton Bay, the home of Emily Piggot, the Ellisburg survivor with an irrational but completely understandable hatred of everything Frankenstein. The last think I needed was to mark myself for a kill order the very day of my debut. If I ever dabbled in that branch of tinkertech, it''d be in slow, subtle steps.


    But that didn''t mean I had no options.


    Even without biotinkering, the Pok¨¦mon universe had plenty to offer me. For one, there was at least one evolutionary line that was man-made. Two, I really wouldn''t mind learning how to fix myself an extra-rejuvenating lemonade or some super-soda pop, because those were a thing. Warp pads, inertia amplifiers, barrier generators, perfect insulators, and robots were all bits of tech that regularly appeared throughout the series.


    But the biggest prize? I considered them to be the TMs, technical machines. The Pok¨¦mon universe had technology that could download vast quantities of information into a creature''s brain, or whatever passed as one in some cases, with no consequences.


    And with the specialization came the auxiliary powers necessary to make the specialization work: I knew how to ignite aura in living creatures. I could foster psychic energy within myself given enough time. I could harness the bonds between pok¨¦mon and trainer, literally the power of friendship, in the form of z-crystals and mega stones.


    Theoretically.


    "Shit, I know what I want first," I muttered. Opening up my PC''s notepad, I started to code.


    I worked long into the night. So absorbed was I that I didn''t even notice when the sun started to peak over my window. It was rough. If I showed Dragon my work, she''d probably laugh herself silly. Still, I had a burgeoning AI, a porygon.


    Kind of¡­ I had a digital imprint, basically the equivalent of a cluster of embryonic stem cells that may one day become a fetus that may one day become a baby that may one day become a contributing member of society. It was a long way off from porygon-z, the powerhouse pok¨¦mon that could tangle with most dragons, but it was a start.


    ''Baby steps, Bryce,'' I told myself.


    I stretched and cracked every bone in my spine before shivering with satisfaction. My fourteen year old body wasn''t used to all-nighters, but I couldn''t deny the feeling of accomplishment welling up in my chest.


    X


    2010, August 29: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    I left my nascent porygon to steep in its embryonic code and joined my family for breakfast. We were pretty well off, all things considered. We weren''t obscenely rich like the Anders, Christners, or Stansfields, but dad was a dentist with his own private practice and mom is a chiropractor. Thankfully, my parents were pretty frugal so Sierra''s college fund was paid for. Mom was the sort who couldn''t just lie around the house so she''d renewed her license and gone back to work the moment I showed I could handle myself. Even with dad''s passing, we weren''t hurting for money.


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


    "So honey, what are you planning to do today?" mom asked.


    "Oh, you know, pack for school, go back to bed," I shrugged. "What else do I do on Sunday?"


    Sierra rolled her eyes like only a big sister could. "She''s telling you to get some sun, little bro."


    "It couldn''t hurt, dear."


    I chewed my beignets and bacon, a Kiley Sunday tradition, and mulled it over. "I don''t mind going outside," I said slowly. "I''ve been meaning to go buy a few things so the mall wouldn''t be bad."


    "What do you need?"


    "I don''t know. I was just planning on wandering around. I guess¡­ I just want a hobby."


    "I''ll drive you there," Sierra said softly. "I''m going to visit a friend anyway."


    "Thanks, sis."


    "Do you need some money?"


    "It''s fine, mom. My allowance should be enough. It''s not like I''ve been using it anyway."


    "But still¡­"


    I kept her from reaching for her purse. "Mom," I said gently, "I don''t even know what kind of hobby I want to pick up yet. If I need something I can''t get on my own, I promise I''ll come to you."


    "Okay, sweetie." She got up to put the dishes in the dishwasher and gave me a hug on the way.


    That feeling was¡­ uncomfortable. It was the embrace of a woman who had no idea how to cope with grief. She couldn''t wrap her mind around being a single mother and so tried to show us, or me being the youngest, as much affection as she humanly could.


    X


    "You know, you probably could have gotten a few hundred out of mom for your shopping spree," my sister said from the driver seat of her 2006 Ford Focus. She''d gotten it last year from dad for getting into college.


    "I know," I sighed in frustration. "I don''t want her money like that though. She''s sick, Sierra. She''s trying to do anything possible to stop thinking about dad and spoiling me is just what''s convenient."


    Her expression softened. "You''re perceptive, little bro. But I could say the same about you. I haven''t seen you touch dad''s guitar since the funeral."


    I laughed derisively. "You''re not wrong." My sister and I, I''d made sure we had a better relationship than the canon Bryce had. No pointless displays of teenage angst for me, thanks. "It''s pathetic, but playing it hurts, you know?"


    "It''s not pathetic, Bryce. It''s human."


    "Well what''s your coping strategy? Mom''s become a doting mother hen. I''m using retail therapy. You?"


    "Friends. Booze," she smiled sheepishly. It was the smile of an older sister wishing her little brother wouldn''t follow her example. "Don''t tell mom?"


    "Sure," I said slyly. "Save me a bottle?"


    She snorted. "Of course. I''ll hold it seven years until you''re twenty-one."


    "You''re not legal either."


    "Maybe, but I''m the cool older sister and you still look like a tween," she said with a grin.


    I huffed but it was true. Bryce Kiley was a short five-two and barely past a hundred pounds soaking wet. I was as Wildbow described, an Arcadia student with black hair and pasty white skin who could pass for anywhere between a leggy ten and a midget sixteen. "I''m not that short," I still said.


    "You are, but it''s okay. I still love you, my dorky, artsy baby bro."


    "At least I don''t wear dreads," I sniped.


    "And what''s wrong with dreads?"


    "You mean besides the cultural appropriation?"


    "Big words for a little man."


    "You know I''m smarter than you, right?"


    "Ugh, will you let it go? You tutored me in biology. Once."


    "And made you sign a paper admitting my intellectual superiority," I said smugly. It happened when she was in high school, a result of my past life''s career as a physician''s assistant that I never let her forget. "After all, what are little brothers for if not to flex on big sisters?"


    "Want to walk?" she threatened.


    "Pssh, you love me too much to kick me out of your car."


    "I''m considering it."


    We fell into an amiable silence. Hillside Mall was located just three blocks from the Forsberg Gallery, where practically every kid in the city went on a field trip at least once. The mall itself was a three story complex shaped vaguely like a lopsided doughnut with an open-air plaza in the center that doubled as the food court seating area. Beyond that, I wasn''t sure what to say about it. It¡­ didn''t look trashy? The mall was on the good side of town and it showed. That the Wards regularly held PR events here certainly didn''t hurt either.


    I waved to my sister goodbye and started to walk around the stores. Despite what I told my mom and sister, I''d thought carefully about what I wanted to buy last night.


    Whatever I picked up would have to be something a teenage boy could reasonably take an interest in. Even better, it had to be something Bryce Kiley could feasibly take an interest in. I needed my new hobby to disguise my tinkering, not just to mom, but to the PRT, Empire, Coil, and every other faction that would love to pressgang me into their service. Ideally, this hobby would require a lot of technical equipment that I could use to fuel my tinkering without resorting to erratic shopping sprees, a theme to justify my habits.


    I made my way to the music store, Keys & Notes. I wasn''t lying to Sierra, I really didn''t want to touch the guitar much anymore, but I realized over my woolgathering last night that musical recording and production gear had a lot of things I wanted as a tinker.


    A TM in the series was depicted as a CD, but it wasn''t just an aesthetic similarity. When I thought about it, the existence of TMs implied a lot, such as the technology needed to scan a move and upload its data into compact storage. Somewhere out there in Silph Co. was a machine that could digitize the memories of pok¨¦mon and upload them for future download, a bit like an mp3 file one might say.


    "Hey, mister," I called to the cashier. "Do you guys sell blank CDs and recording equipment?"


    The cashier was a chubby man with a friendly smile and a five ''o'' clock shadow that made him look older than he was. He wore a shirt with some Earth-Bet band''s logo that I didn''t recognize and a pair of cargo pants with too many pockets. "Yeah, little man. You want to be a DJ?"


    "Not really a DJ," I said. "Performing in front of people isn''t really my thing, but something to play with at home would be really cool."


    He looked a little conflicted. "Sorry to break it to you, but even the home studio stuff can get really pricey. You could get your parents in here and I''ll show them around."


    "Would you believe me if I said I knew what I was talking about and could pay?"


    "You have experience with making music?"


    "Kind of," I replied. "Dad was really into music so I can play the guitar and piano. I''ve wanted to get into electronic music for a while though. How much is a MIDI?"


    "Alright," he said, still unsure, "Don''t say I didn''t warn you. You need a good computer to start."


    "I have that."


    "A digital audio workstation, or DAW, should be next on your list. It can do a lot of the things a MIDI can do, especially for a beginner. It''s software though and we only sell hardware here. Try the Best Buy. Warning you, even that''s probably a bit out of your budget."


    "Thanks, anything else?" ''I could have my porygon handle much of the legwork. It should be able to flush out a program if I give it a demo CD to work from,'' I thought. I took a quick look around the store. "Can I take a look at the other stuff anyway?"


    "Sure. As far as the hardware goes, you need an audio interface, headphones, and mic for a home studio. Some sound-dampening panels would be nice to have too. Trust me, your neighbors will thank you. Our selection isn''t that great though, we''re not too big into editing here."


    "Cool, that''s fine. Mind if I look around for the headphones?"


    He shrugged. "Knock yourself out, kid, just don''t break anything."


    He went back to his magazine and I wandered around the store. The headphones sold here were geared towards consumers, with filters that adjusted sound to highlight specific frequencies for listener enjoyment, but that was fine. I picked up two of the better sets for three hundred dollars. I also grabbed a case of one hundred blank CDs. I also bought the cheapest mic I could. I''d probably end up gutting that but leaving the skeleton out for mom and Sierra to see wouldn''t be bad to keep them off my tinker trail.


    At Best Buy, I bought myself the most basic DAW that the clerk recommended. Seeing how I''d be developing my own AI, it was the space that really concerned me. I took the chance and pretended to be interested in gaming. He promised me a hard drive that would make my computer faster so I bought an external add-on for the purpose. Purchases made, I texted my sister to let her know I''d take the bus home.


    Mom saw the mic and headphones as I walked in. "Music, Bryce?"


    I scratched the back of my head, a nervous tick from my old life that carried over. "Yeah, I guess it''s something to remember dad by. Can''t really let it go, you know? And I always wanted to dabble in electric so¡­"


    "Oh, honey." She hugged me. I made no comment of the wet spot on my shoulder. "He''d be proud of you."


    "I hope so, mom. I hope so."


    X


    I spent the rest of my Sunday tinkering in my room. Mom wasn''t an absentee parent like Daniel Hebert. She''d notice if appliances suddenly disappeared around the house, so I made sure to nick only what was absolutely necessary.


    Grandpa''s old tool kit found its way into my room. Dad''s tweezers, used for teeth but just as good for precise manipulation disappeared into my drawer. From the garage, I dug out dad''s old electric bass and amp. He dropped the rock ''n'' roll shtick in favor of acoustic as he grew older, but he apparently had a wild side when he was younger.


    I moved my porygon to the external hard drive then downloaded my new DAW onto my computer. I then tinkered until it had been converted to a TM Interface, an all-in-one system that would help me modify the specifics of any TM for use by any applicable pok¨¦mon.


    Or in this case, a human. After all, humans could use aura, even firing off Aura Spheres in some rare cases. There was absolutely no reason a TM couldn''t be configured for the human brain.


    After that, first set of headphones had taken most of my attention. They became a downloader designed to input the data from a TM directly into a target''s brain.


    There were some limitations I ran into. To start, it was one thing to say humans had the potential to use pok¨¦mon moves, and a whole different matter to actually make TMs for humans. My bullshit power let me get around that, but the download time would be a full eight hours per move and my mastery of those moves would be limited until I had a firm foundation in aura manipulation comparable to a pok¨¦mon''s. I wouldn''t be using Hydro Pump to fly like Ash''s squirtle could; the memories would be more rigid, like selecting a menu in a video game instead of any creative control.


    That left the obvious question: Where were the TMs? I had the setup needed to download them into my brain, but I had nothing to download.


    The answer was my porygon.


    I didn''t just code the little guy into existence because I liked blocky ducks. Yes, it would become a wonderful digital assistant, but it was more than that.


    Porygon as a species had an extremely large movepool. Competitive players often said in my world that the porygon line suffered from the "four move syndrome," the trouble of having too many possibilities and only four slots. It could learn almost anything, and, because it was a digital existence, internet exposure was as valid a form of experience as direct physical tutelage. Once my porygon learned viable pok¨¦mon moves, I could turn those into TMs for my own use.


    It wasn''t just a digital assistant; it was my ticket to a customizable library of powers.


    I suppressed my urge to cackle. It wouldn''t do to worry mom.


    For now, the little guy did what it was doing the night before: sleeping. Or rather, building its code from the seed I''d made. I estimated that it would wake in a week and almost cried at the thought of losing a full week of my favorite franchise.


    By the time dinner came around and Sierra stumbled into the house, I had most of a working setup.


    "You want to be a DJ, Bryce?" Sierra asked over a mouthful of meatloaf.


    "Chew, dear," mom chided.


    "Sorry," she swallowed. "So, DJ?"


    I shrugged helplessly. "No, I just want to edit some music on my own. Play around with it, you know?"


    "Sweet, just don''t be one of those weirdos that try to sell their mixtape to all their friends."


    "Wouldn''t dream of it," I said dryly.


    Mom watched us bicker with a warm smile. "Are you ready for school tomorrow, dear?"


    "Yeah, mom. I''m packed."


    "Did your summer reading?"


    "Two months ago."


    "Know where you need to go?"


    "No, but that''s what orientation is for."


    "Where is orientation?"


    "Mom," I sighed, "I''m going to be okay."


    "I know, sweetie, but I''m still worried. You''re in high school now."


    "Mom, he''ll be fine. I turned out great, didn''t I?" Sierra chirped.


    "For a certain definition of great," I snarked. She stuck her tongue out at me. "Real mature, sis."


    "Children," my mom said sternly, but we could both see the corner of her mouth twitch upwards.


    AN


    Huh, first chapter of a new segment. I''m not sure how I feel about this one. Some of you may remember me bitching about why tinker of fiction style fics tend to struggle. Well, I''m going to give it a go myself.


    Also, did you know goldfish are carps? Magikarps could be made from a goldfish, if I wanted to go the unrestricted biotinker route. But no, I have no intention of breaking my story that quickly.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 1.2 Wake

    <div>


    Wake 1.2


    2010, August 30: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    Arcadia was honestly better than my old high school by miles. From the air, it''d look like a sideways H, with two large buildings making up the north and south halls and a shorter building connecting the two. The halls were four stories tall, with the cafeteria and gym in the south and the auditorium in the north. The central building was dedicated to administration. The school''s two quads were manicured with neatly cut grass and trees that had just begun to change color for the approaching autumn. My sister dropped me off at the north quad and I followed the stream of shuffling students to the auditorium.


    I was alone amidst the student body; no one tried to strike up a conversation. There were a few nods from a handful of familiar faces, but I was left mostly to myself. I was that quiet kid who did nothing wrong and bothered no one, but I wondered here if being the aloof loner was the right choice. When I was younger, it was because I struggled with depression and the reality of my own existence in a fictional setting.


    Now, now I had power. I could chart my own life as I pleased without fear of being helpless. Arcadia was the "Wards'' school." I had no intention of ever joining the Wards, too much regulation for a tinker of fiction to thrive, but would it be worth getting to know them?


    ''Eh, let the chips fall where they may,'' I thought. ''Whatever happens, happens.''


    I went to elementary school with Eric Pelham, Shielder, and I was of similar mind even then. I made no attempt to befriend him or "make him a better hero" or whatever. It wasn''t as though my worldview changed now that I triggered. As far as I was concerned, I had two priorities: Keep my family safe, and explore my power.


    That was it. Beyond mom and Sierra, I didn''t care too much about being some noble paragon. Ultimately, I wanted to make things and have fun doing it.


    We were packed into the auditorium like sardines. The orientation was as one would expect: introduction of teachers, overview of Arcadia''s alternating days and unique vocational schedules, and a generic "We can neither confirm nor deny the presence of Wards at Arcadia. Do not ask. Attempting to unmask a hero is a federal crime."


    That, of course, got the students whispering. There is nothing like a taboo to get teenagers excited about a subject. But before we could get too far into the blatantly prohibited guessing game, the student council president stepped up to the podium to address us.


    Dean Stansfield. In Worm, he was depicted as the perfect boyfriend and hero: Rich, handsome, and genuinely well-meaning in a way that few people in the setting were. He was Gallant, in both name and deeds, or at least, he tried to live up to that name with an earnestness that really made his interlude stand out to me.


    Of course, Brockton wasn''t allowed to have nice things by order of Grimlord Wildbow, so he died early on in the Leviathan attack. The hilarious part was that Wildbow himself had little to do with that particular bit of mischief. He rolled for all Leviathan encounters and Dean''s die was one of many that came up short.


    Fun fact: Had Taylor rolled poorly, Carlos, Aegis, would have become the new protagonist of Worm.


    Looking at him now, he was¡­ just a boy. No angels sang his coming, no halo sprouted from his head. He was just some kid whose parents bought him powers. He was handsome enough to have several girls in my row giggling, but nothing truly exceptional stood out to me.


    ''I think I may have made the Wards out to be a bit larger than life,'' I thought ruefully.


    Following the orientation, we were all ushered into our second periods, algebra II with Mr. Kalil in my case. Mr. Kalil was a tall, black man with a bit of a beer belly. He wore his beard thick and the most interesting thing about him was his wacky bowtie collection. His words, not mine. Credit where it''s due, he did try to make his class engaging. Two other freshmen and I drew some stares for being in an upper level class, but we gamely ignored them.


    Then came AP biology with Mrs. Pearce, a rail-thin, no nonsense woman with thick, coke-bottle glasses. She was the sort to just hand out the syllabus, tell us to read it on our own time, then immediately dive into a lecture about cell division. I was the only freshman in this class. Halfway through the class, we were split into pairs to introduce us to our lab partners for the semester. Mine was a pale girl with dyed blonde hair named Chelsea.


    "Mrs. Pearce, can I pair up with Stephanie?" she asked.


    ''One of those people,'' I rolled my eyes.


    I could see our teacher doing the same. "No, not being able to gossip with your friend for twenty minutes won''t kill you. Sit back down and get to work, Ms. Hawthorne. Everything you don''t finish becomes homework," she addressed the class.


    We tackled our textbooks with much groaning. "So¡­," Chelsea began," freshie, huh? That''s neat."


    "Mmhm," I hummed in acknowledgement. I flew through the material. I couldn''t claim to have perfect recall of my past life, but I was a physician''s assistant. High school biology, AP or otherwise, was frankly insulting.


    "What number are you on?"


    "Thirteen," I said.


    "You work fast."


    "Mmhm."


    "Not a talker, huh?"


    "Mmhm."


    "Ugh, fine," she groaned before finally glancing at her own textbook. "What''s number three?"


    "Cellulose."


    "Why?"


    "Cellulose is substance that makes up cell walls in plants. It''s a complex carbohydrate and makes the plants feel fibrous or rigid."


    "Cool, thanks. I''m Chelsea."


    "I know."


    "You really don''t like talking, huh?"


    I scribbled the answer to number twenty and dropped my pencil. "And¡­ done." I turned to her. "I just like to get my work done. I have better things to do at home than this. Bryce Kiley, by the way."


    "Yeah, good point. Help me out?"


    "Ask if you have any questions, but I''m just going to do my homework from algebra otherwise."


    "Nerd," she said, but the jab had no heat behind it.


    "Dumb blonde," I shot back.


    "I dare you to say that to Vicky."


    "Who?" I feigned ignorance.


    "Glory Girl? Victoria Dallon? Miss Perfect?"


    "Collateral Damage Barbie?" I chuckled. "Sure, why not? I''ve been meaning to get my face rearranged."


    She let out an unladylike snort. "You''re alright for a freshie."


    "You''re alright for¡­ whatever you are."


    AP biology ended and we were released to lunch. Before I could shuffle off to eat on my own, Chelsea tapped my shoulder. "Want to eat with us?" she asked. I''d pegged her as one of the vapid girls who never shut up, but it turned out that she was just overly social. She still talked too much, but there was no malice behind it. "Unless you plan to rejoin the freshie flock."


    I realized I took too long to answer. "Sorry, spaced out. I was just going to finish my homework."


    "Seriously? You need to learn to have fun, Bryce."


    "I do have fun," I said flatly, "it''s why I''m trying to do my work now."


    She looked at me skeptically. "What do you do for fun then?"


    "I play music."


    "Really?" she perked up. "Do you play in a band?"


    "No, just a hobby."


    "Lame." She took my hand and dragged me over to her friend. "Steph! I have a freshie!"


    "Pffttt, did she kidnap you, little guy?" she cooed. Stephanie was a tall girl, almost six feet tall, with braided brown hair that reached her butt. To my five-two stature, she was practically a giant.


    "Yes, please call nine-one-one," I deadpanned.


    "Can he sit with us?"


    "Sure, Chelsea, I don''t care. You sure he doesn''t have any of his own friends to sit with though?"


    "He doesn''t. He was going to spend lunch doing homework," she gasped as though that was the most heinous thing she''d ever heard.


    "Is she always like this?" The three of us started walking to the cafeteria in the south hall.


    "Yup, Chelsea''s a bit of a social butterfly," Stephanie said with an apologetic smile. "She thinks that if you don''t have friends, you''re automatically unhappy. Sorry if the super extrovert is a bit pushy."


    "It''s fine. I can tell she means well."


    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Instead of long tables arranged into rows, the cafeteria was dotted with circular tables that could seat a maximum of eight with the serving station on one side. Students were also free to eat out in the quad. We took a seat near the center and were soon joined by several more people.


    One, a sinuously fit redhead boy, called, "Hey, Steph, Chels, who''s the squirt?"


    "Hey, Dennis," the girls greeted back. Stephanie waved towards me. "Chelsea''s new project."


    "Bryce, nice to meet you, Dennis," I said.


    "Let me guess, Hurricane Chelsea swept you into this group, right?" came a deeper voice. A tan, Hispanic boy placed his tray down next to mine. "Carlos, by the way."


    "I resent that," Chelsea protested. "I''m a fresh breeze to brighten your day, thank you very much."


    "She''s¡­ She''s really peppy," I said diplomatically. "She found me in AP bio and dragged me over."


    "Heh, don''t mind it. Believe it or not, Chelsea is how a lot of us met. Dennis and I met in an after school program, but Chelsea dragged Dennis here because she thought he was funny."


    "Yeah, and this meaty lug just decided to follow yours truly," the redhead chimed in.


    "Good to know she''s not just kidnapping random freshmen." I gave Dennis and Carlos a once over. Even over their clothes, it was plainly obvious that the two were very fit.


    ''What are the odds that these are Clockblocker and Aegis?''


    I had my answer when Dean Stansfield, the student council president I recognized from orientation, took a seat with his girlfriend. A mousy, brunette shuffled in next to Victoria Dallon.


    "Stop being mean to Chelsea," New Wave''s golden girl said. "There''s nothing wrong with making new friends. Right?" she addressed me directly.


    I''m ashamed to say my breath hitched in my throat when her eyes met mine. There was something about her that captivated me. Her eyes seem bluer; her hair looked like spun sunlight. Her voice was music to my ears. Beside me, Carlos coughed lightly and jabbed a finger into my side.


    "Eep! Sorry, you''re¡­ really pretty," I finished lamely. I could feel my face turn red.


    I thought being mentally in my forties would help keep me grounded; it did not. It wasn''t just that she was the hottest girl I''d ever met; she inspired awe in ways I didn''t know was possible.


    "Vicky, aura," Dean said chidingly. There was some disapproval directed towards me, as expected of a guy who just caught someone else eyeing his girlfriend, but it was drowned out by exasperation. He''d been through this song and dance so frequently that it was more of a routine annoyance than something to be truly upset about.


    "Oh, sorry," she apologized. And suddenly, she was much more human: still pretty, but not so breathtaking that I couldn''t look away from her. She seemed sincere, though I could tell that a part of her appreciated the attention. "I forget that it''s really hard to resist if you''ve never felt my aura before."


    "No, that''s alright. I just¡­ didn''t expect it to be that strong."


    Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Amy giving me the stink eye. ''Welp, talk about starting off with a negative reputation.''


    "You knew about her aura?" Chelsea asked.


    I thought about how to respond. "Ah¡­ Yeah, kind of. I''m a bit of a cape geek."


    "Favorite hero?" Dennis asked. Around the table, I could see Dennis, Carlos, Dean, and Victoria perk up. Amy, perhaps expectedly, didn''t seem to give a damn. Somewhere along the way, she''d pulled out a book to read and started to tune out the conversation.


    "Dragon or Panacea," I replied easily.


    "Ooh! Hear that, Ames?" Vicky nudged her sister. "You''ve got a fan."


    "Joy." She looked at me with the tired glare of a surgeon who hadn''t slept in two days. It was the glare that said, "If that coffee isn''t for me, fuck off before I castrate you with a scalpel." I''d seen it plenty during my PA days. "You need something fixed?"


    "Nope," I popped the ''p.'' "I''m in good health, thanks. And before you ask, so is my family." I briefly thought of dad but didn''t let it get me down. "I mean it; you really are my favorite hero. I''m not saying that just to get you to look at something for me."


    "Why?" Stephanie asked. She quailed at Vicky''s disapproval. "Not that Amy''s not amazing, but most people go with Legend or one of the other Triumvirate."


    "He is the most charismatic Triumvirate member for sure," I agreed diplomatically, not quite willing to tell them exactly why I hated the other two. "But let me ask you something: How do you measure the worth of a hero?"


    "You can''t," Carlos said as he chewed through a bite of his lunch. "There isn''t an easy metric you can used to compare heroes so it''s all subjective."


    "Partially true, but at the end of the day, a hero is someone who saves lives," I replied. "You can couch heroics in whatever flavor you want, but that''s what it comes down to. And Amy''s hands down the best at it. And Dragon? She''s just plain cool."


    "See? He gets it." Vicky offered me a fist bump. "Anyone who can recognize Amy''s awesomeness deserves to be here. You''re alright, new guy."


    "Joy," I said flatly. I poked my microwaved burrito with a fork. It bled a clear, gel-like liquid. "Is this supposed to leak so much?"


    "It wouldn''t if you stopped poking holes in it," Stephanie pointed out. "For the record, the pizza and chicken sandwiches are pretty good if you''re buying in the school. I still recommend you bring your own though."


    "Noted, thanks." I munched my mediocre burrito. The cheese had melted and mixed with the gooey beans, leaving a sloppy mess barely held together by soggy tortillas. If nothing else, this presented an opportunity to try some Pok¨¦mon world cooking. Maybe Brock''s infamous "donuts?" "What about you guys? Any heroes you follow?"


    "The Wards, obviously," Stephanie said, almost squealing. Around me, the three actual Wards at our table looked distinctly uncomfortable. "Like, Aegis is so hot. Have you seen those abs?"


    "I''m straight, but I can see the appeal. Are you sure he''s not just strong because of his powers though? He could be wearing a padded costume," I teased.


    "No, he''s actually got redundant biology." Surprisingly, it was Amy who spoke. She placed her book to the side and took a sip of chocolate milk. "His power lets him be strong, breathe through his skin, or whatever else."


    "Huh, that''s pretty cool, but are you supposed to tell us that?"


    She shrugged. "It''s not a secret. Aegis isn''t a brute because he has a force field like Vicky. He''s a brute because he''s got better muscles than a human should be able to develop."


    "See?" Stephanie said. "Muscles."


    "She''s had a crush on him since he first debuted," Chelsea chimed in. "And on Velocity. Like seriously, does that guy''s costume really need to be that tight?"


    Next to me, I could feel Carlos squirm in his seat. I decided to take the mickey out of the guy.


    "Like him?" I poked his impressive biceps. "Carlos is pretty buff too. Pretty sure he''s the buffest high schooler I''ve ever seen actually."


    "Nah, no way," Stephanie denied with a snort. "Aegis is more toned. I think he''s a bit taller, too."


    "You really like the guy, huh?"


    "What''s not to like? He''s buff, strong, a great leader, and has that awesome husky growl in his voice," the brunette swooned.


    "Ugh, leave us out of your fantasizing," Amy grumbled.


    I couldn''t suppress a grin. If the look Dennis was shooting Carlos'' way said anything, the Wards wouldn''t stop giving him shit for this anytime soon. Dean expertly steered the conversation back to more mundane topics after that.


    X


    That night, I started to build an Upgrade, the item that would turn my porygon into a porygon-2. It was a complicated bit of code, as expected of something designed to fundamentally change and improve every aspect of an AI, and would take me several days to develop.


    On the plus side, it confirmed something vital to me: My porygon, or anything else I made, couldn''t be hacked. At least, not by any casuals. I was coding using KSB, Kantoan Standard Binary. Besides the obvious of it being a form of binary, it had absolutely nothing in common with Earth-Bet''s programming languages like JavaScript or C#.


    My computer spoke Swahili and everyone else spoke Italian.


    I knew intellectually that my ability to program new software was head and shoulders beyond anything a normal human could hope to replicate. My progress was comparable to the likes of Bill who developed the Pok¨¦mon Storage System. Even so, my progress felt exceedingly slow to my impatient self.


    X


    2010, September 3: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    By the end of the week, I''d fully joined their circle of friends. I said at the start that I''d let events happen as they may, but I certainly didn''t expect to be dragged into contact with the Wards so soon.


    Surprisingly, Chris had his own circle of friends. He and Dennis seemed friendly with each other, but Chris ate with a different group. If they were besties as Wards, they didn''t let it show in their civilian personas. Not that either of them cared about cliques, but their interests just differed too much.


    When I wasn''t busy with school or the Upgrade, I compiled a collection of videos of capes using their powers and arranged them by the type of move I''d like my porygon to develop through watching them. Bastion, Lady Photon, Shielder, Narwhal, and the like went into a small folder for Protect. Manpower and a cape named Statik in San Diego went into a folder for Thunder Wave.


    Over the past five days, my archive had grown to include close to two hundred videos. Legend, with his seemingly unending arsenal of bullshit lasers, was a frequent contributor.


    I finished my porygon''s Upgrade and set it aside in a separate USB drive.


    From what my power was telling me, all pok¨¦mon developed at an exponential rate during their infancy. It was why many pok¨¦mon that evolved using evolution stones did not learn any more moves naturally and had to rely on TMs or arduous training regimens.


    Porygon were a bit different. Being made of code, they could be edited as necessary, but that didn''t mean that a porygon-2''s growth rate was the same as a standard porygon''s. Like hardened clay, a porygon-2 would have a harder time learning new moves or integrating new information into its programming. In exchange, it would become incredibly durable, both physically and in cyberspace.


    I couldn''t wait to troll Lung by tossing a Protect-spamming, Recover-abusing, near indestructible balloon duck at him.


    After finishing my Upgrade, I immediately got to work on my own version of the Pok¨¦mon Storage System. Not that I needed it for pok¨¦mon.


    In the games, if you looked into the PC in your room, you could find a potion. In other words, just as pok¨¦balls could be digitally transferred from a pok¨¦mon center to Professor Oak''s lab by Ash, the potion could be digitized into a packet of data for later retrieval. It obviously needed a standing system and not a simple laptop, but a way to digitally store matter sounded phenomenal.


    Finally, I also looked into what it''d take to make an eviolite.


    In the series, it was an item that greatly amplified a pok¨¦mon''s defenses so long as that pok¨¦mon had yet to fully evolve. Seeing how I intended for my porygon to be my mobile barricade, it was the perfect item. Even better, tinkering with a fist-sized ball of purple quartz would draw far less attention than tinkering with a living being. I went online and ordered myself a ball of polished, purple agate, a type of quartz, for only twelve dollars. If anyone asked, it was for a friend''s birthday.


    Once I couldn''t stand to look at a computer screen for a moment longer, I pulled out a sketchpad and started to draw blueprints of what might one day become a Pok¨¦Nav.


    Then, satisfied with my preparations, I went to bed knowing I had some all-nighters ahead of me.


    Author''s Note


    I know, this chapter made half the Worm fandom wince with sympathetic cringe. Immediate Wards encounter? New Wave? Of course. Cue the eye-rolls. But in my defense, I did warn you. This fic won''t be nearly as serious as LT and the goal isn''t necessarily to write a good story from a mechanics or narrative point of view as it is to write a fun story.


    I''ve decided that Bryce isn''t allowed to stay impartial. The almighty hand of destiny (author) will drag his ass into the plot one way or another.


    Also, the donut comment is a dig at 4Kids. They had this hilarious episode where Brock pulls out snacks during their journey and they''re clearly onigiri rice balls, but 4Kids, in their infinite wisdom, decided to translate them as donuts because I guess they''re more relatable to children or something. Binging with Babish even did an episode on them.


    My headcanon in Pok¨¦mon is that everything works with aura. Humans call it different things, psychics specifically, but at the end of the day, every pok¨¦mon uses aura to perform their moves.


    Humans have aura too, as seen by Sir Aaron, Ash, Riley, Red, Yellow, Sapphire, etc. Sometimes, what I''m broadly calling aura manifests as more than empathic powers though. Sabrina was able to turn people into dolls. There was a girl who made a "magic potion" that switched Ash and Pikachu''s consciousness.


    The TM Interface edits Earth-Bet''s definition of "human" to be in line with the pok¨¦mon world''s, giving the user the potential to use aura. The Downloader then makes it possible for some moves to be usable by humans.


    It''s all just bullshit headcanon, but one based off the lore from games, anime, and manga. I''m sticking to it.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 1.3 Wake

    Wake 1.3


    2010, September 4: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    The first thing I did when I woke up was to disconnect my computer from the internet and connect my external hard drive to the computer. My hard drive linked to my PC with the sound of whirling fans. Then, out of the corner of the screen, came a pastel blue and red duck. It waddled on awkward, trapezoidal limbs as it explored the screen. I put on my modified headphones and connected the miniature mic.


    "Hello," I spoke softly. It startled, looking around before ducking behind the Internet Explorer icon. "Can you hear me?" Slowly, its head peaked back above the "e" and looked through the monitor at me. "My name is Bryce Kiley and I''m your trainer. Do you understand?"


    I hoped so. The seed data that had developed into a porygon contained a number of directives, including obedience to myself. If it could not understand me, it meant that I''d fucked up the seed somehow. It nodded. ''Good, I wond-''


    My thoughts were interrupted when it lunged through the monitor directly at my face. "Ack!" I yelped, tilting back and falling from my chair as what felt like a giant Lego crashed into my head. "Oww¡­"


    "Reee?" it said. Its voice was something between the trill of a bird and the squeak of a mouse, if you put that noise through a digital filter. It sat comfortably on my chest like it belonged there and the impression I got from it was that it was¡­ happy? Curious? A bit of both? A gentle weight settled in my mind and I knew then that the "bond between trainers and pok¨¦mon" that Oak talked about wasn''t just a bunch of nonsense.


    I should have figured. Mega evolution, z-moves, and friendship based evolution paths all pointed at aura playing a role in this bond. The pok¨¦mon drew strength from their trainer and their trainer pushed the pok¨¦mon to new heights. It was why Ash''s pikachu could tangle with some legendary pok¨¦mon and come out on top. Whatever that bond might be exactly, it had been forged between this porygon and me.


    "Your name is SAINT," I said. I couldn''t help myself, JARVIS had to be respected. "You are the Sophisticated Artificially Intelligent Numerative Technopath. And one day, you''re going to make the Dragonslayers shit themselves."


    "Pory?" the newly named SAINT chirped. It looked around my room with a blank expression that somehow still managed to radiate curiosity.


    "Bryce, you okay there?" We were interrupted by my sister''s knocking. "We heard shouting."


    I stuffed the porygon in my closet and opened the door a tad. "Sorry, Sierra, I stubbed my toe when I got out of bed," I said sheepishly.


    "Alright, but come downstairs soon. Mom made pancakes."


    She walked away, humming her favorite tune and I closed the door. "SAINT," I spoke softly. "Come." The bond between us pulsed gently as my intentions were carried over. At the moment, SAINT was about as smart as a dog, albeit a very well-trained one. It floated towards my arms, unsteady little feet wriggling in the air.


    I held it in my hands and pondered. "I can''t keep thinking of you as an ''it,'' you''re not an object. So, in the great tradition of Samuel Oak, ''Are you a boy or a girl?''"


    My new porygon stared at me blankly, completely missing the reference. The bond pulsed with confusion. "Alright, fine, you don''t really understand the distinction between male or female. I''m going to call you a ''he'' from now on. Okay?"


    "Ree." He nodded in the affirmative.


    "Great, now your directives are threefold: First, do not be seen or otherwise discovered by any other human, whether physically or digitally. Do you understand?" He nodded. "Second, you are to assist me by learning new moves using the archive of powers I compiled." Another nod. "Good. Third, at some point in the future, you will accompany me in my cape persona. You will be responsible for my protection in the field." A final nod, though I felt some confusion concerning the relevance of a cape persona.


    As far as SAINT was concerned, he was a porygon. I was the trainer. He was therefore responsible for my protection, no matter what I wore.


    I gently pushed him back into the monitor and opened up my archive. "Excellent. For now, please focus on learning the move Protect." Not being connected to the internet, I would be able to build up my relationship with SAINT before he could be influenced by external factors.


    X


    That done, I joined my family for breakfast.


    "Morning," I yawned. I sat at the table and allowed the aroma of fresh pancakes and scrambled eggs to fill my nostrils. "Smells great, mom."


    "Morning," Sierra mumbled through a mouthful of eggs.


    "Morning, sweetie," mom smiled and set a plate for me. "Eat up."


    I leaned back in my chair to grab the hot sauce and ketchup bottles from the fridge. A healthy dose of both made its way onto my eggs.


    "I still have no idea how you eat that," my sister grumbled.


    "What? Eggs?"


    "Hot sauce with eggs."


    "It''s good, you should try some." I held my fork out for her.


    "Nope, that''s weird. Eggs should be eaten with just salt and pepper, maybe some cheese. Ketchup is forgivable. Hot sauce is not."


    "Lies. You lack my refined taste buds."


    "Right, refined. That''s what you call it. Hot sauce on eggs, pineapples on pizza, ranch dressing on hot dogs, teriyaki sauce on burgers¡­"


    I took a sip of orange juice. "They''re all delicious, way better than your bland palette."


    "Children," mom chided.


    "I''m twenty, mom," Sierra huffed.


    "Then act like it. Must you two bicker every meal?"


    Our eyes met. "Yes," we replied in unison.


    "What am I going to do with you two?"


    "It''s how we bond," I said.


    "Yeah, this is how we show affection," my sister added.


    "Well you can also bond over chores. Sierra, do the dishes. Bryce, take out the trash."


    "How is that bonding?" I protested. "We''re not even in the same room together."


    "You can bond over your shared misery," she said smugly.


    After breakfast, I checked up on SAINT''s progress. According to the data, he''d gotten the basic gist of putting up a barrier in front of him but simulations indicated that it wouldn''t even stop a punch.


    "SAINT," I spoke into the mic, "how long do you think it''ll take for you to learn Protect?" A small window popped up on my monitor. It was a standard Windows loading screen, with green dots filling a white, horizontal bar. A miniature porygon waddled across the green dots. It was less than a fifth of the way full. "That long, huh? Thank you for your hard work, pal."


    I changed into a pair of basketball shorts and walked back downstairs.


    "Going somewhere, sweetheart?"


    "Yeah, mom, I was going to take out the trash then go running."


    "Bryce, are you okay?" she asked.


    "Why would me going running mean I''m not okay?"


    "Because it''s you doing the running," Sierra chimed in. "You don''t exercise, Bryce. You''re a skinny beanpole."


    "Ooh, doing wonders for my self-esteem, sis."


    "Sierra!"


    "What, mom? It''s true. You were thinking it too."


    "Well¡­"


    "Well, I decided that I''m going to exercise from now on," I said. "New school, new me." ''And I need to get fit quickly if I want to be able to protect myself,'' I added mentally.


    Stolen story; please report.


    "Alright, take care of yourself, Bryce."


    "Will do, mom."


    "Carry your phone."


    "I have it," I held it out for her benefit. "Relax, I''m going to jog to the Boardwalk and back, maybe circle my school or something."


    "Have fun, baby bro," my sister waved.


    X


    The jog to the Boardwalk was fine. I was breathing heavily, but the distance wasn''t so large that I felt overwhelmed. I was walking along the shoreline to cool off when I heard a loud bang coming from the very end of the Boardwalk.


    The noise came from a gas station that doubled as a general store and tourist trap. They sold coffee for the ''rents and Protectorate action figures for the kids. One of the propane tanks set aside for the summer grilling season had exploded into shrapnel, rupturing a gas pump and starting an oil fire that was quickly spreading. People screamed as do-gooders and Boardwalk enforcers unfortunate enough to be on the dawn shift rushed to the scene.


    I froze, stuck between the fleeing crowds and my own fear.


    Brockton Bay wasn''t safe. I knew that, everyone did, but my parents had sheltered me from the worst of it. All I''d ever experienced of the dangers of this city was taken from the news. It was always someone else''s problem, someone else''s tragedy. So when a gas station blew up less than a block away from me, my idiot hind-brain chose neither fight nor flight. It chose "deer meets train."


    Then, a slim figure in gold and red tights jumped out of the smoke. They wore a mask that looked like the Muse of Comedy in that Greek tragedy-comedy pairing that everyone used to represent theater as a whole. A matching jester''s hat, split with twin tails capped with jangling bells, completed the image. They did a full summersault and landed with their hands in the air in a perfect "Y" pose.


    Someone swore like a sailor and several more bangs were heard, this time of gunfire. Before I could even flinch back from the noise, the cape swung their arms out in a short, crisp arc. A large sledgehammer decorated with bells and streamers materialized out of thin air halfway through the swing, just in time for optimal momentum, and deflected the bullets.


    ''Holy shit, discount Harley Quinn blocked bullets with a hammer,'' I thought, mouth agape. ''Can they can see the bullets somehow? Are they reacting to the noise faster than a bullet can travel? Or do they have some kind of danger-sense?


    My mind ran a mile a second, but it wasn''t until an enforcer roughly pulled me away that I thought to step out of the line of fire.


    "Thanks," I mumbled to the burly man.


    He grunted something incoherent before snapping open a walkie-talkie. "Circus sighted. Shopkeeper just ran out with a gun. ETA on Protectorate?"


    "Militia inbound. Two minutes," came the response through muffling static.


    The enforcer turned to me and gave me a firm shove away. "Get somewhere safe, kid," he insisted.


    "Y-yeah, thanks again," I stammered out before I started a light jog down an alley.


    A street away, I saw Miss Militia''s telltale motorcycle zoom past. Less than a minute later, Circus jumped between rooftops, sank into another alley across the street from me, and summoned a gymnast''s ribbon from somewhere that they used to tangle onto a fire escape to divert her course. In seconds, they were gone.


    As I jogged away from the Circus heist, I couldn''t suppress the feeling of inadequacy.


    Was I strange?


    I''d always known just how dangerous Earth-Bet could be. Was I strange for freezing up like that? Did personal experience make such a big difference? Fear was irrational and though Circus was nowhere near me, though they were a minor villain barely worth mentioning, the gas explosion paralyzed me like a deer caught in the headlights. Instead of acting, I stood there wondering about the mechanics of their powers like I was Izuku fucking Midoriya.


    Worse, I fucking knew their powers. Pocket space. Minor pyrokinetic. Enhanced agility and balance. Now that I was away from danger, the list of their powers sprang to mind as though I had the wiki entry in front of me. But in that moment, I froze, mind as well as body. I was always more of a thinker than a doer and it seemed that a new life hadn''t changed that in the slightest.


    ''I need to be stronger,'' I thought. I''d told myself those exact words dozens, hundreds, of times, but they''d lacked substance until now. They''d lacked a means until now. Honestly, I was ashamed of myself. I felt like a coward.


    Freezing might have been the normal response, but I couldn''t be normal. Normal got capes killed.


    X


    When I got home, I opened my phone and logged on to PHO. Surprisingly, Circus was on the site defending themselves.


    According to them, they''d robbed the gas station when the owner picked up a hunting rifle from behind the counter. They deflected a bullet, only for it to nail one of the propane tanks that the owner had yet to put away. Things only escalated from there. Admittedly, Circus wasn''t typically this destructive in their heists, but that didn''t make them any less of a criminal, something the keyboard warriors on PHO were more than happy to point out.


    I checked up on SAINT''s progress; Protect was twenty-six percent mastered.


    Watching Circus pull a giant mallet out of their ass did remind me of one thing that Pok¨¦mon had: expanded bags. I wouldn''t get a pocket space like they had, but I could mimic a bag of holding. And as a tinker, what I could carry into battle was what I had to fight with. Seeing how I wouldn''t be able to take my digital storage system into battle, this was the next best alternative.


    Before I knew it, I sank into a tinker fugue. I woke up from my trance three hours later with my school bag transformed into a discount bag of holding. The vacuum cleaner in my closet was also suspiciously dismantled. The expanded bag looked like my old schoolbag, a generic navy blue with a tan, faux leather bottom, but with a carrying capacity of six hundred pounds, this bag was far from ordinary.


    ''Guess I''ll be using my old bag from now on,'' I thought ruefully. If and when I chose to go out as a cape, I couldn''t carry the same expanded bag as I was using at school. I dug in my closet to find what I was looking for: A limited time Protectorate backpack styled after Legend, rainbows and all, that I used up to middle school until I decided that it looked a little too childish.


    After a light caprese sandwich for lunch, I worked on the digital storage system for a while. Even allowing my power to assist me with a fugue, there was a mountain''s worth of code to write. I eventually realized that the fastest way for me to make it would be to make the framework, a skeleton, and let SAINT build the meat of the system. After all, no matter how superhumanly fast I was, I wasn''t an AI.


    A few hours of coding later, I sat on my favorite beanbag chair, dad''s guitar in hand and strumming the afternoon away. My mind was drowning in ideas, but the simple truth was that I was running low on materials. I could and would turn my phone into a Pok¨¦Nav hybrid and the second pair of headphones I bought from Keys & Notes could become a wireless communicator, but I''d eventually have to brave the city if I wanted to progress.


    The worst part was that I would still be squishy. Protect was great, nearly unbreakable for capes in Brockton Bay, but it wasn''t automatic. With SAINT fighting for me, I could have him use Sharpen and Tackle to deal some serious damage to non-brutes. But that wasn''t survivability and the thought of going out with so little made me feel nervous. What I needed was a way to react to threats quickly, something that could help me use my new moves efficiently¡­


    My woolgathering was interrupted by Sierra.


    "Sounds good, baby bro." She stood in the doorway with a book in hand. "You try to edit any music yet?"


    "Not yet," I said. "I bought all this stuff, but I''m not sure how to get started. It''s a bit daunting."


    "It''s like that any time you start something new, you know? Sometimes, you just have to dive in."


    "Yeah, thanks." I smiled, then turned the conversation away from my hardware. I had no intention of showing Sierra just what all this "recording equipment" had become. "What''s up? Not going to go drink your troubles away?"


    She made a face. "Don''t say that out loud, you idiot." She nudged the door closed with her butt after making sure mom wouldn''t rush in here in an indignant rage. "I''m not an alcoholic."


    "Day drinking is a sign¡­"


    "Shut up, I had a glass of wine with some friends, okay? Besides, I wasn''t the only one drinking to forget."


    I put my guitar back in its stand and leaned into the cushy chair. "Hmm? Do tell."


    "A friend of mine just has a pushy admirer is all." She flopped down onto my bed with an aggravated groan. We often did this, come into each other''s'' room to vent.


    "Isn''t Brockton College a big place? She can just avoid him right?"


    "Not that simple, baby bro. The creep''s her lab assistant."


    "A lab assistant''s the person from a higher year who helps a professor, right?" I asked for the sake of having her "fill me in."


    "Right. She literally can''t get away from him unless she drops her major."


    I winced in sympathy. "Campus security? Or maybe the professor?"


    "The professor''s distant and it''s her word against his. Why can''t men just fuck off?"


    I rolled my eyes. "You don''t mean that. You''ve been trying to get a date for¡­ six months now?"


    A pillow collided with my face. "Shut up. Why can''t this man fuck off?"


    "She''s going to have to be the one to shut him down," I advised. "If you try to interject yourself, he''s going to tell you to mind your own business."


    "That''s the problem!" She flipped over, arms flailing in frustration. "I want to help her, but she''s too nice to tell him to go fuck himself."


    "That''s rough."


    "Yeah¡­ I don''t know what to do."


    "Coach her through it," I said gently. "Maybe be there with her when she confronts him?"


    "I''ll try," she sighed. "Let''s talk about something else. How''s high school, bro? You got a crush already?"


    "I don''t," I said flatly, ignoring the blush creeping over my face.


    "You''re blushing."


    "Yes, because I''m a teenager with hormones."


    "Nope," she sang, "it''s not just that. You know what I think? I think you want to impress a girl. Why else would you start running?"


    ''Because I want to survive being a cape,'' I thought sardonically. Instead, I said, "Because I want to not look like a scrawny stick anymore? Really, I don''t have a crush. Or friends."


    "What about those kids I saw you say hi to when I dropped you off? The buff, Latino boy and that cute girl with dyed blonde hair."


    "I eat lunch with them, that''s all. The buff boy''s Puerto Rican and his name is Carlos. The blonde is Chelsea and she''s the type of social butterfly that drags everyone into her pace."


    "Ohoho, so that''s the girl that''s gotten our dear Bryce out of his shell, hmm?" She said with a mischievous grin. "She''s cute."


    "She''s an annoyance that I could do without."


    "Then why do you eat with her?"


    ''Because having a way to keep tabs on the Wards is invaluable,'' I thought. "Because she''ll hound me incessantly and drag me back to their table if I don''t."


    "Sounds like she likes you."


    "Sounds like she''s a pain."


    "Bryce," Sierra reached over to plant a hand on my shoulder, "you know you can count on big sis for any advice about girls, right?"


    I made a gagging noise. "No thanks, I have porn for that."


    It was her turn to gag. "I didn''t need to hear that."


    "You also don''t need to be in my room," I pointed out.


    She got up with a huff. "You know what? Fine. I, your lovely big sister, dropped in to spend time with her darling baby bro and this is how you treat me?"


    "You came here to vent, the same as we always do."


    "Well, consider me vented." She stormed off but I could spy a hint of a smile on her face.


    Author''s Note


    Short chapter, but very relevant.


    SAINT is live! I originally planned to have him start learning every move available, but that seemed OP, too far too fast, so I settled on what I would prioritize in this scenario: Protect. Survival trumps everything else.


    Also, Circus has enhanced aim, balance, and agility. They can do a very good job of aping Spidey-sense. I don''t often see them show up in fics so I thought I''d give them a cool moment before the story really kicks off.


    Sierra''s personality is a mix of canon and a friend who was the "mom-friend" in my group back in high school.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 1.4 Wake

    Wake 1.4


    2010, September 4: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    That night, I was happy to find that SAINT had finished learning Protect. Along with Tackle, Conversion, and Sharpen, that gave him four moves to rely on. But just because I could theoretically learn new moves didn''t mean I could learn all of them. Of SAINT''s current arsenal, I could learn Protect and Tackle, not that there was much point in learning the latter.


    Sharpen required an incredibly rugged body, like that of a porygon, onix, or cryogonal.


    Conversion required a body that could adapt to different energy types at will by literally rewriting its own code, or DNA for organics like me. There was a reason that the only similar examples were found among ditto and the staryu line.


    "Hey, buddy, thanks for all your hard work," I said softly. SAINT responded with a quiet trilling noise. "Come on out. I''ve got a treat for you."


    After dinner, I''d raided the kitchen pantry for different snacks. Porygon were creatures made up of data, but they were also creatures of physical matter and aura. This left them in the curious position where they could survive without food, subsisting entirely off junk data packets in cyberspace, but could also consume regular food if they so desired. SAINT appeared through the screen with a ripple and I set an array of chocolate chip cookies, potato chips, nuts, and dried fruits on a plate before him.


    "Go on," I encouraged. "This is what humans eat as a snack. Try each of them and tell me what you like."


    "Poreee," he trilled. He nudged my hand and I found myself scratching his blocky head. I wasn''t sure if and how he could derive pleasure from headpats; he wasn''t a dog after all, but if he liked it, then I''d happily oblige.


    One by one, he took the samples into his mouth, a hole that appeared from his blue beak and seemingly led nowhere. He spat out the dried cherries, but seemed to enjoy the caramel-crusted almonds most. He even did this weird duck-waddle butt-wiggle thing.


    "You like crunchy things?" I asked. "Or do you just not like the sour fruits?" I couldn''t decipher the noises he made, but the pulses I received through our bond left me with the impression that he enjoyed crunchy, sweet things with a savory aftertaste. "Alright, buddy, I''ll get you more of these." I made sure to take a picture of the brand that sold the almonds so I could purchase more. "Hey, SAINT, how do you feel about showing me your moves?"


    "Reee," he nodded. He couldn''t show me Tackle without breaking something, but he did show me Protect.


    His body glowed with a dim, white light before a green dome of energy spread outward. He held it in place, a perfect sphere surrounding a floating cyber duck.


    "That''s awesome, SAINT," I praised him. "Do you mind if I hit it?" He nodded in assent so I started to tap away with increasing force. Eventually, I punched the barrier hard enough to bruise my own hand. "Fuck," I muttered as I sucked on my tender knuckles.


    "Pory?" He made a sound I''d never heard him make before. The barrier came down and he floated over to examine my hand.


    "Are you worried, little guy?" I fed him another almond. "Don''t worry; your Protect was just really strong. Can you do that again?"


    "Gon," he replied, a stern warning to not punch the barrier again. For someone who could only make vague crooning noises, he was surprisingly expressive.


    This time, when his Protect went up, I brought out the screwdriver I''d been using to tinker with from grandpa''s toolbox. I held it against the green sphere with one hand and got a mallet with the other. The idea was to put as much force as I could into a single point, but even that had no effect. I hammered away at it, but all I heard was a dull tinkling noise, like breaking glass muffled through a wall of cotton.


    "Awesome," I said, wiping the sweat from my brow. "You''re really strong, SAINT. I don''t think there''s anything a normal person can do to your Protect." The porygon preened with a happy trill before setting into my lap. "I guess this makes sense," I mused. "Even weaker pok¨¦mon consistently output multiple tons of force after all. It''d be weird if I could scratch your Protect in the first place. I''m glad I didn''t have you try to Tackle me. Can you show me Sharpen?"


    He floated or a brief moment before a reflective sheen seemed to coat his blocky body. As the shine faded, he seemed to briefly change into a wall of pixels before fleshing out again. This time, his beak tapered to a wicked edge, as did his little feet.


    I gingerly held out a sheet of paper and ran it along his beak, only to find that it came away in pieces. Bolder, I tried to cut everything from cardboard to an old t-shirt using his face. Sharpen made his edges as fine as a knife''s, though that still left plenty of things he couldn''t readily cut.


    Test finished, he popped back into his safer form and hopped into my lap.


    I laughed and picked up my guitar again. At approximately eighty pounds, he was heavy, but no more than a chubby child. A part of me wished I remembered songs from my past life, but I wasn''t big into music back then. Still, Earth-Aleph had many of the same music so I looked up the Guns N'' Roses. SAINT spent the rest of the evening huddled in my lap as I strummed to "Sweet Child of Mine." I wasn''t much of a singer, but he seemed to enjoy it anyway.


    Before I went to bed, I put him back into the TM Scanner and hooked up the Downloader and Interface. After adjusting the settings for human use, I locked my door and put on the headphones.


    "SAINT," I spoke into the mic, "I''m going to have you monitor the download process. I want to learn Protect tonight so while I''m asleep, can you upload the data you have of the move to the Interface? It should do the rest."


    I felt nervous. If this worked, I''d be able to use a move. Hell, it meant more than that.


    I was learning to use aura.


    I would have effectively given myself powers, something only the best of trumps could manage in this world. This set of tech alone would make me one of the most wanted men in the world. I took a deep breath and lied down on the bed.


    "Good night, SAINT. Begin the download."


    X


    2010, September 5: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    I woke up to a throbbing headache. Most people described hangovers like a "nail through the skull," but this was nothing so pointed. Instead, there was a pervading ache, like a long-term injury that just wouldn''t go away. I groaned in misery and checked the TM Interface. Green, so the upload was complete. I set my headphones on top of the desk and stumbled into the bathroom.


    I normally liked to take my showers at night but opted for one this morning. The hot water did wonders to dispel the lingering headache and gave me some much needed clarity. Protect, the single most essential move in competitive battling, was now firmly embedded in my brain.


    Hopefully, I''d need to spam it a bit less than they did in VGC.


    Now that I had a chance to turn my focus inward, I realized that my TM Downloader did a bit more than simply download the procedures needed to perform a move. It was a machine that tailored a pok¨¦mon''s technique for use by a human. To accomplish this, the human body itself needed to be changed, not on a physical level, but on a metaphysical one, hence the pervading headache.


    I grit my teeth and drew from the flickering light I felt inside.


    "Protect," I called, my voice drowned out in the hot water.


    A barrier made of emerald motes of light, much like SAINT''s own, materialized around my body. Unlike his, it was practically translucent and flickered as though it would vanish at any moment. After about ten seconds of trying to hold it, the aura I felt escaped my grasp and the shield faded to nothing.


    "Tch, guess I''m going to need to practice that."


    I got out of the tub and toweled off before returning to my room.


    "Morning, SAINT," I greeted. Sometime during my shower, he''d crawled out of the monitor to explore my room. He opened my desk drawer somehow and was currently upside down, head stuck with his fat, blue feet waddling in the air. I picked him up and placed him on the bed. "Didn''t I tell you not to be spotted by mom or Sierra?"


    "Gon!" he said, and I could hear a mix of indignation and mischief.


    "You won''t be spotted? The door was closed?" He nodded enthusiastically. "Well what if Sierra barged in? Besides, that''s not where I keep the crusted almonds."


    If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    He drooped in disappointment. "Poreee¡­"


    "You know, for an overgrown block of Legos, you''re dangerously cute," I mock-chided. "Fine, fine. I''ll go buy some more for you tonight, but only if you learn Recover by the end of the day, Deal?" He nodded frantically and I realized that what I was doing was the equivalent of bribing a child into doing his chores with cookies. Still, alongside Protect, Recover would go a long way to keeping me alive.


    Our deal struck, he dove back into his monitor. Earth-Bet was filled with regenerating brutes and there were countless videos of Panacea working her magic. He wouldn''t be lacking any examples on that front. Reasonably sure that he wouldn''t be leaving cyberspace for at least today, I went downstairs to join my family for breakfast.


    ''I wonder if I should tell Sierra about my powers?'' I mused. ''She was a splendid lieutenant for Skitter in canon and as far as unpowered help goes, I''m not sure I can get someone more loyal than my own sister. But if I tell her, she''ll want me to join the Wards, or at least moderate my tinkering.''


    Sierra was a deeply morally-conscious person who cared for others even to her own detriment. I''d grown to truly love and cherish my big sister in this life, but I had no delusions about her. The same moral compass that pushed her to support Skitter and rebuild the Boardwalk following Leviathan would push her to force me into the Wards. Hell, she was a woman who looked at a city post-endbringer and said, "You know what? I''m going to start an orphanage."


    That beautiful, compassionate heart was exactly why I loved her, and also why I feared involving her. At the very least, she would try to moderate my tinkering and force me to become a hero.


    ''But is that such a bad thing? Doesn''t a power like mine need a strong moral compass?''


    An uncomfortable pit settled in my stomach as I realized I had no answer. I wasn''t evil, but I was broadly selfish. I didn''t mind helping those around me, but I knew I wouldn''t go out of my way to perform great acts of heroics if left to my own devices. The age-old adage came to mind: With great power comes great responsibility.


    Except¡­ That wasn''t necessarily true. I amended the quote. ''With great power comes great possibilities.''


    Frankly, I didn''t know what kind of cape I wanted to be, only that the Wards would stifle my potential and something in me railed at the mere thought of my freedom being restricted so. But even discounting the Wards, I had a breadth of options I wasn''t ready to explore. Beyond ensuring my family''s safety, I was all about fun.


    I supposed I wasn''t entirely free from the hedonism of the original Bryce Kiley. I only hoped I''d be less of a reckless fuckwit doing it.


    ''Power first, options later,'' I decided in the time-honored tradition of all teenagers: procrastination.


    "Hey, mom," I was drawn out of my ponderings by my sister, "can my friends drop in sometime this week?"


    "Of course," mom replied. "Kayla, right? I haven''t seen her since you both graduated."


    "Oh¡­ Kayla and I don''t really talk anymore," Sierra said awkwardly.


    "What? Why? She was such a sweet girl."


    "She''s that Filipino girl, right?" I asked. I vaguely remembered the short, Asian girl with a wide smile and dazzlingly white teeth. "She was pretty cool."


    "Yeah, I guess we just kind of drifted apart. I majored in engineering and she went into history so we just never found time to hang out."


    "So who''s coming then?"


    "Some girls from my major. You haven''t met them."


    I nodded. "Alright, cool. Do you need me to leave the house for a few hours?"


    Sierra and I had an understanding. It started when she first brought home some of her friends in high school. She''d give me twenty bucks to go wander the Boardwalk or Hillside, giving her the house to hang out. My own lack of friends meant I never reversed the same privilege.


    "Nah, it''s cool. Just don''t be too loud," she said. "We have a group lab and their housemates are a bit¡­ party-hardy."


    I snorted. "Party-hardy? You''re so lame."


    "I''m amazing," she sniffed. "I at least have friends."


    "Sierra!" mom chided.


    "So amazing," I drawled, "friends you''re bringing to do lab work¡­ Much jealous."


    "Whatever, Bryce. Just wait ''til you get to college and see how you deal."


    ''Been there, done that,'' I thought wryly. "Sure, I''ll make sure to stay out of your way," I said instead.


    Breakfast ended, mom went to church, and Sierra holed herself up in her room with a textbook. I did the dishes then went up to my room.


    I locked the door and tossed what few tinkering materials I had onto the floor. The last of the two headphones I bought from Keys & Notes, my old Zune mp3 player, my collapsible phone with a keyboard, and my mic that I wasn''t getting much mileage out of. It wasn''t much to build with; if I had a different specialization like Mass Effect, I could probably build an omnitool and some programs. I was once again reminded that I would need more materials soon.


    "SAINT, please set an alarm for four hours," I spoke. I initially bought the mic with the thought that I would need it to communicate with SAINT while he was in my computer, but it turned out that the mic built into my PC was sufficient. Its shitty quality aside, it could still pick up my voice so long as I spoke at a reasonable volume.


    I set grandpa''s toolbox, a set of dentist''s tweezers from dad''s supply, and other tools I''d nicked around the house on the floor and got to tinkering.


    A tinker fugue was an interesting thing to experience.


    On one hand, I knew exactly what I was doing; every step seemed so natural in this state, as though there was someone reading off a recipe in my mind.


    On the other hand, if I tried to focus on the explanation for each step, why such piece had to be attached in such manner, I came up blank. The instruction manual in my mind evaporated into smoke. As I delved deeper into the fugue, I could feel my consciousness drifting away, replaced by my Shard with a subtlety that I wouldn''t have noticed had I not been explicitly aware of Shards in the first place.


    I was brought out of my fugue by the beeping of my computer alarm. In front of me was my very own pok¨¦mon navigator, or Pok¨¦Nav for short.


    Rather than the burnt orange color scheme from Omega Ruby and Alpha Sapphire, it was a faded, military green like my old phone. In fact, it looked largely indistinguishable from my old collapsible phone on the surface. Appearances could be misleading though and I was honestly proud of my gear. My old phone had a physical keyboard that could snap out from one side for texting, giving it a thicker profile than the iPhones and Galaxies I used in my old life. The thicker profile worked out for me; I''d torn out the keyboard and completely replaced the phone''s entrails with bits of machinery that I couldn''t even name.


    It was a phone, yes, but now it also doubled as a 3D map and navigator independent of any GPS on the planet. While it lacked any advanced tracking functions, it provided me with a bird''s eye view of the city''s layout and my position on it in real time. It could also access police and emergency medical dispatch frequencies, though I was unable to tap into those unique to the PRT and Protectorate.


    All that aside, I was proudest of the way I''d imported the Pok¨¦mon Condition function from the games. I took inspiration from Alola''s rotom-dex. In Hoenn, the Pok¨¦mon Condition was an app built into the Pok¨¦Nav which allowed the main character to look over his team''s condition in preparation for contests. I gutted the whole thing and coded in a giant, duck-shaped void in its place. Seeing how I wasn''t likely to have any more pok¨¦mon, the entire app was essentially a mobile home for SAINT to reside.


    This way, he could accompany me and interface with the Pok¨¦Nav directly to provide me with real time intelligence. If things really went sideways, SAINT could also step out of the Pok¨¦Nav to help kick some ass.


    Daily tinkering complete, I slid in the accompanying in-ear headphones and went for a jog.


    X


    That night, in the privacy of my room, I looked over SAINT''s movepool. "Tackle, Conversion, Sharpen, Protect, and Recover¡­ Great job, SAINT," I praised. "As promised, here are your nuts, bud."


    We spent two hours just lounging about, SAINT munching on his snack while I fiddled around with the DAW. I then decided to practice with Protect for a bit. "SAINT, I''m going to use Protect. I need you to Tackle it so I can see how sturdy the barrier is."


    "Porr," he trilled his disagreement and concern through the bond.


    "I''d rather find out my limits here with you where it''s safe," I pointed out. SAINT reluctantly stepped to the corner of the room and braced against the carpet. "Okay, here goes. Protect," I said, making sure to curb my impulse to shout the name of the move. I didn''t need Sierra calling me a weeb again.


    The sphere of emerald light surrounded me. I beckoned to SAINT. A moment later, his pastel colored head crashed into my Protect with the muted sound of glass breaking. It held, but I could feel a metaphysical strain on my mind.


    "Reee?"


    "It''s fine. Again."


    SAINT reluctantly wound himself back for another Tackle. "Pory-Gon!"


    This time, the shield shattered like glass, though it did keep SAINT from reaching me. The backlash was enough to toss me on my ass with the beginnings of a migraine. "Okay, now I know why Protect isn''t used constantly in the anime. Note to self: breaking backlash hurts."


    "Reee," my loyal porygon crooned with concern.


    "It''s fine," I said. I held him in my arms to reassure the little guy that I was okay. "I need this. I need to get stronger or I''m going to get hurt out there. You''re really helping out. I know it looks like I''m getting hurt, but sometimes, a little bit of sacrifice is a good thing if it means you can reach farther in the long term."


    I don''t think he understood everything, but he nodded with conviction anyway. Maybe I wasn''t training the move right; it''s not as though I had a full training manual used by Lance or Cynthia or anything, but I could feel my bond with SAINT growing along with my proficiency with the move and for that, I was content.


    We practiced several more times until I could withstand a full three Tackles. Hopefully, that would give me enough time to either strike back or run.


    Who was I kidding? I wasn''t ready, not by a long shot.


    But, I would be. Eventually.


    Author''s Note


    Remember that SAINT is not a standard AI. He''s also at least partially a creature of aura, as are all living things in pok¨¦mon. This makes him both better and worse than Dragon, JARVIS, Skynet, Cortana, etc. The major advantage SAINT has is obviously a tangible body that can interact with both the physical and digital worlds. This body can scale to some ludicrous feats of strength if properly trained. His adaptability and affinity for mystical or supernatural energies that can''t readily be explained by science, like psionics, is much greater than that of a normal AI''s.


    That said, SAINT does not share the same intelligence as a human. He perceives the world differently, unlike Dragon, JARVIS, or Cortana, who have largely shown human feelings and responses. He is also incapable of forking himself and it''s explicitly stated that a porygon cannot be directly copied in canon. This means that he''s incapable of "going Skynet." I''m using this as an excuse for why he can''t learn every move Bryce has stored up in his archives simultaneously. His ability to process information is greatly limited compared to Dragon. It may change when he becomes a porygon-2, but for now, SAINT can only do one thing at a time at maximum efficiency.


    Porygon can eat normal food according to Bulbapedia. As for whether pok¨¦mon can eat human food or not, Ash''s pikachu''s addiction to ketchup is a long-running gag in the series. Aside from extraordinary diets like the grimer line consuming sewage to grow, humans can eat pok¨¦mon food and pok¨¦mon can eat human food.


    VGC, or the Video Game Championships, is the official competitive format run by Nintendo. It is ironically the less popular format compared to the one run by fans, Smogon.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 1.5 Wake

    Wake 1.5


    2010, September 6: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    The expected headache from downloading Recover wasn''t as bad this time. I wasn''t sure if it was because I was quickly adapting to the pressure of the TM Downloader or if the changes that needed to be made to my body had already been made, but I wasn''t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.


    Taking an exacto-knife, I gave myself a small papercut then focused on what the TM suggested, a mentality focused on rest and recovery without losing concentration or dozing off. Effectively, meditation with a desire to be well. I grinned as the cut closed. It was a slow thing, I wasn''t going to be regrowing my arm like Piccolo, but a visibly fast regeneration effect was a godsend in and of itself. There was a brief feeling of tiredness that passed like a breeze. I knew Recover would take a far heavier toll for greater injuries.


    I removed the two TM discs, Protect and Recover, and stored them with the blank CDs, hidden in plain sight. I still didn''t know if four moves would be my limit, but knowing I could switch out my loadout with a single night''s sleep was certainly reassuring. And, barring all else, I could bargain for powers.


    Before heading off to school, I made the same deal with SAINT: a new move mastered for a bag of candied almonds.


    Although the porygon line could learn an extremely diverse arsenal of moves, I knew that I ought to stick to moves a porygon picked up naturally, by "level up" in game terms.


    Two factors influenced SAINT''s learning speed as far as I could tell: First, his natural moveset would be faster in the same way a dog can learn to dig much easier than it can learn to balance on a ball. The further a move strayed from what came naturally to SAINT as a porygon, the harder it would be.


    Second, types mattered. SAINT could channel some aura, but he had trouble converting it to different flavors. Lock-On would be simple for him because it was both a normal type move and in his natural moveset. Thunder Wave would be a bit more difficult because though SAINT wasn''t an electric type, the porygon line had some affinity towards electronics. Ice Beam would be hardest of all because it was both a type he was unaccustomed to and outside his natural moveset.


    With this in mind, I had to choose my moves carefully. I had recovery and defense, so I wanted something that would help me escape danger. To that end, I chose Agility over Psybeam. Although having an offensive option appealed to me, if I had to fight, I''d fucked up big time as is and I didn''t think I had enough aura at the moment to toss out more than two or three attacks. A crowbar would be about as effective.


    Even better, I hoped to accustom my body to psychic energy by using Agility to reinforce my muscles. Hopefully, that would eventually translate to actual psychic powers.


    X


    Compared to the marvel of suddenly having another superpower, school was downright mundane. I''d never tried very hard to hide my relative intelligence; dumbing myself down when I possessed a postgraduate education in my past life would have driven me spare. Because of that, most of my classes were advanced placements and I seldom saw the majority of my fellow freshmen outside of our daily homeroom.


    I nodded to my classmates and took a seat in the far corner.


    "Morning," the kid next to me mumbled with his head on his backpack.


    "Hey, Jacob."


    "Jason," he grumbled.


    "Sorry." I''d honestly forgotten. I remembered seeing him around in middle school, but we hadn''t had enough classes to get to know each other.


    "It''s cool." He lifted his head to look at me. He was a pretty stereotypical skater, with a short cruiser he kept under his desk. "Nice bag."


    I glanced at the rainbow Legend backpack. "Yeah, the one I used got ruined and hey, it''s a limited edition."


    He snorted. "Sure, but you look like a fruitcake."


    I rolled my eyes. I''d almost forgotten the gay jokes of the mid-2000s. Legend was respected, but that didn''t mean kids weren''t idiots. Though to be fair, casual homophobic slurs weren''t as big a problem in Arcadia thanks to the literal Nazis in the city. No one wanted to seem sympathetic to them and calling someone a "fag" or "dyke" was a surefire way to get a teacher to start paying excessive attention to you. Same for race.


    Yep, ironic, I know. The Empire contributed to a culture of tolerance and understanding at Arcadia. That thought always made me giggle.


    "Maybe. I still like the bag." That was the end of the conversation as our homeroom teacher, Mr. Maury, walked through the door.


    X


    I sat with the Dallon sisters and most of the Wards again at lunch.


    "Hey, guys," I greeted. Dennis, Dean, and Carlos had gotten to our table before the girls today.


    "Hey, Bryce, how''s it going?" the cheerful redhead waved.


    "Ehh, it''s alright. How was your weekend?"


    "Pretty great, I got to see the city''s dashing white knight get nailed in the head with eggs."


    The boy in question groaned good-naturedly. "Can we not talk about this?"


    Totally-not-Clockblocker started in on some story of Gallant trying to stop a shoplifter at the local grocer''s and landing face first in someone''s eggs. It was edited heavily, but the gist aligned vaguely with PHO''s version of events I''d read about last night. The story on PHO was that Gallant and Clockblocker were on patrol when a purse snatcher raced past them. Gallant tried to stop him, but was tripped into a tomato stand by an accomplice. He then knocked over someone''s cart and landed in the ass-end of a few dozen eggs, a true Jackass moment.


    A picture of his armor covered in the entrails of massacred tomatoes and shattered eggshells was undoubtedly making the rounds on PHO and being memed to hell and back. Somewhere in the middle of the story, the girls arrived to join us.


    "Seriously, I swear Dennis has powers," I said with a casual smile. I took some joy in watching the Wards and Dallon sisters freeze.


    "W-what do you mean?" he said nervously. I could see Carlos giving him warning looks out of the corner of his eye.


    "It''s like Dennis has an aura like Vicky. Except instead of the whole ''love me or fear me'' thing she has going on, Dennis has a ''rule of funny'' aura that lets him pick out all the funny gossip. Either that or something stupid happens to him and it''ll still be funny."


    "Yeah, nothing like that happens when we''re not around Dennis," Stephanie chimed in.


    "Right? I need to hang out with Dennis more. I feel like my life would be more interesting then."


    "I wouldn''t mind a slapstick aura," Dennis recovered. "I mean, then I could make Lung pratfall into the sewer or something. I''d join the Wards and be Jokeman, the Comic Hero."


    "You''re already a joke so you''re halfway there," Amy said as she picked up a French fry.


    "Oof, oww." Dennis clutched his heart in mock agony. "You''re really not holding back with the snark today, huh, Ames?"


    "So pres," Chelsea changed the topic before the two could start trading barbs in earnest, "how''s homecoming coming along?"


    "It''s good," Dean said with a smile that lit up the room. "The student council just decided on a theme over the weekend."


    "Ooh, do tell."


    "Nope, it''s a secret."


    "I know~" Vicky sang.


    "You''re his girlfriend; he tells you everything," Chelsea complained.


    "Actually, I didn''t tell her. She''s also on the homecoming committee."


    "Yeah, he doesn''t always tell me stuff. I need to put in the work to weasel it out of him sometimes."


    "That''s ri- You''re not helping, Vicky."


    Dennis, Carlos, and I collectively rolled our eyes. "So," Dennis began, "got a date for homecoming?"


    "You know we''re too busy for that," Carlos said.


    I nodded along. Poking at them was honestly my favorite pastime in school. "Right, you two have that vocation program, right? What do you do again?"


    "Junior police academy. There are a few dozen of us from Arcadia, Immaculata, and Clarendon in the program. Why? Interested?"


    "Nah, I''m happy with actually having free time, thanks," I said with a lazy smile. Privately, I thought, ''Besides, the PRT won''t use the junior cadets to cover for my cape business. Must be nice, having the system on your side.''


    Then, I got an idea. With my new resolution to get stronger, I''d considered looking up the Laborns, particularly Grue''s father, so I could get some boxing training. It was almost a clich¨¦ for self-inserts to do this after all: Learn to kick ass and get close to the main cast at the same time. I''d tossed the idea because it would be too out of character for me to seek them out, but Carlos was right here. I made a show of poking his bicep. "You do a lot of working out as a junior fuzz, right?"


    Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.


    "Yeah, what''s up?"


    "Can you show me a thing or two?"


    He stopped in the middle of dipping his chicken nuggets in a pool of ketchup. "You?" He gave me a visible once over before humming dubiously. "No offense, Bryce, but¡­"


    "I''m a short, scrawny white boy with the complexion and durability of a saltine cracker. I''m aware," I drawled.


    "Pff, you''re not that bad, Bryce," Stephanie said with a laugh.


    "Thanks, Steph."


    "He''s pretty out of shape, not so much that I''d worry about his health, but he could do with some exercise," Amy contributed.


    "Hence the working out. I jog in the morning, but I''m not sure what else I should do if I want to get in shape. Weights? Basketball? Karate? I have no clue."


    "Good on you, man," Carlos said. "I can''t take time out of cadet stuff though. I could write down my own workout for you if you want."


    "Please do."


    "Hey, Carlos, maybe not do that. If he tried your workout right away, he might hurt himself. I''ll give him some pointers," Dennis added.


    I shrugged. "Either one of you would be fine. It''d help if I had a routine to follow."


    Dennis texted me his own workout regimen towards the end of lunch. It was honestly much harsher than I expected and he sent a follow-up text telling me not to push myself. ''I guess even the non-brute Wards take their physical training seriously.'' I wanted something that would help me with combat directly, like boxing, jujitsu, or muay thai, but I didn''t want to push and come off as suspicious. Indirect physical conditioning tips from a Ward would have to suffice for the moment.


    X


    2010, September 8: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    It took SAINT an extra day to pick up Agility and for me to download it into my own thinky bits.


    After that, I was out on the town as soon as I could.


    Wednesday night, I went to bed immediately after dinner and locked my door. After a suitable amount of time playing music and messing around with SAINT, I deemed the coast clear and snuck out of the house through my window. There wasn''t a convenient tree I could climb down or anything, but a quick use of Protect broke my fall. As for getting back up, I''d just have to stand on top of the garbage bin when I returned.


    It was about eleven at night when I left. As soon as I was a few blocks away from my house, I ducked into an alley and pulled out an old sweater from the expanded bag. I wrapped it around my neck and tied the sleeves around my face in the same way a kid does when he wants to be a ninja. Not the most glamorous of first costumes, but it did the job.


    The downside of living in the reasonably safe part of town near the Boardwalk: all the desirable targets were far away. I wasn''t fool enough to rob a shop near my own house or target the Boardwalk or Hillside, both would invite the kind of cape response I wasn''t equipped to handle yet, so that left the north end of town. It took me an hour to get to my first destination: Good Neighbor.


    Good Neighbor operated out of a warehouse just off the north end of the Boardwalk and a bit more inland. It was a nonprofit that bought up all the clothes that didn''t sell at Hillside and gave them out for bargain prices to the lower income families on the other side of the tracks. The warehouse itself was large, probably taking up more than one acre like a Costco. It used to belong to a shipping company and was one of the few buildings from that era that still saw proper use.


    I must have looked sketchy as hell, some scrawny figure with a hoodie wrapped around his head. I approached the warehouse door with a pair of bolt cutters from my grandpa''s toolkit. It was older than me, hell, likely older than him, with splotches of brown rust along the frames. Still, the jaws were sharp and I got the chain off the warehouse door with minimal fuss.


    I slid the bolt cutters back into my expanded bag and made my way inside. The teenage part of me wanted to explore a bit, look around and see if there was anything interesting to find, but robbing a charity already made me feel more than a little scummy so I promised to take only what I absolutely needed for tinkering.


    Half an hour later, I reemerged with a pair of fabric sheers, a pair of biker boots, two pairs of heavy-duty canvas work pants, a set of used motorcycle leathers, and a helmet that I made sure was slightly too big for my head after checking and double checking for cameras. Even after promising myself to limit my stealing, a part of me couldn''t help myself. This would become the core of my new costume moving forward.


    It was when I snuck outside again that I first ran into trouble. I hadn''t been as discreet about my breaking and entering as I''d thought. I was halfway across the parking lot when a flashlight was shone my way.


    "Oi, there he is," a gruff, male voice shouted. "I told you, Lyles, some asshole''s robbing Good Neighbor!"


    "Fuck," I swore under my breath. I started running inland, towards what would become ABB territory in three blocks.


    I heard heavy footsteps behind me, gaining. My short, fourteen year old legs couldn''t keep up with the pace for long. Panicking, I wheezed out under my breath, "Agility!"


    Blue aura coated my body and suddenly, I was twice as fast as I should be. It was far, far too slow by cape standards, but more than enough to outrun a random do-gooder.


    "Hey, punk, get back here!"


    ''Does anyone ever stop running when you shout that?'' I thought raggedly.


    I tried to lose the man in the maze of alleys but he was clearly a local, he knew the area better than me. Less than two minutes after I began running, he''d herded me into an alley with only one way out, a brick wall as high as my head behind me.


    Seeing no other way, I kicked off one building and jumped, clinging by my fingers from the high fence.


    "SAINT, boost me up," I said. I could hear the man about to turn.


    SAINT emerged from the Pok¨¦Nav and shoved me from below, easily lifting me over the fence.


    I hadn''t counted on landing on my ass though and I heard a cracking noise as a sharp spike of agony shot straight up my ass.


    "Fuck!" I swore.


    "Pory?" he trilled in concern. He made to hover back over the fence, likely to fight the random guy, but I stopped him. There was no point in showing him off this soon.


    "Stay. Ow, fuck, just had to break my ass on my first night out," I groaned. Way back in my old life, I remembered my friend James who cracked his tailbone after a fall during a snowboarding trip. That Sunday, everyone in church slapped his ass. I felt a bit more sympathy for the guy now. "Recover."


    I stumbled to my feet as aura repaired my fractured tailbone.


    "He''s on the other side, Lyles," the first man shouted. "Go around!"


    I pumped Agility and started running. I only stopped four blocks later.


    A part of me wanted to head back home. The guilty, self-conscious part of me said I should just call it quits for the night. It was also the part I ruthlessly squashed. The Pok¨¦mon specialization was a godsend as a beginner and I didn''t know how many rotations I''d have to live through before I saw it again. I had to make use of every night to the best of my abilities.


    Despite the toll on my morale, it was only two in the morning.


    Thankfully, my second destination wouldn''t take much time to get to as it was also on the north end of town.


    My destination was the local junkyard and landfill. It was risky as hell, being here as a new tinker, but I couldn''t think of any other place where I could get dozens of pounds of industrial-grade wires, old computers, and car batteries all in one place.


    "''Step into my parlor,'' the spider said to the fly," I muttered under my breath.


    This one, I didn''t mind breaking into as much.


    I took a quick walk around the interior of the junkyard before making a beeline for the wires in the office building. Even outside of the obvious tinker-bait, copper wires could get pricey and were often stripped down and stored separately from the useless junk.


    My bag could store a maximum of six hundred pounds without me noticing the weight and considering that the only things I had in there were some clothes and tools, I had plenty of room. All the copper wires I saw went inside. Steel, too. I was hoping for gold, but that was wistful thinking. After more than eighty pounds in raw metal, I decided to look elsewhere.


    Once again, I was marked as soon as I stepped outside, proving that Murphy had it out for me.


    "Hey, how''s it going, junkrat?" came a boyish voice.


    I whirled. My hand fell to my hip, where I''d stashed the fabric sheers as an impromptu weapon. There, atop a ruined husk of a car, was Newter in all his orange glory. He wore a mischievous grin, pants, and literally nothing else. His tail flicked back and forth like a cat''s. His eyes fell to the scissors I clutched like a dagger.


    "Didn''t anyone tell you not to play with scissors?"


    "Didn''t anyone tell you not to sneak up on people?"


    "Dunno," he shrugged. "Probably, but I wouldn''t remember."


    "Oh. Shit¡­ sorry."


    "Ehh, it''s not all bad," he waved me off with a lazy grin. "I don''t much care for trying to guess who I was. That way lies madness, y''know?"


    "Right." I put away the scissors and approached. Still on guard, but willing to show him that I wasn''t carrying a weapon. I remembered Faultline''s Crew. They were professionals who avoided all conflict they weren''t being paid for. "What''s up?"


    "Not much. We''re new in town." He gave me an exaggerated once-over. "And judging by your¡­ costume¡­ so are you. Let me guess, tinker?"


    "Yeah, guess that much is obvious. What about you? What''re you doing out here?"


    "Faultline, that''s our boss, told me to take a look around the neighborhood. I figured I''d check out the creepy piles of unused trash here."


    I nodded along. That meant the Palanquin was now under new management. This area was on the very edge of both ABB and Merchant territory, though Merchants tended to care more about the area because the ABB lacked a tinker at the moment. "Your boss wants to hold territory in Brockton?" I quirked an eyebrow. "He could do a lot better than this dump of a city."


    "She," he corrected, "and we''re here because Brockton''s a dump." I pretended to be confused. "We''re mercenaries and we''ll mostly be taking jobs out of town, which means it''s good that the city is so flush with capes. The local Protectorate will have too much on their plate to deal with little ol'' us."


    "Should you really be telling me your boss'' strategy like this?"


    "I don''t know, but I don''t think she''ll care. It''s not like this is some big secret," he shrugged. "Hey, I''m Newter, what''s your name?"


    "I don''t have one yet, but you can just call me Tinker for now."


    "Sweet. Hey, I know! Why don''t I help you out?"


    "Oh?"


    "You''re looking for stuff in all this mess, right? I''ll help you out by bringing you things. That''s cool, right?"


    I thought about it. It was plain to see what he was doing. Faultline may not fight unless provoked or paid, but she wasn''t the sort to ignore an obvious asset either. Newter could even be reaching out a hand because he thought of how Faultline recruited him from the sewers. "Sure, it never hurts to be friendly with the new neighbors," I said.


    "Exactly!"


    The two of us got to work. I sent Newter on a scavenger hunt for any computer chips or other pieces of tech while I looked for old power tools I could turn into better versions of themselves. The old adage was true: A tinker made tools to make better tools to make better tools. By the time I was done, he was staring at my bag like I was Doraemon.


    "Just how much can you fit in that backpack?"


    "Six hundred pounds or so," I said proudly. "Why? Interested in buying?"


    "Hell yes. If this is what you can make with just a backpack and whatever you had lying around the house, I think my boss would like to meet you."


    I hummed with indifference. "I don''t know. I''m not looking to join anyone right now, especially not some new guys I don''t know anything about. No offense."


    He waved me off. "None taken, man. I get it. Look, can I give you the boss'' number? You can give her a call yourself whenever you want. If you meet her, then she won''t be someone you know, right?"


    "Sure, I''ll do that. I appreciate it." And I did. Newter was willing to let the new tinker take initiative rather than try to force a commitment here and now.


    The two of us parted on good terms and I made it back home by four-thirty. All around, it was an excellent night, the moral quandary of robbing one of the few good businesses in Brockton offset by the high of an amazing haul and a potential ally.


    Author''s Note


    I''m very new to D&D, but I decided to roll a d20 for Bryce''s outing. I decided that Bryce would visit two places for clothes and junk to tinker with. He rolled a 5 at the clothing giveaway and a 19 at the junkyard.


    1 to 5: Hostile encounter, severity depends on roll. He lucked out with the five because he''s really not equipped for a fight.


    6 to 15: No encounter, everything goes according to plan.


    16 to 20: Positive encounter, boons depend on roll. He got to meet the least hostile cape faction in the city while they were still building their base, a massive opportunity.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 1.6 Wake

    Wake 1.6


    2010, September 9: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    "Dude, you look like shit," Dennis said as I collapsed at the lunch table.


    I raised my head just enough to glare and flipped him the bird. "Thank you, and you look like a soulless ginger."


    "Just saying," he held out his palms in mock surrender. "Yeesh, you''re as grumpy as Amy."


    "What was that about my sister?" came Vicky''s threatening growl from behind him.


    "Ahahaha¡­ I was just talking about how lovely and charming she is."


    "He thinks we''re both pissy asshats," I cut in, happy to toss him under the bus.


    "Dude!"


    "I''m grumpy, remember?" I snarked as I popped open a can of coke. "It''s my day to be a dick."


    "Seriously, Bryce, you okay?" Carlos asked with obvious concern.


    "Yeah, I didn''t get to sleep much last night. It won''t be a regular thing."


    "What were you doing all night?" Chelsea asked, ever the gossip. "Chatting up a girl for homecoming?"


    "Yes, how''d you know?"


    "Really?"


    "No," I replied, tone drier than the desert.


    "You suck today," she deflated like a balloon.


    "I''m not going to homecoming, Chels."


    "Why not? It''s your first one!"


    I rolled my eyes. "Exactly. Everyone knows freshmen are the bottom of the food chain and I don''t feel like bumbling around the dance like a clueless idiot."


    "It won''t be that bad."


    I stopped leaning on the table and dug around for my lunch. "Chels, have you ever seen me hang out with any other freshies?"


    "Umm, no? You''re always here."


    "Exactly," I nodded. "I''m always here because I don''t have any friends my own age. You guys are the extent of my social circle."


    "What? Why?"


    I shrugged. "I''ve always been a loner. Started when I was in higher year classes in elementary school. No one likes feeling stupid and even if I don''t rub it in their faces, everyone knows I''m a nerd. Used to eat lunch in the classroom to avoid bullies and everything."


    My isolation was mostly self-imposed and had a lot more to do with my past life''s memories than any academic achievement on my part, but school made for an easy scapegoat.


    "Aww, Bryce," she cooed and wrapped an arm around me. "Don''t worry, we like you."


    I gently pried her arm from my shoulder. "That wasn''t an invitation to hug me. I''m not lonely. I don''t feel like I''m ''missing out'' or whatever. I''m just pointing out why I would be miserable at a school function like homecoming. I can''t hang with any freshmen because I''m not actually close to any."


    "You could hang out with us," Dean tried.


    I rolled my eyes and pointed at each of them in turn, starting with Dean and Vicky. "You two will be tickling each other''s tonsils." Carlos. "You already said you''re not going because of some kind of police cadets thing." Dennis. "You''re joining Carlos." Stephanie and Chelsea. "You two will have better things to do than hang with me all night." Amy. "Actually, I don''t know what you''re doing."


    "Not going," she said matter-of-factly.


    "What? Ames, we talked about this," her sister squawked.


    "No, Vicky," she sighed. "You decided I''m going. I''m not this time. Homecoming is miserable."


    "See? She gets it."


    "Shut it, Bryce." Vicky''s aura flared for a moment before Dean squeezed her hand. "But what are you going to do then?"


    "I''ll be at the hospital," Amy said.


    ''Ah, already working herself to death, almost a year before canon,'' I thought sadly. ''Does she make money off it like a work study program? I somehow doubt it. I know she''ll eventually become an unredeemable monster in Ward, but does a possible future justify her misery now? Like some kind of preemptive punishment? Hell, would she become the titan-making monster she did in canon if someone bothered to unravel a few of her issues?''


    I promised myself that I''d let the chips fall where they may, but having Amy eat lunch only a few feet from me was tempting. It was like dangling a steak in front of a dog, a fix-it trope in front of an isekai protagonist.


    "Right, Bryce?" Vicky drew me out of my plot-related introspection.


    "What? Sure," I mumbled.


    She shot me a beaming smile and I had to actively shut down my emotions before Dean noticed. Judging by the forgiving smile he sent me, I failed. "It''s decided then."


    "No," Amy protested, "nothing''s decided. I don''t want to go to homecoming."


    "Why not, sis? You''ll be bored without me and Bryce will be bored without Carlos and Dennis. You two can go and hang out," she chirped.


    I leaned in to the large Ward. "What exactly did I agree to?" I whispered.


    "You''re going to homecoming with Amy," he said with a wry smile. "Congratulations."


    ''Chips fall where they may¡­ Damn, Vicky is definitely the type to try to play matchmaker, isn''t she?'' I sighed loudly and clapped for their attention. "Vicky, I appreciate what you''re trying to do, but I''m really not that interested in school dances and it looks like Amy isn''t either."


    "See? Exactly!" our favorite healer shouted, drawing some eyes from nearby tables.


    "Oh, come on, Bryce," the blonde pouted. "You should at least try attending one dance before you decide you don''t like it."


    ''I did, four years of homecoming, two proms, and way too many college parties, you brat. I grew out of it.'' I felt old just thinking that so instead, I said, "Vicky, not everyone is as bubbly as you are. Some of us really appreciate a quiet evening to ourselves."


    "Maybe you should just let those two decide on their own," Dean tried.


    "If I do that, Amy will just coop herself up in the hospital. And without me to pick her up, she won''t come home until well past midnight," she complained.


    I frowned. It was a sobering realization. Vicky wasn''t really concerned about Amy attending homecoming, she knew her sister didn''t like crowds; she was concerned that her sister would overwork herself. Again.


    Maybe Vicky was trying to unravel some of Amy''s issues.


    "Fine," I conceded and turned to Amy. "Amy Dallon, will you do me the honor of accompanying me to the homecoming dance? As friends? At the very least, a change of pace for one night couldn''t hurt, right?"


    "Yes!" she cheered.


    Amy looked at me with a sour glare before she glanced at her beaming sister. I could practically see her mulish resistance crumbling at the force of Vicky''s smile. "Fine," she huffed, "as friends."


    And so my fate was sealed.


    X


    I took a quick nap when I got home. When I woke up, I finished the digital storage system, DSS for short. Even working on it off and on over the course of several days, I was able to finish it so quickly thanks to SAINT''s cooperation. When he wasn''t learning a new move from the archive, he was filling in code in order to get this up and running. Ultimately, what I had was the bare bones, a bit like the most basic version of a word processor without all the bells and whistles Microsoft released with every updated version. Functional, but hardly groundbreaking by the standards of the Pok¨¦mon world.


    Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    I returned after dinner and got to sorting the previous night''s haul. Six hundred pounds of old hard drives, wires, and car batteries weren''t much, they certainly wouldn''t let me build a mecha or anything, but they were a good start for a tinker with only a single outing to his name. I moved everything to the DSS over the course of the evening and arranged my new inventory to best reflect my pipeline.


    The real prize however, was the phone number recorded into my Pok¨¦Nav: Faultline''s number.


    ''Do I call her now? But that implies desperation, right?'' I rolled the idea around in my head before tossing my phone to the side. ''Who cares? I''ll call her when I have a costume and a name ready. I''m acting like a boy who just got his crush''s number.''


    Thus the conversation with Faultline was turned into tomorrow-Bryce''s problem. That just left the matter of my costume.


    I planned to make the Expansion Suit, the same worn by Emma in Kalos. That was why the work clothes, leather, and wires were so important to me. Originally, the suit was made by Dr. Xerosic, the chief scientist of Team Flare, with the goal of developing a suit that could allow even normal people to battle like an elite.


    Emma, an orphan living in the alleys of Lumiose City, volunteered for a series of experiments that would turn her into Essentia, a powerful masked thief who challenged trainers to battles before stealing their pok¨¦mon. She also robbed a museum to test the suit''s hacking suite if I remembered correctly.


    Following a series of incidents, Essentia joined Looker as a superheroine protecting her city.


    The backstory aside, the Expansion Suit was honestly an incredible piece of hardware by modern Earth standards, even if it fell short of anything built by the likes of Tony Stark. It increased Emma''s physical abilities, particularly reaction time, and carried with it an AI software that could help her battle like a member of the Elite Four. It could also override the programming of pok¨¦balls with a ranged hacking suite and contained an advanced texturing function that let Emma disguise herself as other people.


    Xerosic also showed that he could use the suit''s systems to shut off Emma''s consciousness, allowing him to pilot her body like a doll.


    I wouldn''t be including that particular function obviously, but everything else sounded amazing. The AI in question would of course be SAINT in my case, and rather than a hibernation mode, I would build a user interface designed to mesh our abilities together. That was the reason I looked for a motorcycle helmet a bit larger than my head, to include all the necessary hardware.


    I checked in on my mom and Sierra to make sure they wouldn''t be back until dinner. Mom''s chiropractor clinic was doing pretty well, but she needed to work a bit later than usual if she wanted to catch clients who were just finishing up their own jobs. Sierra was in class, something about an evening course. Left to my own devices, I locked the door anyway and allowed myself to be dragged into a fugue.


    Four short hours later, my alarm rang and all eighty-plus pounds of SAINT jumped on my back to knock me out of my fugue. I stared at my own version of the Expansion Suit. Or rather, the frame of what would eventually become the Expansion Suit.


    It was a set of motorcycle leathers with lines of padding, wires, and bits of tech running throughout the full outfit. The suit was layered with the canvas work clothes on the inside and a softer lining after that to prevent chafing. At the moment, it was little more than a tricked out body suit; I would need to work on the helmet for it to be complete.


    I folded the heavy material as best as I could and tucked it beneath my bed. I wouldn''t be starting on the helmet until tomorrow.


    With Protect, Recover, and Agility under my belt, I had SAINT start on Thunder Wave. It would take another three days, but I considered the nonlethal offensive option well worth the wait.


    X


    2010, September 10: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    I panted as I stumbled back into the house after my morning run. In the shower, I took the chance to practice Recover. With it healing the wear and tear of my muscles, I hoped I could see results faster because right now, even something moderate like two miles felt like a mountaintop hike.


    At first, there was no outward sign of a move being used. Then, when the aura fully circulated through my body, I started to glow a dull white. I sighed with relief as the burning in my lungs diminished.


    ''It''s not a cure-all,'' I realized as I shook off the fatigue from the move. ''I don''t magically regenerate half my health, whatever that might mean for a normal human body.''


    From what my power was telling me, Recover sent a stream of aura through my body, diagnosing wounds and performing triage before targeting the major wounds first. It would keep me from bleeding out and heal me over time, but the aura cost was steep. Even if I was using aura to heal myself in the same way a pok¨¦mon like SAINT did, the simple truth was that my human body was not as robust and so the healing not as effective.


    The dull glow faded and I trudged back to bed, exhausted with even that simple use of the move. It''d get easier, my power said, but for now, I just wanted to go back to bed.


    My attempt to go back to sleep was ruined by an overeager duck. I''d told him to keep me from getting too lazy and he was hell-bent on obeying.


    "Alright, I got it, I''m up," I complained.


    Grudgingly, I gave up my powernap and got ready for school.


    X


    Before I could go get lunch, I felt a hand grab me in a vice grip, tugging me under the stairs. I whirled around to find Amy Dallon scowling at me. Her shoulder-length hair was a frizzy mess and her big, brown eyes were narrowed in an approximation of an intimidating glower. The bags under her eyes had darkened over the week, making her look like an adorably grumpy raccoon.


    But raccoons could be fucking rabid.


    "Yes, Ames? Good day to you too," I said with a quirked brow.


    "Homecoming," she growled.


    "What about it?"


    "Don''t expect anything just because Vicky''s dragging me there."


    "I''ll be sure to toss the condoms," I replied dryly. At her darkening glare, I backtracked and raised my hands in surrender. "Okay, just a joke. I know we''re not going out. I didn''t want to go to homecoming either, remember?"


    "Then why''d you say yes?"


    "Because of Vicky."


    "If you think giving me a pity date is going to make Vicky suddenly fall for you-Eep!"


    I cut her off by flicking her nose. Sure, she might one day become the Red Queen and I might get turned into a one-man human centipede for this, but audacity was my shield, damn it. If I didn''t treat her like a monster, maybe she wouldn''t become one.


    The ostrich method, everyone. Guaranteed to work every time it works.


    "Not what I meant, Ames." I sighed. I wrapped an arm around her and steered her out from under the stairs. "Walk with me."


    She resisted for a moment but eventually complied when I started dragging her with me. "What? You''re going to tell me you''re not interested in my sister?" she sniped.


    "Not a chance. I mean, don''t get me wrong, Vicky is hot as hell, but even if I didn''t respect Dean and she magically gave me a shot, we''d never work out. I''m too much of a sarcastic jackass and she''s too¡­ teen spirit."


    "Then what''s all this? Why are you going to the dance?"


    "Because of Vicky," I repeated. "And, I suppose, because of you. Do you remember last week when school first started and I said you were my favorite hero?"


    She threw my arm from her shoulder. "So that''s what this is? Hero worship?"


    "Not quite that either, though it''s closer. Can I finish without interruptions now?" She huffed but remained silent. I pulled her out of the south hall towards a less crowded part of the manicured quad. I figured that at this point in her self-destructive spiral, honesty may well be the best policy. "Amy, Vicky doesn''t give a damn about whether you go to homecoming or not. Well, okay, she''d like for you to be there, but that wasn''t the point in her trying to play matchmaker between us. Hell, she doesn''t actually care whether we fall in love or we never speak again. She just wants you to take a breather and step away from your hospital visits for a single weekend."


    "I can''t." I didn''t think she meant for that to come out as a whisper.


    "You can," I said gently. "Vicky said that without her to drag you home, you''d sleep in the ER if you could. I know that you save lives. I respect the hell out of you, but can''t you see that you''re worrying her?" Maybe it was a dick move to guilt trip her, but Amy being Amy, Vicky was literally the only leverage I could use to get through to her. "You need rest. You look like a coke addict raccoon going through withdrawal symptoms right now."


    "Shut up."


    "Sure, but that''s why I agreed to go to homecoming with you. You could use a night off from work. Vicky could use a night off from worrying. And honestly? A bit selfishly? I could use a night chatting with my favorite hero who also happens to be my snarkiest friend."


    She scowled and slugged me on the arm, but I could spy a hint of a smile. "Fine, I get it. I''ll go to homecoming. Don''t expect anything."


    "Likewise," I said easily. "How pissed would Vicky be if we both showed up in t-shirts and jeans?"


    "Pft, she''ll twist you into a pretzel."


    "And not you?"


    "I''m her sister. She loves me. Which means she''ll just take it out on you."


    "Fine, suit and tie it is."


    "At least Vicky''s not dragging you dress shopping," she grumbled.


    "Can''t be that bad."


    "I love her, but sometimes she''s too¡­ teen spirit," she returned my words.


    "Good luck, and really, try to get more rest."


    "You''re one to talk. You''ve been dozing off all week."


    "Both of us then." I held out a fist for her to bump. She rolled her eyes but obliged. "Now let''s go back to our table before Chelsea starts rumors about us."


    X


    I returned from school to find SAINT listening to music. He''d gotten into his head that music was a mode of communication, one I greatly enjoyed, and had taken it upon himself to familiarize himself with a number of classic bands. When I arrived, he was browsing the Hybrid Theory album from Linkin Park, an Earth-Aleph import here.


    His exploration into the world of music was fascinating to watch in its own way. He didn''t sing obviously, nor could he play instruments, but he did enjoy the melodies. Rather than just sitting in the computer and vibing with the tunes, he dissected each song, separating them by instrument and trying to figure out why some sequence of chords inspired some specific emotions in its listeners.


    Back in my past life, everyone said the K-pop industry perfected the art of popular appeal and I couldn''t help but wonder how SAINT would stack up if I gave him a bit more time. Could he produce an Earth-Bet equivalent of Girl''s Generation or Big Bang?


    He cooed at me from inside the speakers and I waved him off before immediately getting to work on my helmet.


    Essentia''s helmet was a full face visor with a glowing "E" on its surface. My motorcycle helmet was likewise colored black, but the burnt orange visor wasn''t large enough to cover the face completely. Instead, the helmet boasted additional face protection that wrapped around my jaw. It was more than a stylistic choice because the smaller visor meant I''d have to settle for a more compact user interface.


    I spent two hours just designing the layout I thought would be most ergonomic before I took a break to complete the workout regimen Dennis prepared for me. By the time I finished, I had the design plans of a system that could be toggled using a series of blinks and facial movements.


    I would be able to rotate between an overview of the suit''s status, my own biometrics, incoming calls and messages, and a 3D map, all augmented by my favorite virtual pok¨¦mon and the Pok¨¦Nav. This additional integration between the Expansion Suit and my Pok¨¦Nav would likely add a day or so to the helmet''s construction, but anything that made me more effective in the field was worth the effort.


    Author''s Note


    Why? Why the fuck not? I decided that I wanted to play to a lot of tropes even as I subverted just as many so here''s my take on the "Save Panacea" trope mixed with the "definitely not dating" trope. I doubt this is ever going to turn into a romcom or anything, but it seemed like a fun idea.


    School life, but with the shadow of the Red Queen. Doesn''t that sound like fun? /s


    *Oh god help me I have no idea what I''ve done.*


    Also, who saw Essentia coming?


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 1.7 Wake

    Wake 1.7


    2010, September 11: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    Despite being comparatively small, the helmet took the bulk of my attention. I was no Armsmaster; I simply was not equipped to make minute alterations to sensitive technology. Even with SAINT making calculations for me that were as accurate as physically possible, I had to be careful as to not introduce human error into my tinkering.


    Finally, after several days of painstaking fine-tuning, my Expansion Suit was complete.


    I decided to keep the color scheme as homage to the character, not that anyone else would get the reference. Matte gray, almost black leather covered the outside of the suit in one solid color, making it hard to tell where the leather jacket ended and the pants began. Gloves and boots just a shade lighter ensured that not an inch of skin was showing. The only splashes of color I permitted on the suit were found on the shoulders and visor, a burnt orange like Essentia''s. The back sported secure fasteners for my expanded bag and a pitch-black belt held a holster for my Pok¨¦Nav.


    The main difference between Essentia''s outfit and mine, besides my obvious lack of curves, was the helmet.


    The additional cheek and jaw protection from the helmet''s body made the shape of the visor more angular, giving off an intimidating vibe. I made the jaw guard detachable though, partially so I could eat through the helmet if I had to and partially so I could speak without looking like the boogeyman. When detached from the helmet''s main body, the jaw guard hung a few inches lower to protect my neck instead. It also contained a rudimentary voice synthesizer made from an old CD player I looted.


    I''d also taken care to bore a hole through the helmet''s body, right between the eyebrows. An old camera lens I''d scavenged the other day was fed through it and hooked up to the suit so SAINT could see what I saw. The lens quality wasn''t the best, I''d have to work on it when I got the chance, but it wasn''t too difficult to copy the camera software on my phone and add it to the suit. This way, SAINT could rotate through the various filters with inhuman speed to provide me with real-time intelligence.


    I looked it over one more time with a proud nod. I couldn''t lie, even without the homage to the original wearer, the black and orange Halloween theme was kind of cool.


    "We did it, SAINT," I said with a proud smile.


    "Pory-gon!" he cheered with me.


    I quashed the desire to try on the suit immediately. SAINT was pretty fast. He could hide from Sierra or mom if they knocked on my door. I couldn''t take off the costume that quickly. Instead of risking discovery, I reluctantly put the suit in the back of my closet, behind the snowboard I only used once.


    Looking at the board took me back. We''d gone snowboarding two years ago over the winter and dad had insisted that it''d be cheaper to just buy a decent board and use it every year instead of renting each time.


    I promptly broke my arm, not even boarding down, but in the waiting line to ride the lift up. I slipped on the ice and fell on my ass, but tried to brace my weight on my arm, causing some hairline fractures. I felt pathetic. Dad looked sorry. Mom freaked out. And that was the end of that family trip. Before I knew it, I''d outgrown the snowboard.


    "I wonder what I can make out of this?" I muttered. A part of me didn''t want to take it apart; it was a memento of dad. Another part of me really liked the idea of incorporating it into my costume. "Maybe when my specialization changes¡­"


    I started this rotation on the twenty-eighth of August. Since I''d get four weeks exactly, I had until the twenty-fourth of September, two more weeks. SAINT would spend a good chunk of that time learning new moves. As for me, I would have to decide on a name, contact Faultline, get set up with a lab outside my own house, and work on several items unique to the pok¨¦mon world.


    I decided to table all of that for today and tomorrow. The DSS was done and I was confident that I could move the hard drive to my new lab, wherever it might be. The Pok¨¦Nav, expanded bag, and Expansion Suit were finished, giving me a costume that didn''t look cobbled together. I had a good library of moves and a way to get more. We worked hard; we''d earned our rest.


    "You''re awesome, buddy," I said as I cradled the blocky duck in my lap. I brought out his favorite snacks and let him go to town on them while I picked away at dad''s guitar.


    X


    2010, September 12: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    I took SAINT running with me as thanks for completely mastering Thunder Wave in such a short time.


    There was no way in hell SAINT could walk around outside, but he could still accompany me through the Pok¨¦Nav. At times like this, I felt as though my specialization was Mega Man or Digimon instead of Pok¨¦mon. Still, we made the best of it. He could see out of the camera and communicate through both our bond and the headphones I''d modified, so I took him on a tour around the nicer parts of the city.


    This was yet another reason for my hesitance to make more pok¨¦mon.


    Technically, several pok¨¦mon were inorganic and would not trigger the societal prejudice against biotinkers. Several of those species were extremely powerful too: metagross, magnezone, gigalith, golem, et cetera could all hold their own with some of the strongest capes in Worm, and depending on their exact moveset, stomp some of them into the dirt.


    Hell, gigalith, nowhere near the apex of the pok¨¦mon world food chain, was canonically capable of wiping out mountains if the dex was to be believed.


    Even so, the thought of trying to manage such powerful creatures while keeping them cooped up and locked away from the rest of the world¡­ that was just begging for a disaster. I had to remind myself that they were not tools but partners. The power of friendship was a tangible force with pok¨¦mon and anything less wouldn''t work out in my favor. The best case scenario was that I would get outed when one of my pok¨¦mon got bored and escaped for a merry romp through town. The worst case scenario involved a crater the size of this city.


    After my run, I cooled down at a caf¨¦ on the Boardwalk. The caf¨¦ was a hipster''s paradise: upscale, but pretending they weren''t by having bare brick walls, unshielded light bulbs hanging from the ceilings, and books guests could just pick up at will. The second story overlooked the Rig.


    I sat in the corner of the second floor and sipped some kind of frothy, sweet cold brew while the two of us marveled at the miracle of architecture. The Protectorate HQ was usually described as an old oil rig, but that just didn''t do the building justice.


    Yes, it used to be an oil rig; that much was covered in elementary school, but if I hadn''t been told that, I would have never guessed. The entire building was encased in a force field that reflected the sunlight from the water in a dazzling display of color. I could see silhouettes of arches and spires and though I couldn''t make out exact details through the force field, it was clear that the entire Rig had received a massive makeover at some point. I had a feeling that the obscuring effect provided by the force field wasn''t purely incidental.


    After cooling down a bit, I took a walk around the pier and gave SAINT the grand tour. I told him bits of the city''s history, both the good and the bad, from the abandoned ferry to each member of the Protectorate and Wards.


    My blocky friend took a particular liking for the Forsberg Gallery, a modern art gallery known to every Brockton native as the premier destination of school field trips. I must have visited the place on at least four separate field trips at this point.


    While many of my classmates only liked it for the chance to skip school, I found the museum to be peaceful. It reminded me of my past life.


    I was no great artist, but I used to attend a local pottery studio and make things for friends and family. They weren''t good enough to be sold or anything, but I found the process of molding and firing clay soothing. With my career as a physician''s assistant, the chance to take a break and forget about prescriptions and planned surgeries was a godsend.


    Whenever I saw Forsberg''s ceramics exhibit, I felt the urge to hop behind a wheel and start throwing a vase or two. I enjoyed Forsberg for the memories it roused in me; SAINT just liked the oddly shaped building that looked like it was built out of Legos with some inspiration from a game of Jenga.


    Halfway home, I received a text from Sierra about a study group she had set up for her engineering major.


    B: You need me to stay out of the house for a few hours?


    S: Nah, you''re good. Where are you anyway?


    B: I''ve just been wandering around. I''m a few minutes from Hillside if you want me to get you anything.


    S: Can you? Donuts?


    B: Devil''s Bakery on 13th Street, right?


    Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    S: Yeah, let me ask them what they want.


    I shrugged and turned left on the next intersection. A small detour wouldn''t hurt, and I wanted to introduce SAINT to the wonders of fried dough. The Devil''s Bakery was a bakery on the ground floor of Hillside Mall specializing in unusual flavor combinations such as maple-walnut and bacon, matcha-lemon meringue, and salted strawberry cream.


    They were excellent, so good that there was even a running joke online that the owner was some kind of pastry tinker. Andrew something or other¡­ I was just outside the bakery when my phone buzzed again.


    S: I want a vanilla bean custard with strawberry drizzle, Sabah wants a maple-walnut donut with cinnamon sugar, and Michelle wants a blueberry crepe.


    B: No problem.


    S: Thanks! Love you, bro! I''ll pay you back!


    ''Sabah, huh? What are the odds?'' If I remembered correctly, she triggered as a result of a confluence of factors, including a pushy boy. Her father also had a heart attack. That meant that the friend she was venting about a week ago was likely Sabah, soon to be Parian. ''It''s almost like I''m being pushed towards plot-relevant characters¡­''


    I ordered myself a brownie and got SAINT some walnut crunch bars as well.


    Once home, I knocked quietly before opening the door. "Hey, sis."


    A dizzying mess of papers covered our living room floor and coffee table. I saw an Arabic girl with full lips and wide, expressive eyes even shorter than me who could only be Sabah. Next to her, a tall brunette gave me a cheery smile that sent my teenage hormones firing. ''Michelle, if I had to guess.''


    "Snacks!" Sierra cheered.


    "That all I am to you? A delivery boy?"


    "Yup, and there is no greater honor for a baby bro."


    "Joy."


    Michelle giggled. "You two are funny."


    "All an act, I assure you. Bryce is a menace."


    "I''m a menace? Michelle, right? Catch." I held out the larger of two bags before jerking it back. I tossed it to the smiling brunette. "Don''t let Sierra have any."


    "Oh, come on!"


    "Sure, more for me."


    I ignored their bickering and waved at the third member of their study group.


    "Sorry about the mess," Sabah said. "Our housemates are really loud and we forgot to reserve a study room at the campus library."


    "Don''t mention it. Sabah, right?" I shuffled behind my sister to reach the kitchen island. Digging through the fridge, I got myself two cans of ginger ale and stuffed them in my pastry bag.


    "Yes, nice to meet you, Bryce." She sounded pretty neutral, certainly not like someone who was about to break down into a trigger event. She was very good at hiding her emotions, I didn''t know her well enough to tell, or her life hadn''t gotten too bad yet.


    ''Can I make her life better somehow?'' I wondered. ''If I found out the name of the horny lab assistant, I could¡­ What? Beat him up? Threaten him in costume? That''ll end well. And it doesn''t fix her dad''s heart condition.''


    There wasn''t much I could do short of stalk her every step. Hypothetically, it''d be a trivial matter for me to go out in costume and tail her¡­


    I immediately scrapped the idea. A young woman being followed by a new cape? Hell, if I did that, I might inadvertently be the cause of her trigger. I also lacked the healing technology to cure Sabah''s father of whatever heart condition he had that would lead to the terminal heart attack either.


    There were plenty of things in Pok¨¦mon that could fix a heart condition, but none of them were made by humans. Ho-Oh''s Sacred Ash. Chansey''s egg. A powerful Heal Pulse. None of them were tech and so beyond my abilities.


    "¡­ bro?" I was bought out of my musing by Sierra waving her hand in my face. "You there? You were staring at Sabah then spaced out."


    "Oh, sorry," I blinked. "I was just thinking about some stuff I had to do."


    "You sure you haven''t fallen for my friend?" Sierra teased. "It''s normal for a boy your age to crush on an older girl, you know."


    I could see Sabah twitch uncomfortably at that so I shut her down immediately with the only thing I could think of. "No, I was thinking about my date to homecoming. Sabah''s pretty, but my date''s already troublesome enough."


    ''And Sabah''s very, very gay,'' I thought ruefully. ''Though to be fair, so is Amy.''


    Judging by the glint of mischief in Sierra''s eyes, I was going to catch hell for this.


    "Ooh, Bryce has a girlfriend. Who? Tell."


    "No," I said flatly.


    "Tell. I invoke big sister privileges."


    "You lost those when you acted like a spaz trying to get Laserdream''s autograph. I''m legitimately afraid of meeting Eric Pelham in school now for fear he''ll recognize me as the brother of that weirdo girl who stalked his sister."


    "You swore you wouldn''t mention that!"


    "There''s a story there," Michelle said with a grin. "Do tell, little bro."


    "I swore I wouldn''t tell mom," I grinned triumphantly. "Your friends are fair game."


    "No! Go upstairs, Bryce," she shouted, shoving me towards the stairs. "Oh look, girls, we have so much write-up to do. Let''s get to work."


    Though I didn''t get much else done today, I considered it time well spent. I got to hang out with SAINT, treat him to the wonders of fried dough, and even met yet another plot-relevant character. I spent the rest of the day finishing up Dennis'' workout routine and sketching some doodles on a notepad for future reference. The purple agate quartz I ordered also arrived in the mail, so I''d get to make an eviolite soon.


    X


    2010, September 13: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    Making the eviolite was an interesting exercise in frustration. Fascinating in its own way, but also completely and utterly beyond the comprehension of this world''s science.


    An eviolite was a purple gemstone that could greatly amplify the defenses of a pok¨¦mon so long as that pok¨¦mon had not fully evolved. There was a fanon theory running around in my past life that the evolutionary stones triggered some sort of biological reaction, acting as catalysts for evolution through chemicals that the relevant pok¨¦mon species interpreted as pheromones.


    That theory flew out the window where the eviolite was considered. For one, a chemical response that intentionally kept a pok¨¦mon in its adolescence made no sense. Second, the eviolite was universally effective, from dragonair to porygon-2. Body type or even basic biochemistry didn''t seem to matter in the least. Third, raising a pok¨¦mon''s defenses simply through chemical signaling would be impossible.


    How did the pok¨¦mon world quantify defenses? Why did it only work on pok¨¦mon who had at least one more stage of evolution left? At some point, it seemed even my power had thrown its hands in the air and said, "Aura bullshit, don''t ask."


    At the end of the day, I didn''t care. It was more important to me that it worked, not the specifics of how exactly it worked. The Dubious Disc that evolved a porygon-2 to porygon-z was canonically faulty, resulting in unstable behavior from the evolved porygon. I didn''t want that for SAINT. Though the porygon-z boasted tremendous offensive power, the instability wasn''t a fair tradeoff. Even putting aside my budding friendship with SAINT, I trusted him with my user interface, Pok¨¦Nav, and so much more.


    Seeing how I had no intention of ever coding a Dubious Disc, the eviolite was the perfect item for SAINT to have on hand.


    The creation process of the eviolite involved the agate, some live wires, a chisel, and mysterious designs I couldn''t begin to translate that vaguely looked like unown. As far as I knew, the first eviolites were made by the same ancient civilizations that brought claydols and other artificial pok¨¦mon to life.


    I sank into a fugue and when I woke up, it was to a purple, egg-shaped gemstone that pulsed with violet energy. I slumped forward in exhaustion. From what little I could understand, making the gem had drawn out a large portion of my own aura to act as a one-time catalyst. I couldn''t imagine what making a z-crystal or mega stone would cost me.


    I placed it in the middle of a collar sized for SAINT.


    While I worked on that, I had SAINT study more powerful electrokinetic capes I stored in the archive. If SAINT could replicate Thunderbolt, it''d be a major upgrade to both our offensive potential.


    X


    I spent most of my Monday morning classes brainstorming my cape identity.


    I''d put off deciding what kind of cape I wanted to be, but I couldn''t procrastinate any longer. I was no Jack Slash, but nor was I Legend, neither a monster nor a paragon. That left a lot of wriggle room to explore.


    Joining the Wards was out of the question: I had no intention of letting them put a leash around my tinkering potential. That said, being an independent hero didn''t appeal to me either. Perpetually going on patrols to try and grassroots my way to fame, minding my actions so the PRT wouldn''t have an excuse to strong-arm me, and getting into fights I wouldn''t benefit from didn''t exactly strike me as a fulfilling experience.


    I knew the score: Villains captured in Brockton didn''t get locked away; they walked out of the revolving door that was our justice system.


    ''What did I want?'' I asked myself. ''I want to be able to build what I want, when I want. I want to protect mom and Sierra. From Lung and Bakuda. From Kaiser and Purity. From Leviathan. Coil. Jack. Echidna¡­ I want a reputation for being powerful without encouraging challengers. I just want to have fun¡­''


    Thinking about it, as much as I respected Panacea, I didn''t think I could be a heroic rogue who helped people selflessly. I''d drive myself spare if I were stuck in a hospital like her, or stuck making whatever medi-tech came with my powers in the future. The last thing Earth-Bet needed was for a tinker of fiction to have his own psychotic break right alongside the strongest biokinetic in the world.


    Dragon, the other hero I looked up to, operated on a level beyond me, for the moment. The Guild was appealing in ways the Wards just weren''t. I wasn''t too big on seeking a higher purpose or anything, but I couldn''t deny that the thought of traveling the world alongside Dragon and Narwhal to be the final word on S-class threats sounded pretty damn cool. But that was exactly why they weren''t a valid option: There was no way in hell I could leave the city at my current age, nor would they accept a minor for obvious reasons.


    ''What about Toybox?'' I considered them for a moment.


    They were villains according to the PRT, but few people actually considered them so and I didn''t personally care for the designation one way or the other. As a collective of tinkers, they maintained their own neutrality with enough force that no one wanted to challenge them without a damn good reason.


    Big Rig, a tinker who specialized in construction; Dodge, a tinker who built dimensions; Glace, the cryogenics tinker; Pyrotechnical, a thermodynamics tinker; and Toy Soldier, some kind of automation tinker, made for a daunting combination with excellent defenses and impressive firepower. If I joined them, I could share in their protection. I could benefit from their specializations and contacts, obtaining materials and lab space I wouldn''t be able to acquire on my own.


    That said, they came with their own share of worries.


    To start, I had no idea how to contact Toybox. Their main lab was in an isolated dimension maintained by Dodge and any offices they had on Earth-Bet proper tended to be highly nomadic.


    Second, even if I did manage to contact them, I wasn''t sure of their full intentions. I would be negotiating from a position of weakness, with little to offer that the collective didn''t already have.


    Third, it was likely that they would demand I join permanently, moving with them in a nomadic lifestyle. Letting me remain sedentary in Brockton wouldn''t be an option because that''d mean I''d be a security risk. I wasn''t ready to abandon my family.


    Lastly, they were canonically destroyed by the Slaughterhouse Nine following the latter''s visit to Brockton Bay. That was a few years off, but Jack Slash managed to track Dodge''s dimension somehow even with the death of Mannequin and incapacitation of Cherish, the tinker and empathic tracker. That told me that Toybox''s dimension wasn''t as secure as advertised.


    I penciled them in as potential contacts for business transactions in the future, but I didn''t think we''d be more than that.


    Author''s Note


    Not much to say. Some more sibling antics. Bryce weighs his faction choices.


    He''s not going to be a Ward. Why? *Shrugs* Been there, done that, I guess. I want Bryce to have a very different career path than Andy.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 1.8 Wake

    Wake 1.8


    2010, September 13: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    That evening, I pulled out the Pok¨¦Nav and gave Newter''s boss a call.


    ''Could I be like Faultline?'' I liked their mercenary style of choosing their fights. They were officially villains, but like Toybox, straddled the line between rogue and villain, a low priority for the Protectorate. ''If I like them, why not join?''


    And why not indeed. They were reasonably powerful, highly competent, and had even defeated both Chevalier and Myrddin in Philadelphia before coming to Brockton Bay. I had some personal suspicions about hat one. Information about that encounter was sparse because the PRT kept that embarrassment under wraps, but any event that resulted in a group of four mercenaries escaping from two Protectorate heads, one of them Myrddin, could be considered a win for Faultline.


    The only thing that kept me from outright joining Faultline was my relatively inflexible schedule and inability to leave the city on jobs.


    ''Still¡­ a friendly relationship can''t hurt,'' I thought as I dialed the number.


    "Faultline speaking," came the crisp, professional voice. Wildbow described her as a stern, no-nonsense woman of "angles and edges" and it was remarkable how that carried through even in her tone.


    "This is Creed." It was the name I settled on whether I''d be a hero or rogue. The name implied a code of ethics, something that would hopefully go down well with the mercenary cape and the public in general. "Newter and I spoke a few nights ago."


    "You''re the new tinker he met at the junkyard." It wasn''t a question.


    "Yes. Welcome to Brockton Bay, Faultline."


    "Thank you. Now, why have you reached out to me?"


    "I am unfortunately not in any position to leave the city for extended periods of time on jobs. I cannot join you, but I would like a friendly relationship."


    "Agreeable. Are you aware of your specialization?"


    "That¡­ is complicated," I started. "Suffice to say, it is rather broad in scope. I take it you are interested in purchasing some tinkertech?"


    "I may consider it," she hummed noncommittally. "Newter was impressed with the expanded backpack and I admit it can be useful on missions, but I take it that is not all you can build?"


    "Far from it. That was my initial project to improve my scavenging."


    "I thought so. What else have you built so far?"


    I let out a breath. "I do not feel comfortable disclosing my capabilities over the phone, Faultline."


    "Very well, that is understandable. Would you consider meeting me and my team in person?"


    It was fast, but it also hopefully meant she wouldn''t have the chance to set any traps for me. Barring all else, I knew her civilian ID, Melanie Fitts. I could easily force a MAD scenario. "That would be acceptable."


    "I plan to operate out of the Palanquin, a club near the north end of the Boardwalk. Will you be available tonight?"


    I considered it. Her willingness to meet in her headquarters implied her sincerity. She wouldn''t be willing to trash the HQ she''d worked so hard to renovate, especially not if it meant drawing local attention to herself. "It will have to be past eleven," I said, thinking about mom and Sierra''s sleep schedules.


    "Very well, midnight then. Please enter through the back."


    "Understood."


    X


    Eleven found me sneaking out of the house through my window, this time with my Expansion Suit textured to look like my normal wear. Just in case anyone was watching, I climbed down slowly. When I was a few blocks away, Bryce Kiley ducked into a convenient alley and emerged as Creed.


    "This feels incredible," I whispered to SAINT. I knew intellectually that the suit would boost my physical abilities. It made me a little bit stronger, a little bit more durable. It offered far better boosts to agility and reaction speed, but knowing and experiencing were two different matters. I wasn''t suddenly Batman, but the suit did let an orphan street rat rob a museum with ease. Seeing the world as Creed, I felt that the cars were moving slower, the sounds of the city crisper.


    "Porygon," he agreed. For once, he was not constrained by the camera of my Pok¨¦Nav; he was seeing out of my helmet, my own eyes.


    I jumped five feet into the air with ease and climbed up the fire escape to the roof. "Ready, buddy?"


    "Gon!" A low trill, one I''d gotten to understand as excitement, came from the in-helm speakers.


    We raced across the rooftops, far faster than any normal person could hope to keep up with. The gray of the Expansion Suit made us all the harder to spot, with the burnt orange patches blending with the orange light of the streetlamps.


    I raced along with the aid of Agility. Leaping the gap between buildings was a bit nerve-wracking at first, but I quickly adapted to my improved physical abilities. The suit cut my travel time from a full hour''s jog to under fifteen minutes.


    "Damn, would be nice if there was a way to quantify aura," I muttered to myself as I caught my breath across the street from the Palanquin.


    Unfortunately, despite all of the pok¨¦mon world''s advancements, aura was not a power that was well understood. At first, I thought that the PP, or power points, used in the games could be translated to some kind of aura measuring stick, but that turned out to be a false lead. Every pok¨¦mon was different; and so too, every human was different. In-game, an arcanine and a vulpix could both use Fire Blast just five times, but reality was not so simplistic. The energy of all creation was not something that could be readily quantified by man.


    I gathered my wits and jumped down to the street below.


    The club was an old building refurbished to fit the purposes of the mercenary band. It stood two blocks from Lord''s Street and four from the Boardwalk on top of a hill. It was a four-story building with sizable floorspace and I couldn''t help but wonder how much being a mercenary paid.


    Like with many new clubs, they were running a special, "Two for one cocktails!" a bold sign prominently positioned outside read. There was a respectable line out the door with a well-muscled bouncer who loomed over the waiting customers.


    "Looks like Faultline''s already finished hiring," I mused.


    I made my way to the back door. Instead of approaching as I was, I textured myself to look the way I looked when Newter first met me: a ridiculous sweater wrapped around my head with a pair of jeans to finish the ensemble. I knocked and less than a minute later, Newter answered.


    "Hey, Creed," he greeted with an easygoing grin. "Glad you could make it. Boss-lady''s upstairs."


    He led me through the back of the club, the section that had been converted for the Crew''s personal use. "How''ve you been, Newter?"


    "Pretty good, but between you and me, it''s been kinda boring. I can only scout out the area so many times before it all becomes routine, you know?"


    I hummed noncommittally. "Have you fought the Merchants yet?"


    "Nah, those guys? I got a few of them to leave the area in exchange for a good high."


    "Careful, that might just encourage them to come back."


    "We''ll deal with them if they get too pushy," he shrugged, completely unworried about the least of Brockton''s gangs. "It''s not like we care too much either since we''re not planning on holding any territory besides this little hill."


    "Fair enough." We climbed the stairs to the third floor, where Faultline''s office was. The third floor had largely been converted to a set of bedrooms and work stations.


    Newter didn''t bother knocking. "Yo, boss-lady, Creed''s in!" he cheered.


    Inside, a stern woman with a welder''s mask sat at a large office desk strewn with binders. In front of the desk was a coffee table surrounded by sofas and lounge chairs. It was a strange mix of homey and professional that fit in well with my image of the Crew. A man who could only be Gregor the Snail took up two-thirds of a sofa while a dainty slip of a girl in forest green sat across form him. The maze-like pattern on her mask identified her as Labyrinth, one of the strongest shakers in the world. Newter ambled forward and collapsed onto the couch next to Gregor. "I bring you, Creed!" he said with a flourish.


    I could just feel the frown Faultline must have worn behind the mask. "Do try to be professional, Newter," she chided.


    "No can do, boss-lady. This is my R&R time."


    "Hello, Creed, my name is Gregor the Snail," came the Case-53''s deep voice. It was surprisingly smooth. I expected his voice to sound coarse, perhaps as an effect of various acids or grinding shells, but it had a silky quality that made me think he could sing in a jazz group if he wanted. There was also an accent I could place as vaguely Scandinavian.


    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    The man himself was odd to look at, but not terrifying or grotesque. I found his appearance fascinating, though I realized that this was the power talking. Sometimes, my power behaved almost as though it were a pok¨¦mon professor and by the standards of that batshit crazy world, Gregor was practically normal.


    If I had to guess, he stood at roughly five-ten and was literally three times my width. The strangest part about him wasn''t the snail shells that dotted his body like acne or visible shadow of his skeleton, I''d expected those. The strangest part was that he had no hair, not even eyebrows or lashes. It was odd, but odd in a mundane way that threw me for a loop.


    "Hello, I''m Labyrinth," the girl I knew to be Elle said quietly. I''d expected her to be distant, quite literally in a world of her own, but she seemed remarkably alert, possibly one of her better days. Perhaps this was why Faultline wanted to see me so quickly, a show of strength while her most powerful asset was alert enough to cooperate. After all, had I been anyone else, the knowledge that a shaker of her caliber was staring me down would have convinced me to behave.


    I gave the deceptively waifish girl a once over. She was thin, and blonde, but beyond that, I couldn''t tell the slightest detail about her. She could be twelve or in her early twenties thanks to the mask that covered her whole face. She even sounded somewhat ambiguous; her voice had an airy note to it that made her sound like she was speaking from a great distance away.


    "Hello, Gregor, Labyrinth." I nodded to each in turn and reminded myself that despite his oafish appearance and her detached demeanor, they were far more intelligent than they first seemed. "It''s a pleasure to meet you both."


    "If you don''t mind my asking, how long have you been active?" Faultline asked.


    "I''ve been active since late August," I said, seeing no reason to hide it.


    "I see, then has anyone explained the unwritten rules to you?"


    I nodded. "I appreciate you trying to brief me on cape etiquette, but yes, I''m aware of them."


    "Very well then. You are aware of the risks of being a tinker?"


    "I am. Tinkers are most vulnerable in the first weeks before they can establish themselves. I know that should my presence be known, different factions will do anything, even disregard the unwritten rules, to try and recruit me."


    "Why did you see fit to reach out to me then? Newter left the ball in your court, so to speak."


    "I reached out precisely because he left the choice to me," I said with a smile at the orange boy. "I am aware of a tinker''s potential to be a massive force multiplier. Instead of trying to pressure me into compliance, he decided to give me the chance to choose, and there are few things I value more than my freedom to choose."


    "I see. That is an understandable worldview. Tell me then. You said you were unwilling to join me, but you still came here to meet with me. What is it you want to get out of tonight?"


    "Several things come to mind, but most of all, a business partner." I removed my expanded bag and put it on the table. "I did some research on your organization, Faultline. I know that you are mercenaries, officially villains, but you never kill and tend to take jobs that are less¡­ bloody. That, combined with Newter''s actions, tells me that you work with a code of honor of sorts. I think I could stand to sell to someone like that."


    "Oh?" Her response had the perfect blend of curiosity and professional reservation. Where Faultline was hard to read behind her welder''s mask, Gregor and Newter looked at the expanded bag with anticipation. "You did imply over the phone that you''ve built other things. I take it that you''ve brought them with you?"


    "Of course. There are several capabilities I am unwilling or unable to sell at this time, but I will outline the ones I am willing to put on the table." I gestured to the bag. "To start, the expanded bag. My bag has a carry limit of six hundred pounds. I could reasonably work as a no questions asked courier service with this alone. You all were already aware of it."


    "Does it have to be a backpack?" Gregor asked.


    I thought about it. The principles behind the folded space technology could be applied to other containers, from pok¨¦balls to bags. "There is no reason it needs to be a backpack," I said. "My backpack just happened to be what I had on hand. I intend to reinforce my bag as it is. The carrying capacity would be different depending on the size of the container, but I could tinker a milk carton if you want." He nodded, satisfied. "The backpack''s various pockets can also be individually expanded for different uses that may come in handy on your jobs: weapons, medical supplies, smuggled goods, et cetera. Now, the tinkertech I think you will really be impressed with is my costume."


    "What? A sweater? Very grunge," Newter joked.


    I snapped my fingers dramatically as SAINT made my disguise flicker. My frame was covered in pixels before those pixels scattered like so much static, revealing me in my gray-orange Expansion Suit. "A sweater," I said with a cheeky grin he couldn''t see. I snapped my fingers again and my head was replaced with Faultline''s. "A welder''s mask," I said as SAINT used the voice synthesizer in my jaw guard to perfectly imitate her voice. Another snap, and this time I wore Labyrinth''s green, maze-patterned mask, "and so much more."


    I frowned a little. Labyrinth''s voice was a bit more difficult to fake. Something about her power, or perhaps a quirk of her mask, made that airy intonation tricky. It wasn''t a big difference, but it was there if one listened carefully.


    "Impressive." This time, Faultline seemed to be doing more than humoring me. "I take it you can take the appearance of anyone else you''ve seen before?"


    I nodded and switched to a full-body copy of Newter, sans tail. Scanners in my helmet matched my facial expressions to the textured model, allowing me to grin at them. "Yes." I stood and stretched before walking around the room. "The textured model is just that, a model. You can think of it as an advanced hologram if you must. With it, I can change my appearance to anyone I encounter. I''ll even feel like my model, though it won''t hold up to hard impacts."


    I then stood before Labyrinth and became a mirror image of her before taking a seat next to the pale blonde so they could compare us side by side. "Although, because the model does not alter my actual size or mass, I can''t even begin to copy Gregor due to our different physiques. The suit will adjust for some variances in body type, but there are limits. Note that as Newter, I couldn''t grow a tail. Also, just because I look like Labyrinth of course does not mean I can behave like her."


    "And this suit would be for sale?"


    "Not the suit necessarily, it''s got a few more tricks I''m keeping in reserve, but the texturing technology? Absolutely," I replied. "I would be willing to make a suit for one of your Crew, or a shawl or cape if that works out better for you."


    "Huh, if you did this in a week, I''m kinda afraid of what you''ll make in a few months," Newter said. "And seriously, please stop wearing Lab''s face while you talk. It''s weirding me out."


    With a clap, I was back to my biker outfit. Faultline allowed herself a few chuckles at her subordinate''s jesting. "What are the suit''s defensive capabilities? It appears to be made of leather."


    "The exterior is leather," I confirmed. "It was built from a set of motorcycle leathers among other durable fabrics, so I can promise that it will last. The suit is not stab proof, but it will protect the wearer from falls, road rashes, or regular punches and kicks. I could make the same with Kevlar or other materials but you''ll have to source the raw materials yourself."


    "Was there anything else you wanted to show us?"


    "Not as much, no," I shrugged. I certainly wasn''t going to reveal SAINT or my ability to code combat assistance AIs into the suit. The hacking suite that could pop open a pok¨¦ball was something else I decided to keep in reserve for the moment. It was too reliant on adapting to different codes and signals using SAINT''s own processors. If I wanted to give it out, I''d have to dumb it down a bit. "I haven''t had enough time to build much else, I''m afraid. That said, I will say that I am able to apply the principles of the suit to various other applications such as hidden doors or just the best 3D TV in the world."


    "Yes, can we?"


    "No, Newter."


    "Awww¡­ But, but, super-TV¡­" the boy drooped.


    "Is full body coverage necessary for your disguise function?"


    "Yes. If you want to use the texturing function of the Expansion Suit, you must not wear anything over it and you must cover all of you. The suit can compensate for relatively simple things like a backpack," I pointed to my own, "but the bigger it is, the more energy it consumes."


    She clicked her tongue in disappointment. "That''s a pity. My original intention was to give it to Newter as he is our most agile member, but he needs to be able to make skin contact with his opponents. What exactly is it powered by?"


    ''In my case, aura and hyper-efficient pok¨¦mon world techno-bullshit.''


    "If I made you one, it''d contain a tinkertech battery cell that can be charged with any conventional generator, or even a powerful enough electrokinetic. Are you interested in a suit for yourself? Or perhaps Labyrinth?" I tried. "A shaker of her caliber who could appear as she wishes could easily wander her territory with no hope of being found."


    "Tempting," she admitted. "For now, let''s consider the expanded bags. How much do you think they''re worth?"


    I laughed. I could see what she was doing. Tinkertech wasn''t like produce; there was no set price on tinkertech. With no frame of reference, a new tinker was likely to greatly devalue his own inventions. "Nice try, but I don''t want monetary compensation," I said.


    "Dude, did you just show up to show off?" Newter complained. "My super-TV¡­"


    "Your TV is fine the way it is," Faultline said tiredly. For all his abilities, Newter was still a teenage boy and sure as hell behaved like one. "I take it you want something other than money. A job?"


    "Hah, no, of course not. You haven''t fully established yourselves here," I pointed out. "Odds are, each of the cape factions in the Bay are going to poke at you until you make it clear that you''re only interested in using the Palanquin as a base. I don''t think you''ll be in any position to leave the Palanquin for a while and I don''t have anything that needs doing out of the city."


    "We won''t take any jobs inside of Brockton Bay," she warned.


    "I know, I know. I don''t want to hire you for a job. I want you to act as a go between so I can drop off my expanded bag and you can get what I need for me without arousing suspicion." I waved at my outfit. "I''m still a new tinker and ''low-key'' is the name of the game right now."


    "Prudent," she hummed.


    "That''s not all though. I''ll add expansions to one bag per member in exchange for two more favors: First, you will allow the use of the Palanquin as neutral meeting ground between me and any other faction. I negotiate with. Second, seeing how you purchased and refurbished the Palanquin, you clearly have contacts in real estate. I want you to help me buy an abandoned building for use as a lab, then hide the trail to the best of your abilities."


    "You want us to be your proxies."


    "Yes, at least until I fully establish myself. Four bags, three favors. Deal?"


    "The building is easy enough to arrange. I have some contacts, but they will have to know that you are associated with me. I would think that alone would be enough to pay for the tinkertech bags," she said. "You are not merely paying for abandoned real estate; you are paying for discretion and professionalism."


    I nodded easily. "Which is why the other two favors are all much more manageable. Occasionally send Newter on a shopping run. Occasionally provide neutral ground and ensure my safety in negotiations. Neither are stringent commitments."


    "That depends heavily on what your shopping list contains and who you negotiate with."


    "True, I would be willing to give you right of refusal for the use of the Palanquin as neutral ground on good faith. I just want the possibility to exist should it become necessary."


    She considered my proposal for a minute. "Very well, that is reasonable. I and my organization will help you acquire a lab discretely. We will also be available should you require resources that you cannot acquire on your own. We will consider allowing you the use of our headquarters as neutral meeting ground. What kind of real estate were you looking for? Do you require something the size of a shipping warehouse or something smaller?"


    I shook my head. I had ideas for a lab of my own, but at the moment, a second safehouse certainly wouldn''t hurt. "Not at this time. It''s possible that I may want to expand in the future, but I won''t need something so excessively large. A simple building, the more unremarkable the better, will be fine. I would like it to be as close to the Boardwalk as possible," I added. "The fewer reasons for active conflict with a gang, the better."


    "I''ll see what I can do. I should have a few options laid out for you in a few days."


    Author''s Note


    First contact! Kind of, not counting the initial Newter meeting. Funny thing, I''ve been looking for more detail on Elle/Labyrinth, but she''s an extremely vague character. I''m going to see if I can flush her out a bit more than "that autistic girl." As far as this story is concerned, she''s sixteen, two years older than Bryce. I''m going with sixteen based off of Mimi/Burnscar''s estimated age of late teens-early twenties. There isn''t really a reason for me thinking this, but I don''t think she''d be much younger than that.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 1.9 Wake

    <div>


    Wake 1.9


    2010, September 14: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    We were having breakfast before I had to head to school, cold cereal and bananas, when Sierra decided to make my life difficult.


    "Mom~" she sang, "Bryce has a girlfriend." I could almost see mom''s ears twitch with delight in the way only mothers and professional gossips could.


    "I do not," I tried to shut it down immediately.


    "He has a date to homecoming," Sierra grinned triumphantly. It was the smile of the cat that caught the canary.


    "It''s hardly a date. Neither of us enjoy crowds but are being forced to go by our friends, so we decided to go, as friends." I peeled a banana nonchalantly.


    "Oh, Bryce, I''m so proud of you!" mom squealed as she hugged me in a deathgrip. "Who''s the lucky girl?"


    "Nothing lucky about his, mom. What part of we''re being compelled to attend didn''t you hear?"


    "Does your suit still fit you? Will you be wearing matching colors?" She ignored me completely and started to fuss with my hair, as though the dance was right now instead of two weeks later.


    I swatted her hand away, thoroughly annoyed. I sent Sierra a glare that promised retribution as she savored my suffering like a glass of fine wine. "We don''t care. We''re just going to wear whatever''s on hand."


    Sierra paused, her spoonful of frosted nuggets halfway to her mouth. "You''re shitting me, little bro." She met my ambivalent gaze and sighed. "Of course you''re serious. Bryce, my bafflingly brilliant yet socially crippled baby bro, she cares. I don''t care what she told you. Trust me. She. Cares."


    I thought about Amy Dallon, the maker of titans. Most sexually frustrated lesbian in the world. Cataclysmic supernova of all the world''s fucks wrapped up in the shape of an angsty teenage girl. The greatest healer alive and the hero I respected most¡­


    ''What are the chances that Amy wants to be swept off her feet by me?'' I considered.


    Then I promptly burst out laughing so hard I spat some of my cereal milk into Sierra''s bowl.


    "Eww! Bryce! What the hell?" she shouted.


    "Ahahahahahaha¡­" I broke off wheezing. "Trust me. She doesn''t care. She''s probably planning on ditching me within the first hour. And frankly? I''m planning the same. Her ideal scenario is that I catch a cold or something so she can use the lack of a date as an excuse to not attend at all."


    "Bryce! Clean that up," mom chided, giving me the glare only a disappointed mother could. "And I don''t care what you and that poor girl said to each other. You will go to that dance. You will be a proper gentleman. And you will do your best to give her the night of her life. Understood?"


    I sighed but couldn''t help a grin. "What happened to ''lucky girl?'' Now she''s ''that poor girl?''" The withering glower mom sent me told me to stop pushing. There were just some fights that weren''t worth fighting. "Yes, mother," I grumbled obediently.


    "Good," she nodded in satisfaction. "Now, do you have a suit to wear?"


    "I''ll wear what I wore to dad''s funeral," I said solemnly. Even a month later, she didn''t like being reminded of dad. "It''s black. It goes well with anything."


    "Dear, you need a good shirt and tie as well."


    "And no, bro, black on black is not appropriate for anything outside of a funeral, even if that shirt is pretty good. Find out what color her dress is," Sierra said, "trust us, she''ll appreciate the effort even if she isn''t too pumped about the dance."


    "Fine," I acquiesced. "I suppose it couldn''t hurt to put in some effort."


    We ate our breakfast in silence for one blissful moment. Any hope I had for ending this line of discussion was however for naught. "So?"


    "So?" I arched a brow.


    "So who''s the lucky girl?"


    "She''s ''the lucky girl'' again?" I said wryly. "Make up your minds."


    "Bryce," Sierra let out a longsuffering sigh.


    "Amy Dallon."


    "Have we met her before?" mom asked, curious. "The name sounds familiar."


    Sierra''s expression of dawning realization was worth savoring. "Amy Dallon. Panacea, mom," she squeaked. "You have a date with Panacea? How?"


    I rolled my eyes. "Seriously, sis, you''ve got to get over your hero worship. And mom, Amy is a junior. I eat lunch with them. And yes, she''s best known as Panacea."


    "Oh, oh dear¡­ My boy''s first date is with a hero."


    "I keep telling you two that it''s not a date," I huffed. I picked up my now empty bowl and tossed the banal peel into the trash. "I''m one-hundred percent certain she''s gay."


    "She is?" Sierra asked, always down for some cape gossip.


    "Yup. Gayer than Legend at a pride rally. Actually, I''m pretty sure we have the same taste in women, appearance-wise anyway, so I guess we can bond over how hot we find people. Seriously, she''s getting dragged to homecoming by her sister and I happen to be the least objectionable guy she knows."


    "Seriously?"


    "Yes, and keep that bit of gossip to yourself. I don''t think she meant for me to know that."


    "Huh, that''s kinda neat. I have a friend¡­"


    ''Oh god, she''s not trying to set her up with Sabah, is she?'' I rolled my eyes. "No. You will not try to play matchmaker, especially when you''re not even supposed to know."


    "Wait, how do you know then?"


    "I have a really strong gay-dar," I lied and picked up my backpack before this interrogation could continue. "I''m going to school now."


    "Sure, have fun, dear," mom said. "Sierra, honey, can you drive Bryce over to Hillside and buy him a proper shirt and tie?"


    "I don''t mind playing dress-up with Bryce, but can it wait until tomorrow? I promised a friend we''d meet up." my sister said.


    "Great. And find out what color Amy is wearing to the dance!" she hollered after me. I shot them a thumbs up as I shuffled out the door.


    X


    Tuesdays and Thursdays started out with an hour and a half of physical education, a combination of homeroom and first period folded into one. Arcadia had an alternating schedule with hour-long periods on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday and hour and a half long periods on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Coach Miller, an unreasonably fit black man with a squat build and biceps bigger than my face, loomed over us with a wide grin.


    "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen," he said with a booming voice and a clap. I was pretty sure the guy was former Army. He addressed everyone as "lady" or "gentleman," even in casual conversation and offered us kids a lot more respect than most teachers did. That made him popular with more than just the varsity teams, but there was a way he carried himself, a confidence that many of us wished we could emulate, that screamed of formal training.


    His PE courses focused on a sport every month. He tended to start with common sports like basketball and soccer then transition to more unfamiliar sports like lacrosse or even archery as the year went on.


    "We will not be playing basketball today. We have state mandated fitness standards this morning." The field was filled with collective groans. "Yes, yes, we still need to do it so line up for the mile. Four laps around the track. Let''s go, let''s go!"


    He''d brought out the fully automated timer used by the track team.


    We kicked off with the crack of the starting gun and the sports team members easily pulled away. I was half a lap in when a vaguely familiar figure started to keep pace with me.


    "Hey," said the boy with blue hair. He stood a good half foot taller than me, not that that was all that difficult with my five-two frame. Like the rest of his family, he was unreasonably good looking, with a smile that could have featured in an Oral-B commercial. "Bryce, right?"


    ''Eric Pelham, Shielder, what does he want from me?'' I wondered. "Yeah, Eric, right?"


    "Mmhm, just wanted to say hi."


    Eric was an odd figure. Without question, he was the most popular person in freshman year for obvious reasons. When he dyed his hair blue in middle school, half the "cool kids" followed within the week. When he picked up mixed martial arts from his dad, kids started to replicate karate katas at recess. He was Regina George from Mean Girls, except not an unrepentant bitch.


    "What''s up?" I noticed how easy his breaths seem to come to him. "You don''t seem to be struggling."


    "Yeah, trust me. You can''t have Manpower as your dad and not exercise. Heard you were going to the dance with my cousin."


    ''Ah, that explains the sudden interest.''


    Eric and I knew each other from elementary school, but only ever as passing acquaintances. I was mentally too old to mindlessly follow the trendsetter and Eric was a kid who had better, more entertaining things to occupy himself with than the quiet kid who didn''t speak with anyone.


    Stolen novel; please report.


    "Have the rumors made their rounds already?" I asked. "Guess this is you giving me the third degree then."


    "Hah! Hardly. I''ll leave that to Vicky."


    "So what''s this then?"


    "Curiosity, I suppose. We''ve known each other since third grade but I don''t think I''ve ever really talked to you."


    "Nothing personal," I said. At the time, the powerless me didn''t want to get attached to a kid I knew was fated to die to Leviathan. "I don''t talk with most kids my age."


    "We noticed," he said. "And by ''we,'' I mean the whole school."


    "Oh?"


    "Come on, the quiet kid suddenly joins Vicky''s court and gets a date with Amy?" He chuckled briefly and I had to admit, it was pretty unlikely. "You caught a lot of people''s eyes. A lot of our year mates think you''re aloof, like you think you''re better than everyone."


    ''Fucking high school drama.'' I sighed. It wasn''t an unexpected outcome. Not entirely wrong either: I really didn''t give two fucks about my yearmates. "And what do you think? If I cared about what people thought of me, I''d spend time with them."


    He frowned. "I guess you are a bit aloof, though I don''t think it''s because you think you''re better than other people. I don''t know enough about you to say, but that''s why I''m talking to you." His frown turned into an easy grin. "So, want to hang out sometime?"


    "You''re an interesting guy. Maybe sometime later. I have some things I gotta work on this week."


    "Fair enough. Excited for the dance?"


    "Hardly," I scoffed. "Don''t believe the rumors. Amy and I aren''t going out. We''re going as friends because Vicky insisted on having her sister there."


    "Yeah, I figured it was something like that," he laughed lightly. "Don''t get me wrong, I''m not saying Amy can''t get a guy if she wanted, but she''s never seemed interested before."


    "We''re planning on sticking around for as long as is polite then fucking off to the Boardwalk or something for ice cream."


    "Hah, I might join you then. I''m going with this girl named Grace. Grace Kanda? Know her?"


    I took a deep breath to keep pace and wracked my brain for the name. "Err¡­ Kind of? I think I had seventh grade history with her. Isn''t she the girl with a pet iguana named Lung? Pretty sure she brought it to school once."


    "You remember that?"


    "Of course I do. I''m a loner, not blind. She''s got bigger balls than half us guys."


    "That''s what I said!" Eric crowed. He leaned in as if to whisper. "Don''t tell anyone, but she was the one who asked me out."


    "Doesn''t surprise me, she seems like a real spitfire. Cute, though. Congrats."


    "Thanks, I''m really looking forward to it."


    We kept our pace to finish with a respectable seven minute mile. Coach Miller gave us the stink eye though.


    Eric, despite his flamboyant appearance, was really fit; he''d always been one of the most athletic kids our age. Between Crystal''s gymnastics and his father''s¡­ Manpower¡­ he had a lot of pressure on his shoulders. Coach Miller knew for a fact that he could push out a sub-five minute mile if he wanted.


    After promising to hang out sometime, we went our separate ways, me to Mrs. Currie''s world issues class and Eric to freshman bio. But before that, I had a stop to make.


    X


    "Vicky, wait up." I stopped the blonde superheroine at her locker between first and second period.


    "Yeah? What''s up, Bryce?" she asked curiously. I wasn''t the type to socialize outside of lunch.


    "Can we talk? It''s about Amy," I said. "Does she have a dress yet?"


    "Oh, that," she brightened immediately, always happy to chat about her sister. "Yeah, she''s going to wear blue and white. It goes great with her hair, you know?"


    I smiled apologetically. "No, actually, I don''t know. I''ll take your word for it though."


    "Ugh, you two are perfect for each other," she griped.


    "I take it you picked out her dress?"


    "Yup, I''m wearing something similar with a lighter blue." She whipped out her phone. "Want to see?"


    "Not right now, but send me a picture of Amy''s dress so I can find a tie that matches," I said.


    "Hah! So you do care about the dance!"


    "Not really, but if I''m going, I want her to have a good time, you know?"


    She smiled sweetly and a part of me melted. "You''re a good guy, Bryce. Thanks."


    "No problem. Fair warning though, I''m going to try to get Amy to ditch the dance with me as soon as it becomes socially appropriate. Maybe go grab some ice cream. Dances aren''t my scene."


    "I thought you loved music."


    "I do. I play and edit for fun, but loud, heavy dance music that''s mostly just repetitive techno or pop don''t do it for me." I gave her a friendly punch on the shoulder. I found it easier to ignore the subconscious fluctuations in her aura if I treated her the way Dean treated Carlos. "Anyway, a picture of the dress was all I wanted. Later, V."


    "Sure, I''ll catch you at lunch."


    X


    PE and world issues were the only two classes I shared with my fellow freshmen, which meant I saw them only two days out of the week.


    Mrs. Currie was the opposite of Coach Miller. Where he was a young-ish man in his early thirties with muscles like he belonged in an Old Spice commercial, she was a skinny old woman in her fifties. Coach Miller looked like a tank, beefy and low to the ground. Mrs. Currie was a mousy five-two with a stooped back, the kind of woman who Wards helped across the street to pad their reps.


    She was nice for the most part, but had a condescending tone that made me feel like I was being talked down to. She also proudly declared herself a volunteer member of the Youth Guard''s Brockton chapter, something about putting into practice the things she taught. I usually made sure to sit at the back and keep quiet.


    "We''re going to be starting our year-long project," she said to the collective groaning of the class. "None of that. This class is called ''world issues'' and it would be remiss of me if I did not give you the chance to follow an ongoing issue in the world."


    She passed out a stapled worksheet thick enough to fill my classmates with dread. "You will select a topic of interest and submit it for my review. If you can''t find a topic you like, I will assign one for you. You have until end of the week to select the topic. You will then be expected to write a three page report on how that topic has evolved every two weeks, starting from the first Thursday of October. You will turn in these status reports on your topic of choice over the course of the year. Additionally, you will have two major presentations in which you will cover your findings and talk about how you think your topic will affect the world at large, one in early December and one in May. These are large portions of your grade. Any questions, children?"


    "Mrs. Currie, can we choose anything?" a short redhead spoke up from the front of the class.


    "Raise your hand, Kyle," she chided. "And no, you may not simply choose any topic. That is why I am having you present your topic to me for approval. If you decide to follow Legend''s love life, Myrddin''s insistence that his parahuman power is magic, or some other nonsense, I will assign one for you. I want you kids to enjoy the project, but the topics of interest should be things with more substance than idle gossip."


    Another hand went up, this time from a dark-skinned girl with a distinct Jamaican accent. Brenda or Briana or something like that. "Yeah, can we just choose cape life in the city?"


    "No," she cut that line of questioning. "I want you to look outside of Brockton Bay for this. This class is called ''world issues'' and I expect you to broaden your horizons. Yes, Hannah, dear?"


    "Can we work with someone else?" she asked hopefully. I could see half the class perk up at that, eyeing friends.


    Mrs. Currie considered it for a moment, then nodded. "If two or more people submit the same topic, and if the topic is significantly complex as to warrant a partner or two, I will consider it."


    "Yes!" Hannah high-fived a girl across from her.


    I scribbled the first topic that came to mind: Bad Canary''s trial.


    With my metaknowledge added to ongoing news reports, the subject should be simple enough to report on. It would hopefully get some of these kids to question what they saw in the news. And best of all, being such a dense topic, it was unlikely that anyone else would want to cover it with me.


    X


    At lunch, I found Chelsea and Stephanie huddled over our table, whispering furiously to each other.


    "Just do it," I heard Chelsea whisper.


    Dennis and I looked at each other before the redhead shrugged and sat down. He made sure to clack his tray on the table louder than strictly necessary. "You know, ladies, your whispering isn''t as quiet as you think it is."


    "Well ignore us and eat your pizza," Stephanie said.


    "Bold of you to call this pizza. It''s more¡­stale cardboard with red sauce and cheese."


    I couldn''t help myself. "Stale, cheesy, with a bit of red on top, a relative of yours?"


    "Oww, why do you do this to me, Bryce? I thought we were friends?"


    "We are, this is how I show affection," I assured him with a comforting smile. I then turned to face the girls. "Well? What''s up? You two have been whispering like you''re trying to keep a secret since yesterday."


    "I''m going to tell him."


    "Chels, no!" Stephanie cried.


    "Oh come on, maybe a guy''s opinion is what you need."


    Judging by the flighty look on Stephanie''s face, I quickly decided I wanted no part of this. "On second thought, I don''t need to hear it. Steph doesn''t look happy with you, Chels."


    "Oh, fine. But I think you should do it," the blonde told her best friend. "You''ve got nothing to lose."


    "Is this about homecoming? I bet it''s about homecoming," Vicky joined us. She made sure to sit with Dean on her right and Amy on her left, unsubtly pushing her sister next to me.


    "Yo," I greeted the trio.


    "Hey, Bryce, how''s it going?" Dean said with his usual friendly smile.


    "Not bad, but getting a bit fed up with all the homecoming talk," I said honestly. "I get that it''s a big thing, but it''s all anyone talks about."


    "Well what do you want to talk about then?"


    "Any cape news lately?" I tried. "PHO''s been blowing up about a new mercenary group in town."


    "That''s what you''re interested in?" Stephanie asked incredulously. "How about the new Ward? Shadow Stalker?"


    ''Huh, I hadn''t noticed. Guess Sophia got caught.'' I took a bite of some hummus and carrots.


    "I don''t know about her," I said cautiously. "I''ve heard some bad things about her floating around."


    "There are negative rumors about every new hero," Carlos defended, speaking up for the first time. "Her dark outfit doesn''t help, but I''m sure she means well."


    "It''s not just that she looks intimidating. There''s a Ward called Flechette in New York who literally carries an arbalest almost as tall as she is. I''m pretty sure she used to carry a sword too when she first debuted. No, there''s something up with Shadow Stalker and it''s more than just the crossbow."


    "We''ll have to see how she does, but I think having more heroes is always a good thing."


    "Yeah, I think Brockton''s going to get dangerous in the next year or so. There''s a new villain group that''s been committing heists, something about a smoke guy," I warned the Wards. I knew for a fact that the Undersiders were formed sometime in July so I figured two months was long enough for word to have spread. "Add in Faultline''s Crew setting up shop in the city and a new loose cannon of a Ward and things are about to get interesting."


    "How do you know all this, Bryce?" Victoria asked. "Really, I don''t think even I keep tabs on them this much."


    "I''m a nerd," I said with a nonchalant shrug. "Being an internet troll is a hobby of mine. Besides, you know how some people write music scores for movies and stuff? I kind of want to try that. I sometimes look at interesting events involving capes to see if I can get any inspiration. Was super bummed about Canary''s arrest, too."


    "I swear, one of these days, I want to hear your stuff," she said.


    "Someday," I hummed noncommittally. ''Someday when I bother to make something that isn''t a ripoff of something else.''


    Eventually, talks turned back to the dance, dates, and something about a homecoming court that I didn''t pay attention to. Amy and I looked at each other and mutually rolled our eyes as Vicky extolled the virtues of the high school social pyramid. Judging by the knowing smile Dean shot us, that might have been his plan.


    ''Stupid empathic social engineers¡­''


    Whatever Chelsea and Stephanie were planning, Steph agreed to do it. Victoria told us that we would meet at her house with Eric, and her mom would drive us to the dance.


    Author''s Note


    When I started this fic, I didn''t mean to make high school such a big part of it. It just kind of happened. Not mad though, I realize it''s a bit heavy on school life stuff, but I don''t think there''s enough depiction of healthy, non-powers-related relationships in the Worm fandom. I''m just putting some weight on the other side of the scale.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 1.10 Wake

    Wake 1.10


    2010, September 14: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    "How was your day?" I asked as I closed the door behind me. My computer monitor turned itself on, revealing SAINT''s blocky, pastel face. I shrugged off my backpack and tossed it to a corner before flopping face down onto the bed.


    "Pory," I heard a soft trill as he emerged from the screen. "Gon?"


    I felt a twinge in our bond. Concern mixed with curiosity. He was like that, always wanted to know more about human interactions, these tricky things called emotions that defied standardized equations. Flipping through the screen, I saw that Magnet Rise was approximately seventy-two percent finished, my fifth move.


    "No, nothing terrible happened or anything. I''m just not a fan of school is all."


    "Reee?" He nudged me with his nose. It felt like cold plastic.


    "Why do I attend? That''s a complicated question. You know that my soul is older than my body, right?" I flipped over to face my friend. I''d told him about me; SAINT was the only fully reliable confidant I had. "Well, no one else knows that so everyone expects me to do the things that are important for this body''s development. A school is a place to learn and grow, to socialize and develop skills a human child needs to become a productive member of society. I''ve already been through it once so it''s a little boring, and if I''m being honest, a little lonely."


    "Porygon. Po-ry."


    "I can''t tell people," I said. "To start, no one would believe me. I just have to put up with it. Besides, I have you." I held his plastic head in my hands and gave him a good scratch. It was weird how much he liked that despite the lack of any sensitive nerves as far as I could tell.


    "Pory¡­ gon," he chirped, telling me about his day.


    From what I understood, Magnet Rise was giving him some trouble. It was special among electric type moves in that the pok¨¦mon needed to do more than generate an electrical charge; they needed to actively sense magnetic currents throughout their surroundings and adjust their own polarity before using it to fly.


    Complicated, to say the least. Porygon did it somewhat instinctively to a degree, though not nearly as well as a magnemite. I suspected I''d need a lot of practice before I could pretend to be Magneto. More than likely, the best I''d manage for quite some time would be a controlled glide, or maybe a boost to jumping if I''m lucky.


    One of the videos I''d left to him was a video of Manpower adjusting his electromagnetic field to deflect bullets. SAINT hovered in the center of the room and concentrated, causing my metal pen to float to him.


    "That''s wonderful, buddy," I praised him. "I''m proud of you."


    "Pory!"


    I rewarded SAINT with some well-deserved snacks and got to work.


    During world issues, I''d thought about my hypothesis for SAINT''s learning rate. If SAINT found moves with the same type easier to learn, it stood to reason that he should change types. Porygon were one of the most versatile pok¨¦mon out there with a signature move known as Conversion that allowed them to change types to whichever move they experienced last.


    "SAINT, use Conversion," I said randomly.


    He was halfway through slurping up some cashews, but complied anyway. He was covered in white light that divided itself into pixels. When the pixels scattered, he looked at me with a dead-eyed stare. "Reee¡­"


    "Right, you''re a normal type and you became a normal type. Duh," I facepalmed. "Sorry, give me a sec." I focused for a moment and Thunder Wave sparked in my hands. Reaching out, I gave him the briefest of jolts. He could have resisted it but allowed the status move to take hold. "Okay, now try Conversion." The same pixelated light covered him. When it faded, he¡­ still looked the same. "Are you an electric type now?"


    "Pory!" he cheered. He demonstrated his newfound affinity for electricity by lifting my desk lamp, pens, and belt buckles simultaneously.


    "Cool. I was thinking, you might have an easier time learning electric moves if you yourself are an electric type. Can you try this out tomorrow?"


    "Gon," he agreed with an enthusiastic chirp. His floating was much faster now.


    I loaded up several moves I wanted him to try learning tomorrow: Thunder Shock and its more powerful version, Thunderbolt joined the queue. Then came the all-powerful Zap Cannon and the perfectly accurate Shock Wave. I didn''t know which of these would be simplest for him to learn, so I left him instructions to try a bit of everything and work on what felt most comfortable.


    Once the queue was squared away, I got to tinkering for the evening; those expanded bags wouldn''t make themselves.


    Thinking back on my deal with Faultline, I was impressed by her generosity.


    A retail space like I asked for typically cost tens of thousands of dollars, especially in a good location, and that was to rent by the year, not purchase. Granted, my definition of "good" was just "anywhere I''m not likely to be disturbed," but the point stood. Space away from the gangs would be pricey. She was also using her connections to ensure confidentiality by acting as my proxy, a service worth thousands on its own. All told, it wouldn''t be strange for Faultline to charge me upwards of sixty grand and she''d settled for four expanded bags instead.


    Depending on what she ferried around, I could see her making that much money back in three or four jobs, but I somehow doubted that she would be willing to lug around hundreds of pounds of high quality cocaine. At the end of the day, she was going through a lot of trouble to cater to me, for equipment I considered basic.


    ''Or more likely, she wants to keep a good relationship with the new tinker and decided that eating the cost of getting me lab space was worth it if she could claim priority on any commissions in the future.''


    Nonetheless, I resolved to cut her some deals in the future. A woman who could think forward was a rarity among capes, one I wanted in my corner. I got done making the first of four bags and put the rest aside for later. I was never good at repetitive busywork.


    ''Can I build anything else that Faultline would be interested in buying?''


    The answer to that was a resounding yes. With so much material repurposed from the junkyard, I wasn''t lacking in resources either. I could always use industrial grade forges, distillers, lathes, and whatnot, but that would always be the case. Tools to build more tools to build more tools and all that.


    I idly browsed my DSS inventory while I contemplated what I''d offer her next. Several minutes later, I decided that if she commissioned a disguise cloak from me in the future, and that seemed likely given her preference for precise operations, then she could really benefit from my hacking suite as well.


    I started by taking several discarded flip phones and pagers and reworking them completely. They lacked many of the functionalities of my Pok¨¦Nav, but I didn''t need them to be digital Swiss army knives. They weren''t even phones by the time I was done with them.


    Instead, I completely emptied their hard drives until I had husks of scrap. The blank drives were filled with an isolated version of the hacking suite native to my Expansion Suit. They wouldn''t be able to disable electronics at a distance like Essentia could do to pok¨¦balls. The suite in my suit could be taken over by SAINT to adapt to systems that changed their passcodes real time, but these could not. The absence of an electrokinetic AI meant they wouldn''t work on tinkertech, nor on anything that wasn''t an electronic lock.


    They were crude and worked by gauging how many characters belonged in a password before brute forcing every permutation at one-point-two billion passwords per second. After all, there were only ninety-four numbers, letters, and symbols on a standard keyboard.


    These, I named "bug boxes." Using all the phones and pagers I scavenged from the junkyard got me four of them.


    X


    2010, September 15: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    Wednesday found me with a fat grin on my face. I learned Magnet Rise. More importantly, I was proven correct. Conversion was a valid strategy.


    Not only had SAINT picked up Magnet Rise, he was well on his way to mastering Shock Wave, the electric type version of Swift. I was tempted to rush him so I could learn Zap Cannon, but in the end, I stopped myself. After Magnet Rise, I decided not to download any more moves into my brain. I wasn''t full or anything; there wasn''t a blue notification screen that popped up to tell me I couldn''t learn more moves.


    And yet, I could feel each download straining. The sensation was hard to describe, a feeling instead of concrete knowledge. My aura, for lack of a better word, felt ragged, like a sweater made to stretch too far. It could be perfectly healthy, a spiritual muscle-ache after rigorous exercise. Or, it could be my body and soul telling dumbfuck me to stop pushing my luck.


    Caution seemed wise; the TM library would be there later.


    Besides, I didn''t want to be the magic equivalent of a mall ninja, the kind of idiot who carried a dozen weapons but didn''t know how to use a single one.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    Before I left for school, Sierra told me she''d pick me up from school to go shopping for a shirt and tie. There was some obligatory grumbling, but I''d long since resigned myself to my sister''s tender mercies. I jogged to school and took a shower there in lieu of my normal morning run.


    X


    "Bryce, over here," I heard my sister shout from the front of the school. Her Ford Focus was parked just outside the range of the faraday cage. I approached and made to get in the front seat but she rolled down the window to reveal a familiar brunette.


    "Hey, Sabah, my sis dropping you off somewhere?" I greeted the gentle girl. She looked a bit off from when I saw her the other day. It was hard to tell from a distance due to her dark skin, but there were definite bags under her eyes.


    "No, I''m coming with you to the mall," she said with a small smile.


    "You sure? You look tired."


    "Sabah''s in need of a bit of retail therapy and she''s great with fashion so she''s going to be helping you pick out a shirt and tie," Sierra chirped. She sounded cheerful, but she made eye contact with me through the rear-view mirror. "When she''s done with you, you''ll be the best dressed guy there."


    "Yay, I get to be the dress-up doll today," I said, sarcasm dripping like honey. ''Is her dad starting to get sick? Or maybe something else?''


    "Don''t give me that, Sabah''s amazing, I promise."


    "I''d be honored to receive her help. It''s you I''m afraid of."


    "Oi! What''s wrong with me?"


    "Ginger. Dreadlocks."


    "Let it go already. I''m not changing my hairdo because you think it''s weird."


    I could hear soft giggling from the front as Sierra pulled out of the parking lot. "Tell her, Sabah," I said. "She looks ridiculous, right?"


    "I don''t, right, Sabs?"


    "No comment."


    "Hah!" we both shouted. "Jinx! Jinx! Jinx the third!"


    Sabah''s giggling turned into full blown laughter at our antics and I saw my sister mouth a "thank you" through the mirror. I sent her a cheesy thumbs up and a wink.


    Not ten minutes later, we pulled into the mall in front of For the Gentleman, a boutique specializing in formal wear and some business casual dress. "So, what are we looking for?" Sierra asked. "You did remember to get a picture of her dress, right?"


    "Of course I did. Sabah, what''s your number? I''ll send it to you too." We made our way into the store and made a beeline for the shirts. I saw Sierra pull some off the shelf, seemingly at random. "Do you even know my sizes?"


    "Yeah, mom texted it to me. Now go to the dressing room. You remember how to tie a tie?"


    "Yes," I said, eyes rolling. Nonetheless, I complied when I saw Sabah''s eyes light up with interest. I wouldn''t say she became a whole different person, but there was pep in her step that wasn''t there before we entered the boutique, a liveliness that only the truly passionate seemed to have.


    Five minutes later, I was wearing a generic white shirt with a deep blue tie. I stepped out of the dressing room for inspection. "So, how do I look, Sabs?"


    "I''m just chopped liver, huh?" Sierra grumbled.


    "Again. Ginger. Dreads."


    Sabah ignored our banter and gave me a once-over, her phone with a picture of Amy''s dress out for comparison. She reached around behind my neck and adjusted my tie, ending at the small triangle knot with a swift tug that pulled the whole thing tighter. "No, this won''t do," she said. "Bryce, you''re too short. The tie is going to look long. The color is a little too light, too. I think it could use some designs maybe? How do you feel about some patterns to liven up the outfit?"


    Her usual shy reservation was nowhere to be found and I marveled at the girl who would one day be Parian. One day, this girl would have the power to wrestle Behemoth. One day, she would be a major pillar of the strongest faction in this city. It was honestly a bit hard to reconcile the two images I had of her. Parian didn''t have the same gravitas as Skitter, but she definitely wasn''t just nobody either.


    "I''ll defer to your expert opinion," I responded with a smile.


    Her expert opinion turned out to be a white shirt with silver accents and a navy-blue tie that matched Amy''s dress perfectly. The tie was decorated with stars embossed in white and silver thread that made it seem a bit less stuffy. She also included a matte black clip of some sort.


    "This is a tie clip. It''s meant to keep your tie attached to your shirt and goes between the third and fourth buttons, like so." She put it on me, a bar of solid black that helped break up the pattern of my tie. "Since your suit is pitch black, it''ll complement your outfit and make sure your tie isn''t flopping everywhere while you dance."


    Meanwhile, Sierra grabbed a gaudy lapel pin and a black jacket meant for size comparisons. "Think this would look good on him?" The pin was a painfully bright red rose with petals that ended in brass tips. "It''s pretty."


    I could see Sabah try not to laugh. "If he were a lot older and wearing a white suit, maybe. A lapel pin should complement the tie, or his partner''s dress. It should draw the eye but not be so large or ostentatious as to become a novelty item. A rose with gold flecks is just a novelty."


    "Yeah, sis, do you want me to get beat up at the dance? I''ll look like a peacock if I wear that."


    "It''s not that bad," she pouted.


    "It''s not," Sabah soothed her bruised pride. She then walked over to the gallery of accessories and picked one out. "Something like this would be better though." Her choice was half the size of the rose, a white butterfly with bright blue wingtips. "Normally, you want to match the tie, but because the tie is dark blue and your suit is black, a dark blue lapel pin would just blend into the suit and go unnoticed. Something brighter to break up all that black is good here so we''ll match the shirt instead."


    "Again, I defer to your wisdom," I bowed. "How about cufflinks? Do I need those?"


    She shook her head. "This is homecoming, not a wedding or gala. Cufflinks were made for shirts that didn''t have sleeve buttons of their own, but are now just fancy accessories worn at black tie events. If you don''t need a tux, you don''t need cufflinks. Technically, you don''t need a lapel pin either, but I like the butterfly on you."


    "Sweet, so are we done?"


    She must have heard the audible relief in my tone because her eyes gained a distinctly mischievous glint. "You can set aside the things you want to buy. I don''t get a male model to dress up often though," she hummed.


    I snatched the clothes and made for the cashier but my sister dragged me back by the back of my shirt. "Come on, Bryce. Don''t you think you should repay Sabah for her ''expert opinion?''" she asked with a sickeningly sweet voice.


    I glanced pleadingly at one of the salespeople, but he shook his head with a sad grin and powerwalked away. Traitorous asshole. "Fine¡­" I sighed, resigned to my fate.


    X


    After a long day of being Sabah''s dress-up doll, a part of me wanted to just turn in to bed but I persevered. Midnight found me leaping through the rooftops as Creed.


    I headed to the Boat Graveyard, body glowing with the light of Agility. The move came a bit easier each time I used it and maybe it was my imagination, but I was getting faster.


    Admittedly, the Graveyard was a bit clich¨¦; new capes were always said to head over there to test their powers, but it wasn''t like I could fire off Thunder Waves at home either. That was begging for a blackout. A part of me was worried about getting camped at the Graveyard, but I reassured myself that I had plenty of powers, more than most capes. All else failed, I had SAINT in the Pok¨¦Nav acting as my assistant and surprise combatant. An Agility-boosted, Sharpened Tackle would wreck almost anyone''s day.


    Considering the capes I could possibly run into, I figured I was as safe as I could reasonably be, definitely safer than the Queen of Escalation on her first night.


    Despite my misgivings, I made it to the Graveyard without meeting anyone.


    Looking around, I got a bright idea.


    Instead of settling on a boat that could be walked to from the harbor, I used a combination of Magnet Rise and SAINT''s floating body as support to find a tanker that jutted out of the water like an island. The one I settled on was a hair longer than two hundred meters, or six hundred fifty-six feet, small-ish for a tanker.


    It was named the Gullrest. A quick google search on SAINT''s part revealed that it wasn''t even used to transport oil; it was instead a freight transport used to move goods up and down the Atlantic coastline.


    "This thing wouldn''t make a bad base, eh, SAINT? It''s isolated and defensible. Might have some trouble moving goods to and from here though, but I guess that''s what the DSS is for," I mused.


    Putting my thoughts aside, I headed inside the ship.


    The interior reminded me of several warehouses; with each door left open from when the shipping companies emptied it of valuables. There were a few bits of leftover machinery here and there, but they were long since rusted over, good for little more than recycling.


    Inside one of those wide open storage spaces, I set up a crude shooting range made of bits of scrap metal and concrete.


    "SAINT, I''m going to try firing a Thunder Wave by myself. Then, I want you to assist me with the targeting suite in the Expansion Suit. Record all tries so we can get an idea of my accuracy with and without your help."


    I heard his trilling assent in my speakers. This would be my first time trying to launch a ranged attack. I felt a bit nervous. Spreading my legs, I braced myself in an estimation of a stable stance and held my hand outward. "Thunder Wave," I called.


    I felt my aura answer like an eager puppy, jittery in a way Agility wasn''t, and flow through my hand. A bright orb of shimmering gold formed at the tip of my fingers. I formed a gun with my fingers and braced with the other hand. I didn''t need to; it wasn''t as though I received some innate instructions from the TM to pose. It just felt right, comfortable. Perhaps I''d been watching too many cop dramas.


    Then, the moment passed and the marble of condensed electrical aura fired. It wasn''t a lance or laser, that implied a concentrated attack and it was anything but. Instead, it was an arc of electricity that spread out for a moment before becoming drawn to where I was aiming as though my fingers were a stormcloud and the target was the ground. The arc of electricity shot out and struck the aluminum plate I''d set up as a target, only to fizzle into the surroundings harmlessly.


    "Kind of hard to see how much damage I''m doing against metal," I muttered.


    I decided to set even smaller targets at several paces. Five one dollar bills were taped to scrap pieces and stood at varying distances. One by one, I took my shot unaided by the targeting suite.


    I hit the closest bill square on George Washington''s nose. The second landed near his collar. The third only barely clipped the edge of the bill and I missed the furthest two targets.


    "Well, shit. Okay, SAINT. Activate the targeting suite please."


    "Porygon," I heard him nod.


    My HUD faded into a burnt orange before flickering back to normal colors, all save the dollar bills. The targets were clearly marked in neon blue. I raised my finger and took aim again, only to find that a burnt orange dot, brighter than anything else and providing lovely contrast with the blue, followed my aim. It felt almost like playing a shooting game.


    Pity that I was never very good at those.


    Still, this time, I was able to hit all five with ease. With the enhanced abilities of the suit and a targeting software to guide me, it''d have been embarrassing to do anything less. Frankly, if this was the kind of help the Expansion Suit gave Emma, it certainly explained how some random orphaned street rat could react to champion-tier pok¨¦mon well enough to command them in battle.


    We continued on with target practice for an hour and a half before moving on to training my Protect. I still exhausted myself with only a few Tackles from SAINT, but my aura pool, if it could be called that, seemed to refill as quickly as my stamina. I found it much like running a sprint, taking a breather, then running again.


    Author''s Note


    Fun fact: Modern computers can test anywhere from 10,000 to 1 billion passwords per second. Bryce''s tinkertech is a bit better and doesn''t even need to be plugged in.


    I''m honestly having more fun writing the slice of life moments like Sabah helping to pick out Bryce''s shirt, than I am the cape moments sometimes. It''s weird, but scenes just write themselves. You''d be surprised at how much fashion knowledge you can pick up living in DC and wearing a suit for much of your professional life (pre-COVID).


    Yah, I rolled for the Graveyard too. Lucky too, because I honestly would have thrown everything from a few Merchants to Oni Lee at him.


    Moves known by Bryce: Protect, Recover, Agility, Thunder Wave, Magnet Rise


    Moves known by SAINT: Tackle, Conversion, Sharpen, Protect, Recover, Agility, Thunder Wave, Magnet Rise, Shock Wave


    Moves in SAINT''s queue: Thunderbolt, Zap Cannon, Lock-On, Tri-Attack(?), Ice Beam(?), Psychic(?)


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 1.11 Wake

    Wake 1.11


    2010, September 16: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    Becoming an electric type using Conversion really helped SAINT pick up new moves of the same type far faster. He already had a good grasp of Shock Wave and the bare bones of Thunderbolt. Perhaps it was because most electric type moves had the same foundation and he could simply retread old ground. Or, our relationship was improving and he was growing faster because of it. Or maybe he just really liked sugar-crusted nuts.


    Who could say where pok¨¦mon were concerned?


    I stumbled through school with bleary eyes, barely aware of my surroundings. My friends were somewhat concerned but I waved them off with an excuse about Mrs. Currie''s yearlong project that I studied for. I did send a picture of my suit to the Dallon sisters so Vicky would get off both our backs about coordinating outfits.


    After school, I hadn''t taken four steps away from Arcadia when my phone rang.


    "Hello?"


    "You''re a hard man to get a hold of," Faultline''s crisp voice rang through my headphones. That was enough to bring me to full attention. My Pok¨¦Nav, disguised as my phone, wasn''t something that could be hacked or traced traditionally so I wasn''t worried about wiretapping, at least from my end. If Faultline was satisfied with safety on her end, I''d trust her.


    "What can I say? I''m a model student. You wouldn''t deprive an impressionable youth like me of his compulsory education, would you?"


    "Yes, impressionable youths often make deals with mercenaries," she said dryly. She got straight to business. "I have three locations my contact can get you on short notice. They''re places I considered before setting up the Palanquin that haven''t been sold yet."


    "Great, I''m on my way home. Can you brief me and send the files to my email?"


    "Not worried about security?"


    I laughed. "No, no I''m not. I code in a completely separate language. My computer speaks Swahili and yours speaks Italian. Besides the translator included into my tech, there isn''t a frame of reference to even begin a hacking attempt. I guess Dragon could figure something out if she was forced to? But that says more about Dragon than anything."


    The benefit of having systems designed to house a porygon was that my servers functioned on rules and algorithms alien to anything found on Earth-Bet. The sheer unfamiliarity of my systems, computer and Pok¨¦Nav both, would make it all but impervious to standard Trojans and viruses.


    "That for sale?"


    "Negotiable," I teased. "So, brief?"


    "The first is a warehouse six blocks north of my club. It used to belong to a ship repair company specializing in smaller fishing vessels. Before I settled on a club, I considered having a seafood restaurant and bar. It''s sixteen thousand square feet of floorspace divided into two floors."


    "The size is nice, but probably a bit flashier than I need right now."


    "That''s what I thought, too. It was also a bit too deep into Merchant turf for me to consider it. It''s not a hotspot, but I''ve seen them crawling about."


    "Well what''re my other options?" I had the Gullrest. Strictly speaking, I didn''t need a safehouse and second lab so I was ready to decline if I didn''t like them.


    "The second is a small house, two thousand five hundred feet, located near the Towers. It''s a safe neighborhood, but Empire turf."


    "Hard pass," I said as I strolled down a side street. "I don''t want to set up too close to the Empire. They''re the ones I''d have the hardest time running from."


    "The last one is three blocks away from Brockton College and five from Hillside. It used to be an old corner store that went out of business when the mall went up. Five thousand feet with a basement and second floor."


    "Isn''t the college New Wave''s turf?"


    "As far as I can tell, yes. They don''t patrol much so that shouldn''t be a problem. I want to set up a business front while you take the basement for your workshop. No cape business, at least officially, so no reason for any heroes to snoop."


    "Sounds like you have plans for it already."


    ''Whoever "owns" the place will likely be keeping tabs on me. Is this worth it?''


    "How do you feel about a bar?" This was the first hint of excitement I heard from her. "I have some connections in the restaurant industry and I wouldn''t mind another method to launder money."


    "Why not just keep it a drugstore? That way, sourcing materials for me would be easier, right?"


    "It would," she agreed, "but a store like that has already failed in this location. My contact would look suspicious if he opened up a drugstore in a location that''s already failed at it."


    "No investor wants to repeat a proven failure."


    "Exactly. So, do you prefer a bar or a caf¨¦? We would be catering to the college crowd either way."


    "Either should be fine then. I have no preference."


    "Bar it is. It''s easier for me since I already own one. You wouldn''t believe what they charge for a liquor license these days."


    "And keeping tabs on your new tinker buddy has nothing to do with this new business venture?"


    "Of course it does," she scoffed. "You represent a significant investment of both my time and resources. Isn''t it natural that I want to know how you develop?"


    "I''ll check it out tonight," I promised. "I should have an answer for you tomorrow."


    X


    2010, September 17: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    Early Friday, just a hair past midnight, I toured each of the three sites.


    The warehouse that used to repair ships was tempting. A part of me felt that I could take on any questing Merchants. Then I reminded myself that despite their hilarious incompetence, they were dangerous. They weren''t dangerous because they were powerful, but because they were unpredictable. Drugs could make anything seem like a good idea and with a tinker of their own and the element of surprise, even the most bullshit ideas could potentially succeed. The Archer''s Bridge Merchants were the definition of failing successfully.


    There was also the fact that if I ended up fighting the Merchants, staying under everyone''s radar would become impossible. Right now, I was counting on Faultline''s professionalism and mercenary greed to keep my presence a secret.


    Simply put, she wouldn''t sell me out without good cause and no one knew about my existence to try to buy my location from her. The possibility of monopolizing a potent tinker''s contracts was too tempting. On the other hand, a large warehouse like this one wasn''t exactly subtle. It''d draw in Merchants, who would then in turn act like fireflies that attract bigger dangers.


    The space was tempting, but I moved on.


    I completely dismissed the house near the Towers. If I remembered right, Purity lived nearby. While she herself wasn''t much of a danger on her own, she had a soft spot for white children and no reason to attack me, her mere presence meant heavy Nazi patrols. Judging by the obsessive, controlling behavior Max was known for, I figured it''d be best to assume that area was under constant observation.


    The house was both too small and too risky.


    That left the last option, a corner store near the college. I sailed across the rooftops, leaping from a ventilator to the top of a light pole using the ambient electricity to glide with Magnet Rise. This kind of flight was hard. I wasn''t very fast, hardly faster than running, but the sense of weightlessness thrilled me nonetheless. It took me only seven minutes to make the distance, the wonders of straight lines.


    The location was, as Faultline pointed out, perfect for a small bar. I had no idea how much renovations would cost, but that wasn''t any of my business.


    The corner store, Harvey''s Drugstore apparently, was an old school brick building that stood two stories tall. It looked like it was built during the Revolutionary War, with occasional touch-ups every few decades. The roof was sloped and shingled in a way that suggested it had been a house at one point, or was built back before commercialized retail spaces all had squared and flattened concrete roofs.


    It wasn''t exactly hard to sneak in. Unlike Good Neighbor''s warehouse, the place was actively registered for sale, being in a safe neighborhood made realtors hold out hope, so there was an electrical lock attached to the place. I landed behind a gas station and used the texturing function to disguise myself, a nondescript, middle aged white man in canvas work clothes and a high visibility jacket. Hopefully, I''d look like some poor construction worker or property manager with a late night.


    The electric lock required a passcode input into a generic number pad. "SAINT, can you crack this?"


    This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    "Reee," his trill was curt, almost offended that I dared think a measly four digit combination could stump him. He activated the hacking suite without my say so and the lock popped open before I could even reach for the handle.


    "You''re the best," I said, soothing his ego. I closed the door behind me gently and turned on the lights. If anyone saw me enter, it''d be suspicious if I started sneaking around like a thief.


    It looked more or less like a drugstore, or a 7-Eleven if all the shelves were emptied. There was a counter that divided the ground floor in half, the front for customers and the back for employees and incoming stock. Everything was varnished wood, from the floors to the shelves, giving the place an old-timey feel. I assumed that if I accepted, the counter would be repurposed into a bar.


    I walked upstairs to find what used to be a studio apartment. It was carpeted with pristine cream carpet and even boasted an in-unit washer and dryer, something the realtor insisted on to jack up the price no doubt.


    The basement was basically a copy of the studio upstairs, without the appliances or carpeting. It was just plain concrete with a row of shelves on one end. I wasn''t an expert, but I''d guess both the studio and basement to take up a thousand square feet each, leaving three thousand or so for the business area. It''d be a very small bar, but I supposed it didn''t matter. What mattered was my basement, my lab space.


    I looked around and tried to imagine all the equipment I could cram in here. It wouldn''t be pretty. It''d be a little crowded. In anyone else''s hands, it might even be a safety hazard, but I was a tinker. ''I can do it,'' I thought, and that was when I knew I''d accept Faultline''s offer.


    "SAINT, dial Faultline, please."


    The phone rang for only a moment before her stern voice filled my ears.


    "Faultline speaking."


    "Creed," I answered the unasked question. "It''s about Harvey''s. I checked it out. I want the basement."


    "Good to hear," she said, pleased. "It will take roughly two week to remodel the place into a restaurant layout, another week to get approval for safety, sanitation, and liquor."


    I winced. "That''s longer than I''d expected. Any way we can rush that?"


    "I understand you''re eager for your lab, but no, not unless you have money to grease palms. It''s best to do things legally in this case anyway. We want as few insinuations about illegal activities as possible."


    "Fine, you''re the expert. Do you have a plan for the studio upstairs?"


    "The owner will be a long-time partner of mine, the same man who set me up with the Palanquin. He operates a real estate management firm out of Buffalo, New York so he won''t be in the city."


    I shut off the lights and exited the building before ducking behind the same gas station parking lot to remove my disguise. Floating to the rooftop, I continued. "Is that good or bad?"


    "It has its advantages. On the downside, we''ll have to be responsible for all maintenance and repair. The advantage is that the studio will go unused, a safe house if either you or one of mine needs it. Fair?"


    "Fair. You said three weeks," I said. "Could I get you to help me acquire some equipment for my lab during that time? Order something of mine while you find yourself a walk-in fridge and restaurant quality dishwasher or something?"


    "Maybe," she said cautiously, "no promises. I would want to be compensated for my troubles. Our deal was for lab space, not for equipment."


    "Point," I conceded easily. "I didn''t mean for free. I''m going to drop by and run a few ideas by you if you don''t mind."


    "Come through the back," she hung up.


    X


    2010, September 17: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    Compared to my Thursday night/Friday morning activities, school was a chore. I''d left the Palanquin yesterday with an agreement for the newly named Harvey''s Bar & Grill and one bug box lighter. I left the bug box with her so Faultline could personally test the quality of my tech.


    The agreement was that she''d get a week to test the tech on any type of electrical lock she could get her hands on then quote me a price she''d be willing to pay. I also left her with files of all the things I was willing to sell to her, including a stealth suit for Labyrinth and Newter.


    As my only current customer, I had little choice but to trust Faultline''s sense of fairness. As the only tinker in the city willing to supply her, she''d have to treat me with care in turn. It was a partnership founded on pragmatism rather than any affection or higher moral cause, but we made it work.


    Now that I had a sizable library of moves learned by the porygon line, I found that my biggest limitations were the time I had available to practice and the lacking stamina inherent to my weak, human physique.


    Theoretically, I could get Amy to turn me into Captain America or something then work out like Elite Four Bruno and meditate like Gym Leader Sabrina to raise my proficiency, but that was the work of years if not decades. Once again, I felt the cold truth: I was no Ash Ketchum, spitting image of Sir Aaron of Rota and some kind of aura guardian prodigy, Chosen One of Arceus and whatever other stupid title Mr. Protag had.


    I wasn''t salty. Fuck you.


    All I could do was optimize my time spent working out. To that end, I began to mull over a more efficient workout regimen. By rotating physical exercise and aura training, I could hopefully train even


    while resting.


    I was brought out of my musings by a junior named Jim. "Yo, Bryce," he shook me shoulder, "you good? Class is over, man. You should pack up before Mr. Fauver notices."


    "Thanks, Jim," I said. Mr. Fauver taught AP European History at the tail end of my school day. He was a strict man who genuinely loved his subject and hid nothing from his students. We learned about the dark and corrupt aspects of human history just as much as we learned about great kings and nations. Erasmus and Voltaire, but also the Chestnut Festival.


    He was a great teacher.


    X


    Two weeks at minimum to get the restaurant set up. More than likely, that meant a week or so after that for my own equipment to be installed into the basement, even if I could get Faultline to rush things. We''d have to bring in lab equipment after inspections after all, a crucible in the basement might be a tad hard to explain.


    That ruined my plans in a major way. My specialization would change in a week. It meant that no matter what, I wouldn''t get my lab before the shift. No lab meant many of the things I wanted from the Pok¨¦mon franchise could not be acquired.


    Team Rocket''s completely electric proof insulators used several times to capture Pikachu required a special vulcanization process to make a unique rubber polymer. Warp pads found in psychic gyms and criminal hideouts required complex machinery to develop and install. Hunter J''s petrification gun would have been amazing but was now a pipe dream. Even the jetpack I wanted to build for Newter needed special equipment to distill the fuel, something I absolutely refused to do in my all too flammable room.


    Worst of all, I wouldn''t be able to acquire a forge and crucible to refine crystals. Maybe my power intentionally made stronger tech harder to make, but a z-crystal was nothing like an eviolite.


    The eviolite, I could make with some electricity, my own aura, and crude carvings engraved via makeshift chisel. Purple agate wasn''t exactly rare.


    A z-crystal was significantly harder to make than that apparently.


    ''Are you trying to make me work for a z-crystal, power?'' I thought, ''or is it that because z-crystals are rare and only found in one region of the pok¨¦mon world, you can''t make it as easily?''


    Either way, I received no answer as I ran Agility-boosted suicides from one end of the frigate to the other. Agility felt a little strange. I knew that as a psychic type move, my mental energy completely supplanted the physical, but I couldn''t explain how it happened or why it reinforced my body the way it did. I was just too inexperienced with aura and my power didn''t help beyond basic instructions.


    "SAINT," I called, "let''s play tag."


    He emerged from my Pok¨¦Nav with a shower of pixels. "Po?"


    "We''re going to try to tag each other with Thunder Wave, Protect, and Agility only. No other moves."


    "Reee," he agreed, then immediately fired off a Thunder Wave that I barely blocked with an emerald shield.


    "Really? That''s how it''s going to be?"


    "Gon!" I received a hazy image through our bond, a bag of his favorite almonds. His ability to communicate was increasing steadily and I resolved to get him started on more psychic type moves to hopefully nurture this talent.


    "A bag of crusted almonds if you win," I promised him. I coaxed my aura to take shape around me and dashed forward. "You''re a shameless-" I ducked beneath him even as I kept talking. "-glutton, SAINT. You should watch your weight!"


    A Thunder Wave of my own was sent his way and SAINT dodged by allowing gravity to take hold of him.


    "Pory!"


    "You started with a cheap shot. Don''t be surprised when I hit you from behind."


    That kicked off a rapid flurry of electric projectiles that I dodged only thanks to the Expansion Suit''s enhanced agility. I rolled on the ground, shoulder twinging painfully as I rolled over my spine. Without SAINT to act as the onboard AI, I lacked the elegance and refinement to make use of my agility to the fullest. I could see another volley of Thunder Waves coalescing in front of his blue mouth.


    "Agility!" I shouted. My aura pulsed brightly and I made to dash, but stopped at the last second. He whirled his head, preemptively turning to lead the target. I didn''t move though and that gave me enough time to bring my sparking finger to bear.


    "Just kidding," I laughed as I fired an arc of electricity towards my partner, positive he could feel the pure smug radiating from my end of our bond.


    He rose into the air, letting my attack sail beneath him. "Porygon!"


    ''The attack isn''t fast enough,'' I realized. Despite being an arc of electricity, it wasn''t lightning. Whatever bullshit aura mojo let us bypass the insulating properties of air to lob bolts of electricity as viable attacks also seemed to be limited to much more manageable speeds, at least at my level. That meant that although porygon were notoriously slow until their final evolution, a singular blast of Thunder Wave wasn''t likely to land.


    We traded blows furiously as we raced around the empty room for a few minutes. I was much faster, but he had a far larger aura pool to draw on so wasn''t shy about wasting Protects. He could also use his moves much more quickly, and even stack them like he did with a volley of Thunder Waves.


    I made good use of his subpar speed, shocking him as soon as a Protect wore off.


    "My win," I said, panting. I made a note to improve the ventilation in the Expansion Suit as soon as I could.


    "Pory¡­" my training partner slumped. I could feel disappointment through the bond.


    "We''ll try again. This is as much about stamina as it is about winning one round."


    He made a determined trilling noise and took up position. He was paralyzed, but that would teach him how to fight under unfavorable circumstances.


    This round, I kicked things off by lunging towards him.


    He chimed in alarm and backpedaled up into the air. I jumped to get in range for another close range Thunder Wave.


    A bolt of blue electricity fired from my hand and dispersed into so much pretty colors against the emerald shield of SAINT''s Protect. Then, even as the shield started to come down, SAINT fired a rapid counter that nailed me in the torso.


    "Protec-"


    I tried to shield and twist out of the way, but the attack landed faster than I''d expected, ending the round almost as soon as it began. Electricity coursed through my body, disrupting any attempt to make use of my limbs. I suspected this is what having Regent troll me would feel like.


    I lay on the ground, unable to do anything but pant in a pool of my sweat. The pain of the Thunder Wave was negligible in comparison to the sheer discomfort of having a body that refused to obey.


    "Shit," I swore.


    "Reee?" SAINT hovered lower with concern.


    "No, you did great, buddy. Give me a minute to recover."


    The eighteenth was Saturday. Seeing how I had no commitments, I drove myself hard long into the night.


    Author''s Note


    An extra safehouse is never a bad thing, especially if a trustworthy ally can back your claim with a legitimate front. Even better, it''s not attached to any of the major factions.


    That said, I know nothing about restauranteering so if I got some of the details like the floorspace or time it''d take to acquire appropriate licenses, please forgive me. I did some research into how big a corner store 7-Eleven seemed to be and it came up to be something close to five thousand square feet.


    I know nothing about boats. I looked up the length of an oil tanker and went from there so I don''t actually know if an oil tanker that doesn''t transport oil is still called a tanker. I''ll probably call it a frigate, tanker, or the Gullrest interchangeably. Forgive my ignorance.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 1.12 Wake

    Wake 1.12


    2010, September 18: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    Just as the sun started to peak over the sea, I recalled SAINT back into my Pok¨¦Nav and made my way to the Boardwalk. Halfway there, I disguised myself to look like my civilian outfit. I made sure to text mom so she wouldn''t panic and jogged home.


    "I''m home."


    "Bryce, where were you?" my mom rushed over, worry creasing her brow.


    "Jogging," I said, "didn''t you get my text?"


    "No, who checks their phone the moment they wake up?"


    "Sorry, mom. I should have called instead."


    "Well, come have your breakfast. It''s going to get cold."


    "I''ll take a shower first; I''m fine with cold food." I made a show of sniffling my shirt and cringed with distaste. "I reek."


    She ushered me off upstairs, saying she''d put my plate in the oven. I couldn''t say it enough: It was good to have a mom again. When I came down, Sierra was lying sprawled across the sofa, playing some game on her phone. "Sup, bro," she greeted.


    "Sup, sis."


    "Can you be quiet today? Sabah and Michelle are coming over to work on an assignment."


    "Sure, I kinda want a nap anyway," I said with an easy smile.


    "Thanks, love you."


    "Love you, too."


    As soon as I finished my breakfast of lukewarm eggs, sausages, and toast, I headed to my room to crash.


    I had SAINT use Conversion again to become an electric type and set him up with the archive for Thunderbolt then Zap Cannon. Those would round out my electric skillset. Then, I planned to augment Zap Cannon with Lock-On for the iconic pairing before teaching him Psychic using video footage of Rune and other capes like her. The unusual typing would likely eat into the rest of my specialization, but telekinesis was just too awesome to pass up.


    X


    I woke up five hours later with that unpleasant, fuzzy feeling in my mouth. I rinsed my mouth with mouthwash before heading downstairs for a late lunch.


    "Hey, Bryce," Michelle said from the sofa. She was lounging with her head on Sierra''s lap and her legs on Sabah''s. The three of them had on some rerun of a medical drama that I thought was only popular with middle-aged housewives. There was nothing overtly sexual about her position, but I found my eyes wandering up her stockinged legs to her jean-shorts anyway. She smirked with an arched eyebrow. "See something you like?"


    ''Fuck hormones. Fuck puberty. Fuck my life,'' I chanted in my head as I hurried past them to the kitchen, face burning.


    "Ewww, no. Just no." Sierra made a face. "No flirting with my baby bro, even as a joke. I don''t need that image."


    Michelle laughed. "He''s adorable when he''s all flustered."


    "You have a boyfriend," Sabah said dryly. "You sleep at his house almost as much as you sleep at ours."


    "Spoil the fun, why don''t you. Sorry, Bryce, it just wasn''t meant to be."


    ''In for a penny¡­''


    "He''s a lucky man," I countered. "I''m sure he''s got a lot of competition."


    "Aww, you''re sweet, Bryce. Sierra, your baby bro is going to be popular with the ladies."


    I saw the devious grin on my sister''s face. I turned to Sabah for help but she only spared me an apologetic smile. "He already is~" Sierra sang. "He''s got a date with Panacea. Sabs even helped coordinate his outfit."


    "What? That''s so cute. Show me."


    "No, I need to make myself lunch," I said as I desperately searched for a way out. "Why are you two here anyway? What happened to assignments?"


    Michelle waved me off with a shrug. "Oh, that, we finished an hour ago. And stop changing the subject. You. Panacea. Tell."


    "Why are you so invested in the love lives of high schoolers?"


    "Oh, so it is a love life?"


    I felt a mounting headache; the blood pooling in my face wasn''t helping. "No, no it is not. We are going to homecoming as friends. Friends," I emphasized, "not a couple."


    "Geez, does she know you''re so against dating her?"


    "Yes. She is just as against dating me."


    "He was going to show up in flannel like some kind of lumberjack until mom and I pressured him into matching Amy''s dress," Sierra said with a shit-eating grin, happy to add fuel to the fire.


    "What? No! Bryce, how could you?" Michelle gasped, but I could see the corners of her mouth twitching upward.


    Looking for absolutely anything to do to not be a part of this conversation, I opened the kitchen cabinets one by one. Then, my power kicked in and I clung to the offered line like a drowning man.


    "Michelle, you''re beautiful and I''d normally love attention from a pretty older girl, but I''d rather gnaw off my own foot than talk about homecoming with Amy Dallon so let''s make a deal. I''ll make you girls snacks if you agree to stop talking."


    "Aww, you think I''m beautiful," she cooed. "Sierra, he thinks I''m beautiful."


    "Snacks," Sierra decided. I could always count on her gluttony. How she stayed so slim was anybody''s guess.


    They went back to watching TV and I started to tinker with the ingredients. I''d honestly hesitate to call it tinkering though. Nothing got dismantled. The fridge was in one piece and the toaster didn''t magically become a warp gate. It wasn''t so much tinkering as it was a recipe list.


    Almost in a trance, I picked up spices and ingredients from a list I barely remembered with skills that were not mine. The only truly tinkered ingredient was honey, honey I somehow put into a saucepan without burning the sugars into caramel. I mixed it with herbs and spices and flooded it in my own aura, condensing the flavor until it took on a golden luster more vibrant than its previous amber hue.


    Enchanted honey, my power provided.


    I vaguely remembered that episode.


    It was a filler episode during the Sinnoh saga, when Ash and company went into Eterna Forest. They found a vespiquen hive in a hidden cave system so large that it was called the Amber Castle. Team Rocket shenanigans happened and at the end of the episode, they received a special honey from the queen of the hive called enchanted honey. It had no special effects, but apparently released an aroma detectable by pok¨¦mon and not by humans. It was also said to be hundreds of times sweeter than normal honey, never mind the blatant scientific impossibility of that statement.


    Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!


    I couldn''t make anything that wasn''t made by human hands. No, what I had was what chefs in the pok¨¦mon world did with it, recipes the people living near Eterna Forest perfected over generations were mine to abuse.


    Regardless of the universal laws of chemistry, I had a pot of simmering enchanted honey, manmade but still many times sweeter than the store bought brand. I knew Sierra had a sweet tooth so it''d be an effective bribe if nothing else.


    I left that to sit off the fire and made myself a quick sandwich of ham, turkey, onions, dried tomatoes, and arugula. I drizzled on a bit of vinegar to cut through the honey I planned to coat it in.


    Left with nothing to do but wait, I thought about what would go best with the newly tinkered super-honey and found my body start to move on its own. My power used the enchanted honey as a foothold to draw upon different recipes used by chefs of the pok¨¦mon world. By the time I stopped moving, I''d retrieved a type of whole grain biscuit from the shelf and made a small bowl of tomato balsamic vinaigrette loaded with pine nuts.


    Dipping a spoon into the warm saucepan, I drew up a small dollop of honey and stuck it in my mouth. Normally, anything too sweet would quickly turn bitter. It was why sugar pills used as placebo in pharmaceutical studies didn''t taste good. Flavor theory said there was a limit to the sweetness a body can enjoy, a limit to the glucose taste receptors can process before they get overwhelmed.


    Enchanted honey dragged that theory to a back alley and did unspeakable things to it until it caved.


    The sweetness of that single dollop was hard to put into words. It coated my mouth completely until I could taste nothing else. It was slightly savory from the heat of the pan and a little smoky and earthy from the herbs I mixed it with. There was a floral note I couldn''t place, very possibly from a flower not native to this world. Instead of drizzling it over my sandwich like I planned, I took the back of the spoon and traced a single line across the toasted bread. Anything more would be excessive.


    I bottled a small jar of it for later and plated up the food. The honey went into a single shot glass for each of my taste testers with a larger, communal bowl of the tomato-balsamic vinaigrette.


    "Here," I said, setting the plate down on the coffee table. "Enjoy. The honey is really, really sweet. Start with only a drop."


    "Thanks, Bryce," Sierra said. "What''s the reddish-brown stuff though?"


    "Tomato-balsamic. It''s literally just dried tomatoes and balsamic vinaigrette blended together with some herbs and pine nuts thrown in from back when mom had her Mediterranean kick. The sour and savory flavors should make the honey more palatable."


    "Look at you, since when are you a chef?"


    "Since thirty minutes ago," I said easily, tapping the pocket that held my phone. "Trying new things, remember? I looked up a recipe online."


    "Do you want to eat with us?"


    "Not crashing on your girl time?"


    Sierra rolled her eyes. "Nah, eat with us. It''s not like you have plans."


    "Ouch, are you saying I have no life?"


    "You said it, not me."


    "We don''t mind," Sabah said. She looked tired, with small bags under her eyes.


    "Yeah, you two are more entertaining than the show," joked Michelle.


    "Glad to hear it." I settled in front of the sofa, a bit to the side so I wouldn''t block the food. "So why are you watching medical dramas if you don''t like them?"


    "I didn''t say I didn''t like them, I said you two are funny. I''m an only child so it''s interesting to see how siblings interact."


    ""Must be lonely."


    "It is. I''ve always wanted a little brother, you know. Bryce, wanna be my little bro?" she reached over to ruffle my hair then recoiled, trying to wipe the waxy feeling from her fingers. "Eww, I didn''t think that through."


    "It''s pomade. Doesn''t feel good."


    "Why do you have pomade in your hair?"


    "I always wear a bit, enough to keep my hair sorta in shape. Is it weird?"


    "He wears it because dad taught him how to style his hair," Sierra interjected. "And you''re alright, Bryce. It doesn''t get on your pillow when you nap?"


    "No, it sets pretty quickly unlike gel and stays dry. Doesn''t flake either. Less is more and all that."


    "It looks very clean," Sabah said. "I wouldn''t have noticed the pomade either."


    "Cool, do you have any siblings, Sabah?"


    "I have three little brothers, but the oldest twins are eight years younger than me. They were only two years old when we came to America so they don''t really remember Iraq either. It''s a little hard to relate to them because of that. I do have some cousins closer to my age though."


    My sister leaned over to give her a side-hug. "You two can have Bryce then. We have a no returns policy at the Kiley home," she joked.


    "Yes, an upgrade!"


    "Oi!"


    "Hey, you''re the one who''s trying to give away her own little brother," I grinned. "You can''t talk."


    She grumbled and took a bite of the biscuit with a fat dollop of honey. "Holy shit, Bryce, why is this so sweet?"


    "I told you to start with a drop. The honey mix is really strong. Cut it with the tomato paste."


    Following Sierra''s lead, Michelle and Sabah took a small nibble as well. "Wow, this is really good. So since I''m your big sister now, does that mean you''ll make me snacks like this whenever I want?" Michelle smiled teasingly.


    "No, it means you can bribe me to make you snacks," I said, rolling my eyes. I took a big bite of my sandwich. "I''m warning you; I''m expensive."


    "It really is very good," Sabah added. "It''s even sweeter than a baklava but still works."


    "Glad you like it."


    I did nothing else for the rest of the day except watch reruns of medical dramas with Sierra and her friends. By the time they left, the melancholic air around Sabah had lessened somewhat, I''d gained two new sisters, and had new recipes for the enchanted honey floating around in my head. It wasn''t the most productive use of my time, but I enjoyed myself so I considered the day a win.


    "Sabah seemed tired," I said to Sierra once I heard their car drive off.


    "You noticed, huh?"


    "It''s hard to tell because of her skin tone, but she has bags beneath her eyes."


    "Are you going to stop asking about her if I tell you she''s just swamped with schoolwork?"


    "Yes." She looked surprised so I elaborated. "She''s my friend; at least, I''d like her to be. That doesn''t mean I should be nosy though. I can guess, but at the end of the day, it''s none of my business. Just let me know if she''s not okay and how I can help?"


    Sierra smiled softly and started to clean up the plates. "I will," she said. "I think she appreciates you. It''s not hard to tell you''re trying to make her laugh."


    "I don''t know what you''re talking about." I started walking up the stairs. "I''m just your bratty little brother. It''s my job to give you shit in front of your friends."


    X


    2010, September 19: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    Thunderbolt took SAINT a full day to learn even as an electric type. From the perspective of a parahuman, I''d assumed all blaster powers were more or less the same: Thunder Wave could lead to Thunderbolt which could lead to Zap Cannon.


    Shoot harder, this time with feeling!


    Apparently, that wasn''t strictly the case. Weaker variants of moves could act as primers, but each move had nuances that SAINT had to figure out from my vague descriptions and dubiously correlating videos of capes that weren''t actually pok¨¦mon.


    For example, Thunder Wave abandoned power in exchange for ungodly control. It was an electrical pulse that raced along the victim''s nervous system, causing their neurons to spasm and fire at irregular intervals to inhibit movement, all without causing any permanent damage. No burns, no ruptured blood vessels, no torn muscles, nothing. More than that, it was a move replicable on any body type, from a wailord to a skitty. That adaptability, versatility, and control made it a surprisingly nuanced move.


    Comparatively, Thunderbolt was exactly what it sounded like, an arc of electricity. It was the inverse of Thunder Wave: All power, minimal control. I''d lucked out by teaching SAINT the moves in sequence; I''d inadvertently stumbled on the components necessary for Zap Cannon.


    In Japanese, the name translated to Electromagnetic Cannon, or what was functionally a railgun without the physical projectile. It was depicted as a ball of intensely charged electricity lobbed at the opponent.


    The move required incredible control over electricity to shape it into a sphere despite what the repulsive magnetic forces wanted. It also required tremendous power to hold that sphere and condense the ball of hyper-dense energy to a single point.


    Yes, it was a blaster power much like other electric type moves, but it was so much more. It was energy condensed to such an absurd degree that it had mass and imparted kinetic energy. After some thought, I honestly wasn''t surprised it missed so often. Aiming that was not easy.


    After a delightful breakfast of Sunday morning beignets, I went for a jog with SAINT in my Pok¨¦Nav. The rest of the day was spent quietly in my room. I tried to memorize some of the Earth-Aleph songs I enjoyed in my past life while SAINT got started learning Zap Cannon.


    Author''s Note


    My ruling on powers is thus: If Bryce has it by the end of a specialization, he can use it or replicate the recipe. He cannot make anything new, no matter how derivative, from a specialization after it passes.


    Michelle''s behavior is very much based on my own older cousin, who was something of a family busybody, particularly with romance. I, being the eldest son of Asian immigrants, have always received questions from parents, aunts, and uncles about when I''m getting married. I''m in my late twenties and have never even dated. My kid sister got married recently so I''m constantly getting those questions.


    Yes, Bryce discovered a whole new branch of the pok¨¦mon tech tree because he was spurred on by his embarrassment. Then again, Bryce hasn''t had many chances to cook, having a loving mom and plenty of money for takeout when necessary. I know I''m taking a very liberal view on what qualifies as "technological advancements" for the purposes of Tinker of Fiction, but I''m sticking to my guns here. "Technology" is to me the application of science for practical purpose, any practical purpose. That certainly includes the culinary arts and the recreation of a super sweet ingredient originally only made by the vespiquen hives.


    At least it wasn''t Brock''s "donuts."


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 1.13 Wake

    Wake 1.13


    2010, September 24: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    The first football game of the year was today. I''d spent the week as I''d promised SAINT, working on optimization rather than any new builds. SAINT learned Zap Cannon on Monday and Lock-On on Tuesday before spending the rest of the week to pick up Psychic. For whatever reason, telekinesis seemed to be a struggle for my little friend.


    Still, I''d gotten all the TMs I considered critically important. As nice as a few supporting moves like Double Team and Substitute would have been, I was sure I''d find other ways of avoiding trouble in future specializations.


    On my end, I spent much of the week looking for inconspicuous ways to practice my new powers. I even started carrying around iron bearings so I could use Magnet Rise in school. It didn''t help much with my sluggish control and lackluster power output, but keeping the bearings magnetized throughout the school day helped improve my stamina a great deal.


    We also played a whole lot of Thunder Wave tag. I couldn''t sneak out every night, I still needed to sleep, but I did my best to find time for us to train and play together. SAINT now won most of the time and I marveled at just how fast pok¨¦mon could grow if given the right environment. Sure, as a porygon, he''d more or less skipped the infant and toddler stages of life, but he was still less than a month old. The pace at which he learned new tricks and adapted to my own tactics was simply remarkable.


    I also grew from the experience. I could readily spam Protect, Thunder Wave, and Agility and use Magnet Rise to forcibly take control of the metal in my suit to change direction on a dime. When I first started, using any of my abilities felt like running a dead sprint. I''d be lucky to be able to keep it up for a minute. Now, it was a bit like holding my breath for a few seconds at a time. The strain would mount, but I could keep up with a pok¨¦mon like SAINT, if only in short bursts.


    I wouldn''t say I could fight someone like Oni Lee or Hookwolf and win, but with the disguise capabilities of the Expansion Suit, I felt confident in my ability to disengage if nothing else.


    Lastly, Faultline''s commission was complete. Four expanded bags sat in a corner of my closet, ready for delivery.


    All of this progress left me pretty tired throughout the day, but that wasn''t anything new. It wasn''t as though I was collapsing in class or came to school with a black eye, so my friends didn''t ask too many questions.


    And that was an odd feeling in its own right, having friends again.


    Carlos was a swell dude, honest and helpful in a way that made me feel as though I had a big brother again. We didn''t have much in common besides the obvious cape thing neither of us could talk about, but he''d accepted that the lonely little freshman was now in his circle and went out of his way to make me feel welcome.


    Dennis wasn''t nearly as funny as he thought he was, but he did manage to get a few chuckles out of me once in a while. Being the class clown was a talent in itself and Dennis was a natural. So good in fact that I sometimes forgot that he had a father who was slowly wasting away in the hospital. Not for the first time, I resolved to bring it up with Amy, as soon as I could figure out how to explain why I''d even know that in the first place.


    Dean was a bit of an anomaly among us guys. He spent most of his free time with Victoria, though none of us held it against him. He was earnest and helpful, much like Carlos, but I felt that it was a bit artificial when it came from him.


    Perhaps artificial wasn''t quite the right word. That implied a lack of sincerity and if I was sure of one thing, it was his sincerity.


    I knew Dean was an empath, constantly aware of the emotions of others in the form of colored auras. Whether someone was angry, happy, or just plain horny, he saw it all. I knew that it was a part of the reason he went out of his way to be helpful: He literally couldn''t ignore the misery of others. Maybe it was because I knew that, but I sometimes wondered what kind of man Dean would be if he didn''t have the social equivalent of an aimbot as a power.


    Of course, there was no use worrying about it, Dean was Dean and power didn''t define a man as much as how he chose to use it. That he chose to be helpful rather than mess with people for his own amusement or personal gain said much about his character. Sometimes, I felt that he held his own wants back in favor of pleasing others, though thankfully not to the extent of Amy''s self-destructive spiral.


    I shuffled out of Arcadia, following the herd of students headed for the parking lot.


    "Yo, Bryce!" I heard Carlos shout behind me. Turning, I saw Dennis and Dean follow after the larger boy.


    I raised my chin briefly in the universal bro-nod. "Hey, what''s up?"


    "Are you coming to the homecoming game?"


    "Must I?"


    Dennis grinned as he wrapped an arm around me. "Yep. It''s tradition."


    "I don''t even like football."


    "Doesn''t matter, you''re coming with us." The ginger Ward started to drag me towards a sleek, black Acura. "We''re going to hang out before the game."


    "We were thinking, since Dennis and Carlos won''t be at the dance, we could make an evening of it today." That was Dean, always thoughtful. He headed for the driver''s seat and Carlos took the front.


    "Fine, where''re we going?" I asked, shooting mom a quick text.


    "The arcade, where else do you pregame?" Dennis asked incredulously.


    "The bar, usually with wings and booze."


    "You have a fake?"


    "Nope, the struggles of being a law-abiding citizen," I sighed dramatically. "Arcade it is."


    An insidious, evil part of me wondered how Faultline would react if I dragged three Wards to the Palanquin to get shitfaced. The ensuing chaos would be positively delicious. Alas, it was a dream never meant to be.


    "Not a big gamer?" Carlos asked.


    "Ehh, not really, some of the games from Aleph are fun, but I''m not big on them."


    "Neither am I, to tell you the truth," Dean said, "but it''s nice to go out once in a while and not care about anything except the high score."


    "Fair point."


    "You guys are so boring," the resident jester complained. "How are we friends?"


    "I''ve known you since elementary school," our driver laughed. "And I think you have enough fun for the rest of us."


    The arcade, aptly named Pixel Palace, was located on the ground floor of the Hillside Mall. It took up a large section of the donut and was popular primarily with elementary and middle schoolers, though I could see a smattering of kids closer to our age.


    "Hey, Joe!" Dennis called to a balding man behind the counter.


    "Of course he knows the owner''s name," I grumbled.


    "Heh, yeah, that''s Dennis."


    We exchanged some quarters and made the rounds. Carlos wasn''t the only senior at the arcade, but there weren''t many. Any awkwardness we had quickly vanished under our favorite clown''s enthusiasm. After a few random games, Dennis spoke up. "Wanna bet on who can set the most high scores?"


    "That''s a bit unfair, isn''t it?" Dean said. "You''re the one who knows these games inside out."


    "I''ll take you up on that," Carlos grinned. He made a beeline for the nearest punching machine.


    Dean and I looked at each other and simultaneously shrugged. By the time we joined Carlos, he''d already sunk a buck-fifty for three tries at the bag. He took two steps back, winding up for a massive haymaker that made his muscles bulge under his tight shirt. I glanced at his feet and could have sworn that he wasn''t even touching the ground. It wasn''t obvious unless you were looking, but Carlos definitely used his power for a bit of extra leverage.


    The loaded punch landed with a loud whump, knocking the bag back and up into the machine. Neon lights flashed as some peppy music blared in the background. The number settled on two hundred twenty-six pounds.


    "Holy shit, Carlos," I whistled, not bothering to hide how impressed I was. Dean probably felt my emotions, but it wasn''t his strength that impressed me; it was his acting. Aegis was a brute who could push cars around. I had no doubt that he could have snapped the bag right off the hinges if he wanted. That he appeared to give it his all and still ended up with a relatively mundane result said a lot about the amount of work he put in to controlling his strength. "I''m pretty sure you could try for amateur boxing with that kind of hook."


    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    "Heh, thanks, I do box, just not in competitions. I''m more about keeping in shape than winning belts, you know?"


    I nodded. "Yeah, I get that. Dennis, you gonna give it a go?"


    The time-stopping Ward made a show of waving his hands in the air. "No way, man. That''s a win for our favorite meathead for sure. Why don''t you go, Bryce?"


    "Because I don''t want to embarrass myself."


    "Go for it, man, I still have two more tries," Carlos nudged me forward.


    Seeing Dean give me an encouraging nod, I knew I''d get no help from his corner so I sighed and walked up to the bag. The bag swung down and I tried to mimic Carlos'' stance. Judging by Dennis'' grin, I failed. I went for a haymaker of my own, but ended up hitting the side of the bag rather than the center.


    "There, ninety-eight," I said, "decent for a scrawny white boy, right?"


    Carlos poked my arm. "You''ve been doing the workouts Dennis sent you, huh?"


    "Yeah, it''s working. I wouldn''t say I''m fit, but I''m at least not dying after a mile run. Now, Dean''s turn."


    "I don''t think this is necessary," he tried. We ignored his protests and shoved him forward anyway.


    "Go for it, prez," Carlos laughed.


    "So is this what you do as a cadet?" I asked, interested in his time as a Ward. If he didn''t know I knew he was talking about his Wards life, he might be more open with his feelings. "Boxing, weights, and stuff?"


    "Not just that. Being a cadet is about more than self-defense. Dennis and I also learn about emergency protocols like what to do in the event of armed criminals or natural disasters. We''re both also first aid and CPR certified."


    "That''s pretty neat," I said honestly. "Sounds like the kind of thing that''d be useful, especially in this city."


    Dean walked back with a respectable one-fifty. "It can be, but it''s also a huge time sink. It''s why I didn''t join."


    "What''s your after school thing then? Mr. Maury''s starting to push us into picking out an extracurricular." It was the downside of attending a vocation-heavy school like Arcadia: Almost every teacher encouraged one after school program or another.


    "He''s your homeroom teacher, right?" I nodded. "He means well, but you don''t have to have a work-study or even a sport. I recommend just doing what comes naturally to you. As for me, I''m helping out at my father''s company," he said. I was surprised at the undercurrent of frustration in his voice.


    "Stansfield¡­ real estate?" Dean''s dad probably provided covers for his Ward activities somehow.


    "Yeah, that''s us, a family legacy since before the Constitution." It sounded like he was reading off a script.


    "Sounds rough. You tell me to do what comes naturally, but it doesn''t sound like you got that chance yourself."


    "It''s not all bad," he told me as we walked to some kind of racing game Dennis and Carlos were competing in. "I know dad means well, but I''m not sure if I want to be a part of the family business, you know?"


    "No, sorry," I said truthfully. "I don''t have some prestigious legacy over my head but I can see how that''d get uncomfortable real fast. Join me for a game?" I waved at some generic zombie shooter that reminded me of the Time Crisis series I played back when I was a kid the first time around.


    Dean smiled though it didn''t quite reach his eyes. "You know what? Yeah. I could do with shooting zombies for a bit."


    Turned out, Dean was pretty good with shooters. I wondered if it came as a side effect of having a blaster power. The four of us moved from game to game. To my private embarrassment, I got sick of losing everything and eventually cheated at the crane game using Magnet Rise to keep the claws shut, just so I could say I won something.


    The stuffed bunny mocked me, a testament to my shame.


    My phone buzzed halfway through and I excused myself. I walked outside the arcade to avoid the noise and answered the call.


    "Creed," Faultline said, "can you talk?"


    I made sure no one was listening before lowering my voice. "Yes, I take it you''ve reviewed the files I left you?"


    "Your bug box is impressive. I can''t find a single electronic lock it can''t unlock. I want one more, for myself and Newter. You mentioned it was possible to obtain a stealth suit. Can one be made into a shawl for Labyrinth to hide under?"


    I considered it for a moment. "Yes, it''s doable. She''d need to be completely underneath the shawl though."


    "I would be willing to furnish your lab in exchange for two bug boxes and the shawl. Within reason of course."


    "Of course. I''ll drop by tonight to drop off the four expanded bags and an extra bug box. You''re going to have to get me the materials for the shawl though. I''ll send you a list."


    "That would be agreeable. See you tonight." The line went dead.


    I walked back inside and shuffled through the crowds until I found my friends huddled over a table sharing a plate of nachos. "Shouldn''t we get going if we want to make it to the game?" I asked, stealing a chip laden with ground beef, pico de gallo, and artificial cheese so yellow it practically glowed.


    "Ehh, it''s fine. It''s a football game, not a job interview. Being a few minutes late won''t hurt anyone," Dennis shrugged with an easy grin.


    "Says you, I don''t want to keep Vicky waiting," Dean said.


    Carlos took the leftover chips and shoved them in his mouth. He chased them with a glug of Sprite. "Alright, there, no more food. Let''s go."


    We were piled into the car when Dennis nudged me with waggling eyebrows. "Who was that anyway, Amy?"


    I shoved him back. "Are you kidding? Why would Amy call me? It was a friend from out of town."


    "You two get along well," Dean said. "Don''t sell yourself short. You and Amy keep saying you''re going as friends, but I''ve never seen Amy be okay with any of the other guys Vicky tried to set her up with."


    ''That''s because I''m not interested in fucking her,'' I thought. "Seriously, drop it. I don''t want to date Amy and she treats me like a friend instead of a nuisance because of it. I don''t want her to get the wrong idea so stop joking about us dating."


    "Fine, take all the fun out of it," Dennis pouted but didn''t push further.


    X


    The screams and cheers of overexcited teenagers let us know we were near. Judging by the scoreboard that loomed above the field, Arcadia had scored the first touchdown and PAT, giving us a seven-zero lead. Through repeated back and forth via text, we followed Dean to his girlfriend.


    "Dean!" I heard Victoria call. She floated a foot above the ground to wave. By now, people knew to get out of her way when she was excited so she had no trouble sweeping the taller boy up into a kiss.


    Beside her, a thoroughly disgruntled Amy pretended to gag. There were two more kids near the Dallons, their cousin Eric and a petite Asian girl with straight, black hair and large, almond eyes that looked almost out of place on someone so short.


    "Hey, Bryce, fancy seeing you here," Eric said with a cheerful smile. "I didn''t think you were the type for this sort of thing."


    "What? Pep, teen spirit, and idiots giving each other concussions?" I flashed an exaggerated smile that wouldn''t look amiss on the Joker. "That all sounds delightful."


    "Dennis drag you out?" Amy gave me a knowing look and we shared a moment of sympathetic misery.


    I winced as a cheer went out. Someone had scored a field goal, apparently. "Yup. Vicky?"


    "Yup."


    "You two are perfect for each other."


    "Shut up, Eric," we said in sync. The blue-haired boy laughed at the unintentional validation.


    "Oh, hey, I almost forgot." He nudged the tiny girl next to him forward. "She''s my date tomorrow."


    "Hi, Grace Kanda," she said, holding out a hand.


    I shook it. "You look familiar."


    "Are you saying all Asians look alike?" She accused indignantly. She barely stood four-eleven but glared with an intensity that could have impressed Hookwolf.


    "I didn''t mean it like that," I stammered.


    She held the glare for a moment before it cracked into a wide smile. "Hahaha, that''s always fun. Relax, Bryce, I''m just messing with you. I look familiar because I''m in algebra II with you. I also had seventh grade history with you too."


    "Ah, that explains it. So, Eric, what''ve you been up to today?"


    "I took Grace out for some crepes and walked around the Boardwalk. What''d you guys do?"


    "We killed time at the arcade and ate some nachos."


    The line crashed together, Arcadia''s blue and gold on offense against Immaculata''s red and white. Our team looked like they would break through, but someone on Immaculata''s side screamed something and they rallied, probably their captain. "You know, I''m pretty sure Carlos could trample most of these guys," I hummed.


    "Probably," the Puerto Rican shrugged, "football''s not my thing though. I''m sure there''s more to it than just being big."


    "Where''d Dennis go anyway?"


    "Here," came the redhead''s voice. He was dragging another boy, somehow looking even more awkward than I felt. "I saw a friend and decided to bring him over. This is Chris."


    Chris, who I was pretty sure was Kid Win, was almost painfully generic: pale with brown hair and that awkward shuffle teenagers do when uncomfortable. "Hi," he said shyly.


    I nodded to my fellow tinker. The more I looked at him, the surer I was.


    Friend groups could mingle in high school, real life wasn''t like Mean Girls and jocks like Dennis and Carlos could befriend the shy kid like Chris; I was an example of this myself. It wasn''t just the stereotype that "tinkers are nerdy" that gave him away. I could still see smudges of ink on his fingers, blurred in ways that didn''t happen unless you were drawing something detailed. His familiarity with Dean and the Newest Wave was also a good clue.


    "Hey, how''s it going?" I tried being friendly. I pointed at his smudged right hand. "You like to draw?"


    "Hmm? Oh, yeah. I was drawing something before I came here."


    "Cool, acrylic or plain ink?"


    "Just ink. Do you draw?"


    "More of a music guy myself, and even then more as a way to relax."


    The two of us started a conversation about arts and hobbies, half of which I''m pretty sure we both pulled out of our asses. Let''s face it: We were tinkers; our hobbies were tinkering and thinking about tinkering. Still, I found it funny that Chris disguised his tinkering in public as an interest in art and sci-fi while I disguised mine with an interest in music editing.


    Had to admit, he probably had a better cover. He''d show me pictures of cartoon robots and talk about how he drew "inspiration" for "fanart" and I''d make up some bullshit about synthetic music quality losing out to "old school rock."


    By the end of the night, Arcadia lost twenty-eight to forty-two, not that most of us were paying attention to the game. Vicky and Dean had mysteriously vanished, no doubt to find a quiet place to suck face. Amy looked surprisingly involved in a conversation about role-playing games Grace and Eric were having. Dennis and Carlos were the only ones who seemed bummed about our school''s loss.


    "Say, where''s Chelsea? And Stephanie, now that I think about it," I asked. "This seems like their kind of scene."


    Carlos laughed and pointed down towards the field, where the cheerleaders were packing up. "They''re over there. I''m not surprised you missed them."


    "Ah, yeah, vaguely remember them saying they had cheer practice at some point."


    The rally and game broke up in short order. Vicky and Amy flew off somewhere, possibly home, possibly the hospital so Amy could get in some last minute healing. We smiled as Grace dragged her boyfriend off for ice cream. They made a cute couple, though it was pretty clear who wore the pants in that relationship.


    ''Huh,'' I thought as I leaned against the wall, waiting for a ride from Dean. ''Eric just might be the most well-adjusted cape I''ve ever met¡­ And¡­ shit¡­ I''m going to try to keep him alive, aren''t I?''


    Author''s Note


    Did you know? When I first started writing, I wanted this fic to be more fast-paced than Legendary Tinker. Funny, huh? I just can''t seem to write anything but slow fics.


    Maybe third time''s the charm?


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 1.14 Wake

    Wake 1.14


    2010, September 24: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    Dean was kind enough to drop me off at my house, saving me a phone call to Sierra for a ride. I enjoyed a light dinner of roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and peas before taking a shower and retiring to my room early. There, I knocked out all the homework I hadn''t done in favor of the arcade earlier in the day before I used one of dad''s collectible metal guitar picks and Magnet Rise to practice simple songs.


    The metal pick made for a harsher, more aggressive sound suited to riffs, but I found that I lacked the dexterity with Magnet Rise to play even the more basic songs to conclusion. Still, it was good practice.


    An hour later, as soon as mom and Sierra fell asleep, I was out the window and dashing for the Palanquin. The four expanded bags could not be stored inside my own, something about disorderly dimensional folding, so I just rolled the empty bags like a sleeping bag into each other before strapping them to my back to minimize their volume.


    I walked up to the club, disguised as usual in a new face. Five-two was short for a man, but not unheard of for a woman. Today, I was a pale beauty of vaguely Eastern European descent with high, thin cheekbones, soulful eyes, and light brown hair that cascaded down to my butt. Crimson lipstick and a copy of one of Sierra''s more adventurous tops made me look like any other girl checking out the new club. I ignored the disgruntled murmurs and cut through the line before the bouncer stopped me.


    "Just headed back, big guy," I said with a cheeky smile. My voice came out of the synthesizer a bit higher than usual with husky undertones. I made a note to improve it if I could. It was good, but I didn''t think I''d fool anyone familiar with the person I was masquerading as. "Don''t worry, I don''t need a guide and I won''t get lost. It''s not like the place is a labyrinth."


    That was the code. The words Labyrinth, guide, and lost. It wasn''t particularly complicated, but it didn''t need to be. The burly man shrugged and waved me to the side of the building. The employees only entrance was open; Faultline was expecting me. I ignored the strange looks I got from the kitchen staff and shuffled out into the main club.


    It was chaos: pulsing bodies, booze, and technicolor lights galore. Some kind of heavy EDM comparable to Deadmou5 from my past life was blaring in the background. I dampened the external audio with a wince. More than a decade after my reincarnation and I still couldn''t stand techno. Rather than brave the dance floor, I made my way to the back corner of the room where a staircase led up to a secondary dining area that doubled as a lounge.


    The lounge was tastefully decorated, posh in a way that didn''t make anyone feel underdressed. It was the kind of place one could go to dress down and kick back with a tumbler of whiskey and a deck of cards. Clean, oaken furniture and comfortable seats filled the room with a single, smaller bar area along one wall. Two pool tables were occupied by six young men. Off in one corner, a group of young women shot the breeze over a bottle of wine and a cheese board.


    Newter was draped over a sofa in another corner, two girls hanging off his arms as he regaled them with a story from one of his many missions. The girls wore matching jackets that covered their arms; it was probably what kept them conscious in such close proximity to the orange cape.


    I tried to maintain a reputation for polite calm and dry wit in my everyday life, all the better to keep other children at an arm''s length.


    Sierra knew better of course. She found out how asinine and petty I could be when I smeared hot sauce up her nose while she was sleeping for four days straight because of some slight I couldn''t even remember anymore.


    Sure, she replaced my toothpaste with gelatin and shampoo, but I still claimed victory in that trade. She was the one who had to run to dad.


    Looking at Newter grinning like an idiot, I couldn''t suppress that same urge to ruin someone''s day for shits and giggles.


    ''Ehh, my cape persona should be different from my daily life anyway, right? Right,'' I mentally shrugged before allowing a disturbingly wide grin to spread across my face. One of the men playing pool looked like he was about to approach the European beauty but the grin with far too many teeth made him turn a full one-eighty. ''Asshole prankster sounds like it could be fun.''


    I took a page from a friend from my old life, Christopher.


    Yes, Christopher, not Chris. He was tall, blonde, handsome, and walked with a self-assured gait that made even people far more senior than him treat him like an equal. He always wore a button-down shirt with slacks and loafers. He was the kind of man I mocked in my teenage years for being a pompous poser, but inevitably tried to mimic when I entered the workforce.


    Back straight, head held high, shoulder spread wide, and chest pushed out, I didn''t walk towards my orange associate so much as I stalked. I may have only been five-two, but it was the kind of walk that drew the eye and made me seem taller.


    "Newter!" I barked for the whole lounge to hear, turning heads and making the two bartenders look worriedly at one another. "You cheating manwhore!"


    I couldn''t quite pull off the indignant shriek of a scorned girlfriend, but I gave it my ace effort. The two girls hanging off his arms jerked upright, sobering up in a way only the threat of imminent catastrophe could make happen.


    "Newter? What''s going on?" the redhead to his left asked, voice breaking into a tremble that made me feel a little guilty. She was pretty, lithe and leggy with wide green eyes. The way she shuffled a full seat away from Newter marked her as the conflict avoidant type.


    This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    "I don''t know. Lady, I don''t even know you," he frowned. "I''ve never seen you in my life!"


    SAINT, best duck that he was, mimicked a crying face perfectly. Wide eyes, quivering lips, flushed cheeks, deep breaths, the whole nine yards. "Y-you¡­ you don''t even remember that special night we shared?"


    "What the hell are you talking about?" I decided then and there that the look of pure befuddlement on his face was worth every bit of shit I''d get for this later.


    I jumped into his arms, shoving the blonde girl to the side. To her credit, she had one hand in her purse, presumably for a bottle of pepper spray or something. She was certainly far more collected than the redhead.


    "We even went dumpster-diving together. I thought we had something special!"


    "Hey, you''re going to dose yourself!" he tried to pull away but his surprise, companions, and seat against the wall kept him from reacting in time. I landed on his lap, my bare hands holding onto his shoulders. "Wait¡­ how are you okay?"


    I couldn''t keep it in anymore and burst out laughing. "Hahahahahahaha, oh my God, Newt! You look hilarious right now!" I crowed.


    I was laughing so hard that I almost fell off the couch.


    Taking his dawning look of realization as my cue, I leapt from his lap into a textbook backflip that an Olympic gymnast would have difficulty replicating. A single twitch of my eye removed the texturing effect at the apex of my jump, letting me come down into a perfect three-point landing as Creed.


    I almost wished I had a cape so it could settle around me dramatically.


    His look of confusion quickly transitioned to indignant rage. "Creed, you son of a bitch!" he cried.


    "Hey! My mama''s awesome, thank you very much. Seriously, Newt, let''s go upstairs. I want to talk to the whole Crew."


    "Umm, who are you?" the redhead asked, curiosity overriding her shyness.


    The blonde to his right no longer looked bored. "What are you, a chameleon?"


    "I''m so sorry, ladies. I must have lost track of time," Newter said apologetically. "Feel free to go to the bar for anything you''d like, on the house today."


    As they shuffled away, he gave me the stink-eye. "Dude, was this necessary?"


    I laughed to make it clear I was grinning under my helmet. "Not at all, but I do have recorded video of the whole thing," I said. "I wonder if PHO will find it funny. I do need to introduce myself to the wider cape world somehow."


    He looked mortified for a moment but then gave me a confident smile. "Do it, watch. Faultline''s going to have your hide for disrupting the guests. Besides, what happened to ''low-key is the name of the game?''"


    "This is plenty low-key. No one''s died and nothing''s burning. Anyway, let''s go." I grabbed the lizard-like cape by the arm and dragged him towards the stairs, handily ignoring any questions about my identity. I idly wondered how long it''d take for rumors of a chameleon cape to make their rounds on the net. If nothing else, I could expect something from those two girls.


    It might not be a bad thing to let people know Faultline had a stranger on call. My costume didn''t obviously scream "tinker" after all.


    X


    "Glad you could join us," Faultline looked distinctly unamused. Even through her welder''s mask, the glare she gave me could have frozen a charging bull.


    ''She must have some way of keeping track of the rest of the club,'' I realized. Looking around, I saw that Labyrinth was conspicuously absent. Perhaps it was a bad day for her.


    "You saw that then?"


    "No, but Newter looks rather miffed, which leads me to believe you ruined his¡­ recreational time. I take it you won''t make a habit of disturbing my customers?"


    "As you wish." I took the reprimand in good grace and produced the four expanded bags. Gregor got a large duffel bag that could hold close to a thousand pounds, Labyrinth and Newter got a school backpack similar to my own, and Faultline opted for a series of smaller bags she could wear on her waist like a toolbelt. The next few minutes were spent testing my tech, with Gregor shoving the entire coffee table inside his bag at one point.


    Satisfied, he set the table back and turned to me with a smile. "Thank you, Creed," he said. He was certainly eye-catching, like a blobfish practicing a comedy sketch, but sounded like Morgan Freeman narrating said sketch. Whatever the PRT said about a full-face helmet making me look unfriendly, I was grateful for the chance to not show my expression so as to not disappoint the gentle giant. "You do quality work."


    "Thanks, I try.'' I placed my second commission on the table. Alongside the gray hacking tool was a notepad with a list of materials. "Here''s the second bug box. The notepad contains what I''d need to make Labyrinth her shawl."


    Faultline looked it over. "You can work with Kevlar?''


    "Yeah, I think I mentioned it at one point. My suit''s made of cycling leathers and canvas work clothes because that''s what I had on hand. I can''t exactly buy Kevlar in bulk without raising suspicions, can I? Honestly? I''m not sure if Kevlar is the best material for a shawl. If you know of any other type of fabric that would work better, feel free to replace that." I pointed to another section of the notepad. "Also note that I''m going to have to design a scanner for her. There is a scanner in my helmet that lets me save and replicate outfits. Hers will work a little differently to allow for as little input as possible on her end."


    "Understood. Can anyone who wears the shawl use it?"


    "Yes, though I can add some security measures like a passphrase. I take it you want to be able to swap the user as needed?"


    "That would be ideal. Now let''s talk about furnishing your lab. The bar will be fully functional on the eighth of October, so I can have your lab furnished by the same."


    "I know I want a furnace rated for metals with a higher melting point, a set of crucibles to stick in said furnace, and some tools to shape metal, but I''ve yet to decide on what else I''d need most. Do you mind if I take a few days to think about it?"


    I figured that a forge would be useful regardless of my specialization, but I couldn''t make any rash decisions without knowing my next specialization.


    "That¡­ would be doable," she decided. "Depending on how you tinker with your new equipment, we may need to renovate the basement to allow for better ventilation and to make sure it is not a fire hazard."


    "That sounds great. Please do that if it isn''t too much trouble." That it''ll cost me went unsaid.


    "The longer you take to tell me what you need, the longer your lab will take to prepare," she warned.


    "I know, you''ll have my answer by Sunday at the latest," I promised.


    Author''s Note


    Bryce is very much unlike Andy. Andy has consistently held to the idea that he must do good in the world and has acted accordingly. Bryce¡­ he''s very much a "go with the flow" kind of guy. He put it best, he will let the chips land where they may. Both are creators to their core, but the ways they use their inventions are very different.


    It also means that Bryce is subject to flights of fancy like pranking Newter. Granted, the chances of Newter reacting poorly were low given Newter''s own jocular personality, but that could have potentially backfired with some heavy misunderstandings, alienating the only ally faction he made.


    He''s also not neatly as careful about his identity because he hasn''t been bitten yet. He constantly ribs the Wards and is considering reaching out to Sabah if it''ll keep her from triggering. Or perhaps when she triggers. He hasn''t decided yet because, again, he''s a very whimsical person.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 1.15 Wake

    Wake 1.15


    2010, September 25: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    I woke up this morning to a changed world.


    Okay, maybe not exactly, but my specialization had changed and with it, my tinkering potential.


    I remained in bed for a good half hour, lying dead to the world to process the storm of possibilities that threatened to overwhelm my mind. I knew more about maritime navigation than I''d ever wanted to. I could build a compass pointed at absolutely any island rated for the worst hurricane in the world. Hell, even if Magneto somehow popped up in Earth-Bet and flipped the magnetic poles around, this compass would point to the same place. Was it even a compass at this point?


    I could make hundreds of varieties of boats, each with their unique quirks. I could build a caravel that could be sailed by five sailors or fewer. Designs for a yellow submarine, a boat shaped like a pizza, or even a carp-boat that could expand into a combat stage came to mind. I could, given enough time, outfit a wooden ship with a cannon so large that it could launch said ship like a rocket through the sky.


    I could make hyper-efficient engines fueled by soda, cannons and ammunition that could wipe out city blocks, cyborgs, mecha, and bioengineered radio-snails. Most of all, I saw in my mind the designs for the single vilest tasting fruit in all existence.


    There was no question as to the identity of my new specialization.


    "One Piece," I breathed, almost reverent, "my power is going to be One Piece for the next four weeks."


    "Porygon?" SAINT trilled his question, our bond pulsing.


    "Yeah, buddy, I''m okay. It''s just¡­ a lot to handle all at once." I had no idea how to process the shift.


    I held out hope that it''d get easier as the months went by, but this was my first shift. It felt momentous in a way I couldn''t explain, like I''d suddenly found myself atop the peak of Everest. It should be a landmark occasion, but I hadn''t done a single thing to get here. I went downstairs to join Sierra and mom for a breakfast of southwestern-style omelets and potatoes.


    "Morning," I mumbled through a mouthful of cheesy scrambled eggs.


    "Morning, sweetie, do remember not to talk with your mouth full," mom said. She was looking over the daily paper. "Are you not going out for a run today?"


    "I will, I guess I woke up late because of last night."


    "You''ve been at this for a month now. I don''t think I''ve seen you miss a day, bro. Good on you."


    "Thanks, Sierra." I shoveled a forkful of potatoes in my mouth and gave it a chew. "What''s in it? It tastes a little different."


    "There are little bits of goat cheese and spinach," mom replied. "Do you like it?"


    "Weird. Not bad, but weird. Can I get some hot sauce with this?"


    Sierra rolled her eyes but reached for the fridge and passed me the bottle. "You''re so weird."


    "That''s because you still have no class."


    "Whatever, baby bro."


    We managed to finish breakfast without crawling down each other''s throats. After taking out the trash, I went on a jog with SAINT. It started as a way to stay in shape for my inevitable cape outings, but I found that running helped me clear my head.


    ''Okay,'' I thought, ''before getting to what I can build, let''s start with what I might have lost. Can I still operate the TM Interface and Downloader? Good. How about using aura? Excellent. What about SAINT? Can I upgrade his code or make any edits?''


    I frowned when I received a mixed answer.


    The answer was a tentative yes, but I was no longer as confident as I''d been. SAINT, for the purposes of my power, qualified as a piece of tinkertech. I could repair and maintain any tinkertech I built, including him, but I could no longer make upgrades to SAINT since I lacked a corresponding specialization. Perhaps if I had a specialization that excelled in highly intelligent AI creation such as HALO, Mass Effect, or Marvel''s Iron Man, but not as I was.


    This made the Upgrade I had in a USB drive in the bottom drawer of my desk all the more valuable. I''d present him with the option to evolve when he mastered the various moves he learned.


    Additionally, I found that I could still make more expanded bags, Expansion Suits, and Pok¨¦Navs, but not other things I''d drawn blueprints for. Anything I''d made before, I could make again and even add some adjustments such as with Labyrinth''s shawl, but I had to have physically completed at least one example of the item in question for it to be retained in my power''s internal archive.


    "All things considered, this isn''t so bad," I said with a huff as I leaned against a park bench to catch my breath.


    "Po?" SAINT''s cyber birdlike trill came from my earphones.


    "I kept all the applied knowledge from my last specialization. Now the better question is what I can do with this one." I placed one foot on the bench and stretched to give myself some more time to breath. "What exactly can One Piece get me?"


    On my jog back, I decided to separate the technology of One Piece into three general categories: stuff used by ships, stuff used by individuals, and bioengineering. There was a lot of overlap, but I was broadly forced to abandon most of the first and third categories, the first because I didn''t have a ship and the third for the same reason I didn''t make myself an army of genesects with the Pok¨¦mon specialization. There were some exceptions, but I wouldn''t be turning myself into a cyborg or anything anytime soon.


    By the time my house was in sight, I''d narrowed down the surprisingly large list of buildable tech to three essentials and many, many wishes.


    At home, I mumbled a greeting to my mom and ran upstairs to jot down my ideas. There were several things I could only build with more space and specialized equipment, but there were also some things I could work on in my own room.


    To start, I wanted to upgrade the Expansion Suit. The Vinsmoke family wore specialized raid suits that both augmented their not inconsiderable combat capabilities and provided incredible protection. Its creation involved sheathing individual cloth fibers in a special carbon polymer, something impossible to do in my room, but I could at least work on the quick-change aspect.


    The Vinsmokes stored their suits in a can. The can would spin at high speeds and release a plume of smoke. The suits would then automatically fit themselves onto the wearer, kind of like the power rangers Oda based them off. While it wouldn''t improve my combat capabilities in any way, being able to carry my costume at all times in a way that didn''t draw attention would let me react to any situation.


    I sank into a fugue for three hours and emerged only when SAINT zapped me awake with a minor Thunder Wave. Mom was calling for lunch and giving her cause to come into my room at the moment was out of the question.


    My room was littered with several tools, an air pump, and some kind of aerosol can, all things I''d pilfered from the junkyard during the night I met Newter. According to sketches, it would apparently become the base for the quick-change canister. I had no idea how it would aerosolize an entire outfit and have it "remember" my form, but ehh; it made as much sense as a CD player downloading pok¨¦mon moves into my brain.


    X


    "Mom, you''re more excited for the dance than I am," I complained as she tightened the navy tie like a noose. I wriggled it loose the moment she let go and stoically ignored her stink-eye.


    "Bryce, this is your first dance and I expect you to treat Amy like a gentleman," she chided.


    The three of us were in the living room. I was ready by four-thirty to go to the Dallon home, but she insisted on going over my outfit with a fine-tooth comb. Sierra held out her phone, no doubt recording my humiliation for posterity. "Are you having fun, sis?"


    "Oh, yeah. Sabah''s going to love this. She helped you pick out the outfit so she deserves to see how it looks, right?"


    "Stop using her as an excuse to gather blackmail on me. If you''re planning to embarrass me, the least you can do is be honest about it," I griped.


    "Oh, fine. Yes, Bryce, you look adorable and this will forever be held over your head," she said with a chipper grin.


    ''At least I finished the quick-change canister,'' I thought. Mom finally stepped away and nodded with satisfaction. "Lovely, let''s get tonight over with."


    "Oh stop being a grouch, Bryce."


    "Your sister''s right, dear. No one wants to dance with a grump."


    "All the more reason to keep this up," I drawled.


    I shuffled to the car like a condemned man marching to the hangman''s noose.


    Despite the attitude, I had to admit, a part of me was looking forward to this. I had no romantic interest in Amy, not least because of her many, many, many issues, but she''d grown on me over the month as more than just that one character I admired.


    "Sierra, stop by a flower shop," mom called as my sister revved the engine.


    "Sure thing!"


    "Please don''t tell me you''re going to make me bring her roses."


    "Of course we are."


    I sighed and got in the car. "I feel like you''re just trying to make me do all the things you wish your dates did for you in high school. It''s not my fault your taste in men is awful so stop taking it out on me."


    "Shut up, brat. You''re going to get Amy a bouquet and you''re going to like it. Besides, your father was the perfect gentleman."


    "Stopped clock, mom. Stopped clock."


    X


    More than just a superhero, Carol Dallon was one of the founders and managing partners of a major law firm and their home reflected that. The Dallon home was a three-story affair with a large yard and garage fit for two cars. It was almost painfully "American dream," with baby-blue walls, white picket fence, and a manicured lawn that looked like someone named Jose mowed it for a premium every Tuesday morning. Two rows of mulch-brown dirt dotted with bushes of orange perennials framed the driveway. The driveway was perfectly slotted with interlocking red bricks with not a single blade of grass between them.


    Dean and Victoria were already making kissy faces in front of Dean''s Acura while Eric and Grace stood off to the side chatting about something or other. I looked around. My own date was nowhere to be seen. Dean noticed our car first and I wondered if our emotions bled outward in a fog around the car. He tapped Victoria on the arm and motioned our way.


    "I can''t believe you bought churros," Sierra grumbled as she parked her Focus on the sidewalk.


    "I can''t believe you made me buy roses," I countered.


    "It''s tradition!"


    "They''re delicious!"


    "Hello, you must be Bryce''s sister," Dean said, ignoring our ribbing with the unflappable patience of a man who worked with Clockblocker. "I think Amy is still getting ready upstairs."


    "Hi, I''m Sierra. Nice to meet you."


    "Dean, and this is Vicky." Victoria hovered a foot in the air. Her dress was reminiscent of her costume, though with a longer skirt and teal blue instead of golden accents. She''d done away with the tiara in favor of a French braid and bun that I just knew took hours to prepare. I didn''t doubt that she''d be wearing the homecoming queen''s tiara by the end of the night anyway.


    She looked radiant and for once, I wasn''t the one who had to be snapped out of the trance.


    I elbowed my sister. "Sierra, stop gawking at Vicky."


    "Huh? Oh, sorry."


    "Hi, Sierra. Don''t worry, Bryce did the whole spacey look when he first met me too. Let me go get Ames!" she chirped, then zoomed off into the house.


    I stepped outside the car and nodded to Eric and Grace. "Eric. Grace. How''re things?"


    "Pretty great," Grace said with a dry smirk. "Dopey didn''t get me roses though. Where are my roses, Eric?"


    I proffered the bouquet to the snarky girl. "Actually, he did. He wanted me to get them for you so he could surprise you."


    "Bryce!" Sierra shouted, indignant.


    "Trust me, she''ll appreciate this more," I said, jostling the box of mini-churros I got from a place called Burrio Barrio. The owners were a couple from Texas who moved to the east coast following the 2004 Leviathan attack on Corpus Christi. They just might be the only couple in Brockton who knew how to make a goddamn burrito right.


    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Whatever they were going to say was put on hold as my date stepped through the door, her sister not far behind. Seeing them side by side, it was obvious Vicky had a hand in picking the outfits. The dark blue did flatter Amy much more than teal.


    Behind the two, Carol Dallon looked on with a neutral expression.


    She looked like an older version of Vicky, with a short bob cut instead of her daughter''s flowing locks. She wore a sharp looking dress suit and I could see a lawyer''s briefcase laid out on the coffee table in the living room. If I had to guess, she had a weekend meeting with a client. I raised my estimation of her a notch for being willing to entertain her daughters despite her busy schedule.


    Though to be fair, Worm fanon had not been kind to her so there was nowhere to go but up.


    I cleared my throat and walked up to Amy. "Here, one obligatory bouquet, delivered. I''m pretty sure Sierra''s trying to apologize to your cousin vicariously by making me treat you like a ''proper lady.''"


    "Hey!" Sierra squawked, but went ignored.


    Amy tried to look offended and failed miserably. "Are you saying I''m not a proper lady?"


    "Of course. You''re more of a ball of thistles and snark vaguely shaped like a functional human being."


    "Well, since you did bring me a bouquet, I guess I''m obligated to accept it." She took it from my hand, then immediately walked back inside to toss it on the sofa. "There, accepted. You, sir, have fulfilled your obligations to be a proper gentleman. I now feel like a proper lady."


    "Heh. Alright, now that that''s done with and since I''m not hilariously clich¨¦ like my sister, I brought you churros." I offered the white carry-out box to my date. She took it with far more enthusiasm than the roses.


    "Burrio Barrio? Fuck yes." She opened the box and stuffed a mini-churro in her mouth. "Cinnamon sugar and almonds, nice."


    "Language," Carol chided.


    "See, Sierra? Told you she''d like the churros more."


    "Yeah, yeah, you can stop being smug now."


    "Hello, Mrs. Dallon," I greeted with a proffered hand. "My name is Bryce Kiley and I''m a friend of Vicky and Amy''s."


    She shook it coolly. "A pleasure, young man. Victoria has mentioned you."


    I turned to her daughter with a frown. "Vicky, what did you tell your mom?"


    "That Amy''s date is just as adorably snarky as she is," she replied with a smile that wouldn''t melt butter.


    "She also mentioned you were an honor student and quite responsible. I trust you will be a perfect gentleman tonight?"


    "Of course, Mrs. Dallon, wouldn''t dream otherwise." We ignored the brunette''s grumblings about it not being a date.


    "Good. Let''s be along then."


    After some obligatory group photos, we bid Sierra goodbye and piled into the Dallon family minivan. I wasn''t sure what I was expecting when I first met Carol Dallon. Fandom usually depicted her as a heavily damaged woman with unreasonable expectations of her adopted daughter. I didn''t know if this was the case, but at least this evening, she paid no mind to either me or Amy beyond that customary greeting.


    Arcadia''s gymnasium was packed by the time we arrived. There was a vertical poster cutout of a white rabbit in a tophat out front, with teachers and parents who had volunteered to act as chaperones taking down names. The trimmed hedges surrounding the building had been laden with teacup props and playing cards.


    "Alice in Wonderland?" Grace hummed. "Not bad, but you realize this means you need to feed us, right? I will be immensely disappointed if you didn''t prepare little cakes and tea."


    "''Welcome to Wonderland,'' but yes," Dean replied. "And yes, we have a bunch of finger food along one end of the gym. The cafeteria tables have been moved out into the quad so people can sit down and eat there. I heard the weather is going to be quite pleasant tonight."


    I stepped out of the minivan and bowed to Amy with a flourish. "Shall we, milady?"


    "Sure, whatever," she scoffed. She still took my hand so I considered it a win. "Where are Chelsea and Stephanie?"


    Vicky looked up from her phone. "Chelsea is with Brian and Steph in the quad. They''re waiting for Steph''s date apparently."


    "Who''s Brian?" I asked. The only Brian I knew was a dastardly villain and I seriously doubted Grue would frequent a high school dance.


    "The varsity running back," Eric teased, "It''s almost like you don''t care about football, Bryce."


    "I''m sure he''s great when you look past all the concussions." I gently tugged Amy towards the quad. "Well, let''s go wait with them."


    It took us a moment to find our friends. The two were hanging out with several other teens I''m pretty sure were from the football team. A tall, brown haired boy I took to be Brian stood with an arm around Chelsea. Looking them over, I felt a bit overdressed in a good way. Sabah really knew what she was doing.


    "Hey, guys," Vicky shouted, her voice ringing over the music. She flew over, hovering a foot above the ground to avoid having to walk in her heels.


    "Hey, Vicky," Chelsea said with a hug. "You know Brian, right?"


    "Yeah, we had world issues with each other for two years." She mock-frowned, leveling Brian with a stern glare. "If you make Chelsea cry, I''m going to twist you into a pretzel."


    "Really? The shovel talk, Vicky?" Amy groaned.


    "Let me have my fun, Ames."


    Most of our temporarily expanded circle were members of the football and cheer teams so the group descended into a banal conversation about last night''s game. Watching the quarterback griping about the ref was almost nostalgic. It reminded me of some of the Superbowl parties I''d been to. Even back in my past life, I was mostly an accessory rather than an active participant.


    ''Guess some things don''t change no matter the age,'' I mused. Instead, I turned to Amy. "So, why didn''t I get the shovel talk from Vicky?"


    "She''s gotten it into her head that we''d make a cute couple."


    "Why?" I asked, honestly baffled. "We keep saying we''re not."


    "Fuck if I know. Apparently, being a pair of snarky asses makes us perfect for each other."


    "No offense, but I''m pretty sure I''d pull my hair out if I had to date you for real. Trying to get all romantic with you sounds exhausting."


    "Same. I still can''t believe she convinced me to be here."


    "You really love her." Her eyes snapped open wide at that, hand reaching for my own. She relaxed minutely when she saw that I meant it as a sibling. My heart flew into my throat. I had to stop myself from jerking my hand away, a fully charged Thunder Wave on my lips. There were very few things in this world more intimidating than a reckless Amy.


    ''Damn, I think I almost died there.''


    "Yeah," she laughed, a bit shaky. "She''s great."


    "Hey, even if I can''t replace hanging out with Vicky, this beats the ICU, right?"


    "I should be there," she said glumly.


    "No, you shouldn''t. You''re not a machine. Even you need a break. You''ve been an active heroine for over a year now, right?" She nodded tentatively. "You should have seen it for yourself by now. Doctors and nurses in the ICU have some of the highest turnover rates out of any career. Burnout''s a real thing, Ames."


    "I''m not a doctor."


    "You sure as hell work like one. You''re not a doctor," I agreed. "You''re a seventeen year old girl with more power than you know what to do with, so much power that it''s a curse. You''re someone who could save anyone, and so deluded yourself into thinking you have to save everyone."


    "What do you know?" she said bitterly but did not refute the point.


    I put an arm around her and steered her back inside. "Let''s go get some food."


    I motioned to Victoria that we were headed back in and she sent us a thumbs up before rejoining the group conversation. The interior of the gym was filled with loud music, lights that pulsed with the beat, and teenagers who pretended they knew how to dance. Off in one corner, I saw Coach Miller chatting with one of the parent chaperones. Judging by the wild hand waving, neither of them could hear much of what the other was saying.


    Amy''s question really took me back.


    Once upon a time, I was a physician''s assistant working at the biggest hospital in Los Angeles. I knew plenty about turnover rates in major hospitals. I felt the pressure of being a trauma surgeon''s PA and it felt like the weight of the world pressing down on me. Back when I first started, more than forty percent of nurses quit or transferred to a different department in a single year. Because yes, the ICU was that terrible. It was hell and Amy volunteered for it every fucking day.


    That was what made her my favorite hero. If true evil could be found in the banality of life, then maybe true heroics was the tenacity to decide to do good every day.


    Sure, her tenacity was fueled by teen angst and spite, but damn if it wasn''t impressive.


    "I don''t have magic healing hands," I said simply, "but I do know what unrealistic pressure feels like." And it was true. As much as I kept telling myself I''d let the chips fall where they may, the fact was that I knew the future. I knew the secrets of this reality that no one else could begin to guess at. And with those secrets came a compulsion to help, to make the world a bit less shitty.


    I¡­ I didn''t want to¡­ but I couldn''t fully ignore the pressure either.


    ''Maybe I''m lying to myself. Maybe I just don''t want the responsibility of playing the savior, playing the hero.''


    "You?"


    "You don''t have to be so skeptical, Ames," I said with a watery laugh. I hadn''t expected this conversation with Amy to shine a mirror on myself so clearly. I ushered her to a shaded corner of the gym, away from the pulsing lights and the DJ''s booth, where the music could hide our conversation. "Everything is about balance, Ames. Moderation."


    "I don''t need you to tell me to take a break," she snapped.


    I took her hand in mine. I needed her to feel my honesty in a way she couldn''t deny. "You don''t, but I''m more than happy to play the part anyway. I care about you. I admire you. Most of all? I''m your friend. And that means not letting you burn yourself out because a bunch of idiots put you on a pedestal thanks to a power you never asked for."


    Her cheeks flushed. I could see a mix of anger, indignation, gratitude, and her characteristic stubbornness to accept help all in one flash of warring emotions.


    "Whatever, let''s get some food." This time, she was the one who dragged me over to the refreshments table. She took one look at the spread and griped, "Whoever planned this didn''t consider dresses."


    The table was loaded heavily with a variety of finger food, from nachos and little sausages on toothpicks to miniature cupcakes. I noticed that most if not all of these would stain terribly. "I thought you didn''t care?" I teased.


    "Vicky picked out the dress. I''m not going to ruin it just because."


    "Fair enough. The one who arranged for catering has clearly never been a high schooler. Half of us will leave with suspicious stains on our shirts."


    "Guys have it easy. Do you have any idea how much dress rentals cost? If you ruin your shirt, it''s just your shirt. For us, it''s our whole outfit."


    "More than I''d be comfortable paying, I''m sure." I popped a skewered sausage in my mouth. The treat was coated in a rich, savory sauce that was smoky with a sweet tang and the subtle warmth of cayenne. I bit down to a satisfying snap of casing. "It''s good though. Want one?"


    She opted for some crackers loaded with ham, cheese, and half of a cherry tomato. "This is about the only thing that won''t stain."


    "We could go grab something else to eat," I suggested.


    "One dance. We need to dance at least once song or Vicky will fly over to drag us back."


    "She wouldn''t."


    "Is she your sister or mine? Trust me, she will." Amy loaded up a plate with some pot stickers and warm pretzels. "We should also take a picture with her."


    "We did that at your place."


    "Yes, at my place. Here isn''t there."


    "As you wish." We found a bench out in the quad and stuffed ourselves on the finger food. Sure enough, not fifteen minutes later, Vicky flew over demanding pictures.


    We were waiting around the photo booth when some kids started to point at the sky. I looked up to find a burnt-red shadow illuminated against the streetlamps.


    "Steph, your date''s here," Chelsea squealed.


    "He is." The tall brunette''s grin couldn''t have spread any wider if she tried.


    "Wait, you actually asked out Aegis?"


    "Yeah, Bryce, she made a post on PHO asking Aegis to homecoming. It was super cute."


    "Well that explains what you two have been whispering about at lunch. Brave. Respect."


    Aegis landed and all conversation died.


    Most of the student body had seen Aegis at one point or another, God knows he''s done enough PR stunts around the school, but no one was expecting him to show tonight. In a way, we were all used to capes; the Newest Wave went to school here after all.


    Still, this was Aegis, leader of the Wards. The costume had a gravitas that could almost be felt, settling like a comforting weight on our shoulders. Even knowing who was under the mask, I wasn''t entirely unaffected. He stood an impressive six-two with burnt-red body armor trimmed with gray accents. His emblem sat proudly on the center of his chestplate, a knight''s kite shield decorated with outlines of ornate vines. Add on his redundant biology and he cut an impressive figure. I noticed that he didn''t have his toolbelt this time though. Normally, he carried a belt full of containment foam grenades, handcuffs, a stun baton, and other tools of the trade.


    "Sorry I''m late; the patrol ran a bit long." His voice was muffled by his mask and what I recognized as a voice modulator. I would know; I used one myself.


    "That''s okay, thanks for coming." Her voice was surprisingly stable, but I could see her bounce from foot to foot like a shy child ready to ask Santa for her Christmas list. Steph was on cloud nine and I couldn''t quite suppress the infectious smile.


    One day, I would make up a reason to officially find out Aegis'' secret identity. On that day, I swore I''d give him enough shit to bury the pyramids.


    With a flourish that screamed of awkward practice in front of a mirror, he pulled out a single rose and handed it to her. "I always have time for such an earnest request. Would you like a dance or shall we take a picture first?"


    "Picture, please," she squeaked.


    What should have been five minutes in front of the photo booth turned into more than twenty before Aegis finally put his foot down. "As much as I would love to entertain you all, tonight, I came to spend time with one special lady," he shouted to be heard above the rumbling crowd. "Now if you''ll excuse us, I think I would like to take Stephanie for a dance."


    I whistled, impressed by his demeanor. This was not Carlos. Carlos was serious and responsible, sure, but he also regularly joked with Dennis and loved to compete over everything. If I didn''t know better, I''d have a hard time reconciling the boy who rushed off to the punching machine at the arcade with this young hero today.


    "Feeling emasculated?" Amy snarked beside me.


    "No, just very impressed with his ability to handle the crowd," I replied with an easy smile. "Either his powers come with a dose of super-charisma, or the ''PR'' in PRT really does stand for ''public relations.''"


    "He''s okay."


    "Jealous?" I teased.


    "A little," she said with a wistful smile. "Ever wonder what it''d be like to have powers?"


    We started walking aimlessly, drifting away from the group. "Who hasn''t?"


    "Well stop. Powers suck, no exceptions."


    "I read about triggers."


    "Nerd," she scoffed, but there was no bite to it. "I''m not talking about just that. Very few powers truly help the cape and often make things worse."


    "A monkey''s paw then," I nodded. "I''ve heard that too. I think Vicky might be the only cape I know of who really loves her power."


    "Yeah, lucky her."


    Before we knew it, we''d circled around to the northern quad. "Your power''s pretty awesome though."


    "You''re free to it," she said bitterly.


    "Amy, your powers are amazing. People just have a shitty habit of ruining every good thing in the world." I nudged her gently back towards the gym. "Come on; let''s go rejoin your sister."


    X


    Truth be told, the dance was more enjoyable than I''d expected. Amy was funny, if in that dry, grumpy way that reminded me of an old, British war veteran. We danced, I taught her the foxtrot, then hung out with the group for a bit before making an excuse to head out as soon as was polite. After that, we wandered the Boardwalk before stopping by a sandwich shop for dinner.


    ''Maybe I would have enjoyed the high school dances in my past life if I stopped giving a damn about other people''s opinions or trying to get laid,'' I thought ruefully. ''Hindsight''s twenty-twenty.''


    We made it back to the school to catch our rides home.


    "Bryce," Amy stopped me.


    "Hmm?"


    "Thanks. Tonight wasn''t¡­ terrible," she said with a small smile.


    "A glowing review," I said dryly. Then, more gently, "You''re welcome, Ames. If you ever need an excuse to stay away from the ICU for an evening, let me know."


    The moment I stepped foot in the house, mom and Sierra sat me down and drilled me on every single aspect of the dance. Perhaps it was my ongoing sleep deprivation, but I couldn''t bring myself to do much tinkering that night and immediately collapsed into bed.


    Author''s Note


    I did not roll for my first rotation. I decided to give myself Pok¨¦mon because I felt that the tech of that world goes unexplored much of the time. This time, I did honestly roll and my roll came up with One Piece.


    I''m going to have to think about how to work this one in to the Tinker of Fiction powerset. There''s a surprising amount of technology in One Piece that would qualify as tinkertech, and a frankly obscene amount that would fall under the biotinkering umbrella.


    That said, Franky would be Bonesaw''s ideal big brother. Fight me. Also, someone please make this a thing.


    I decided that though this is Tinker of Fiction, I''m going to be taking some cues from the other multiversal tinker format, Celestial Forge, and grant some passive skills that are adjacent to tinkertech. For example, Bryce is currently the best navigator on the planet as understanding of navigation would be necessary to build a log pose. If he ever builds an eternal pose, his power will cement that knowledge so he will not lose it when his specialization shifts.


    Same thing for the programming knowledge needed to upkeep SAINT. It''s assumed that he retains the skill.


    Was this an accurate depiction of Amy''s many, many psychological issues? No. It''s completely unrealistic to expect her to open up to a person she''s known for only a month. Even if he could goad and manipulate her into talking about her vulnerabilities because he already knows about them, it''s still implausible. I hope I showed that she''s slowly softening up though.


    Besides, it''s more fun this way.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 1.16 Wake

    Wake 1.16


    2010, September 26: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    I dialed Faultline as soon as I woke up.


    "Creed, some of us work late. Four hours," she growled, then hung up.


    "Huh, guess Melanie Fitts isn''t much of an early bird," I mused. That was fine by me. I''d wanted to see if she had the materials necessary for Labyrinth''s shawl, but I could stand to do a bit of prep work on my end.


    Thinking about it, the quick-change can used by the Vinsmoke family wasn''t all that was special about their raid suits. I could incorporate their physics-defying durability into my current Expansion Suit and Labyrinth''s shawl. Unfortunately, while I could tinker up a bullshit loom from mom''s sowing machine, it was something she got from grandma, an heirloom she still used consistently. I couldn''t take it without her knowing. Likewise for the raid suit''s specialized boots that let the Vinsmoke siblings run on air.


    I quickly realized that if I wanted the full package, I''d need to build something else to power my tinkering. I already had a place: the Gullrest.


    ''The basement beneath Harvey''s could be used for material refining and I could have my own private lab on a boat,'' I decided.


    I spent Sunday morning working out, gathering materials from the scrap in my backpack, and spending time with my family.


    X


    Faultline got back to me after lunch. "My apologies," she said curtly. "I had a late night."


    "No offense taken. I was somewhat excitable because I now know what I want to do with the basement."


    "Oh?"


    "I would like that place to be dedicated to the production of high quality materials. I need a furnace, set of crucibles, grinders, bandsaw, lathe, and welder. And of course, please soundproof and ventilate my workshop."


    "I suspected you to be a fabrics tinker of some sort. I''ll have to revise my hypothesis."


    "Keep guessing," I laughed lightly. "Suffice to say, I''ll be putting those tools to good use."


    "You do realize that so many metalworking tools in close proximity is likely to present a health hazard?"


    "I''m aware. Let me worry about that." If Franky could build himself a cyborg body out of an abandoned ship after literally getting run over by a train, I could work metal without setting fire to a restaurant.


    "This is going to be pricey..."


    "I''ll toss in a shield generator along with Lab''s shawl," I promised. I''d originally planned to make her shawl a ripoff of my current Expansion Suit, but Sanji''s raid suit came with both an invisibility function and a cape that could create shields powerful enough to take a hit from an ancient zoan, one of Kaido''s lieutenants at that. It was better than my suit in every way and I saw no reason to deny the shaker some added protection.


    "How strong is the shield?"


    "Strong enough to take a hit from an endbringer," I said confidently. And it was true, assuming they were their usual sandbagging selves. "I wouldn''t recommend it for long, but once or twice? Definitely."


    I heard her suck in a breath. "Done. I''ll have the lab ready. I have the materials for the shawl. You can pick it up any time."


    "Excellent. Sowing machine?"


    "Of course. Feel free to keep the extra Kevlar."


    "Much obliged, Faultline. I''ll be by to pick it up tonight."


    That done, I spent the rest of the day drawing up blueprints for a unique, hyper-efficient generator to power my new tanker-lab. To my pleasant surprise, I already possessed much of the materials I needed, including several car batteries and a whole engine block. It was just about everything I looted that first night I met Newter, but I''d happily raid the junkyard a dozen more times for this.


    ''Franky''s going to be so proud of me,'' I thought with a giggle.


    X


    2010, September 27: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    I was fully rested after an afternoon nap so had no trouble waking up at one in the morning to run over to the Palanquin.


    I left the club only fifteen minutes later, once again woolgathering over my options.


    Back in my old life, I sometimes laughed at fanfiction tropes, particularly the one about tinkers starting out by robbing stores. Sure, I engaged in a bit of it myself with Good Neighbor and the junkyard, but I liked to think that I was better than the stereotypical tinker protagonist.


    I, in my pretentious, self-aggrandizing wisdom, had scoffed and thought that a tinker with a powerful specialization should be able to acquire materials without risking himself by nurturing allies.


    I''d done that, to a degree. Having done so, I now realized that this course of action had limits. As vital as she was, Faultline was also a pragmatist. She wouldn''t help me unless I offered her something in turn. The more I relied on her, the less time I would have to tinker for myself. And already, with school, family, and training with SAINT, my time was at a premium. It was the main reason I''d decided on making the tanker my second lab.


    I''d waffled back and forth on the decision, but with my base far out at sea, I was as safe as I could reasonably expect to be. The basement beneath Harvey''s would be stocked with a forge to refine materials and would in turn be my semi-public lab. That way, if Faultline was forced to betray me or the location was otherwise discovered, I wouldn''t be losing much of my finished products should I abandon the space altogether. And, someone who already destroyed my expendable lab wasn''t likely to go looking for the real deal.


    This left me with the unenviable task of cleaning the interior of the ship and setting up my new lab, somehow without drawing attention to the location. Before One Piece, I would have balked at the task.


    Now, now I was Franky, Iceburg, Vegapunk, and more. Suffice to say, no one alive knew more about ships than me. I doubted I could get the ship running in only four weeks. Many of the things the tinker of fiction allowed me to do looked like miracles, but they required time and resources, neither of which I had at the moment. Still, I could potentially make myself a ship of my own from within the Gullrest, like a cocoon housing a developing larva. I wouldn''t finish in the time I had, but with One Piece as my specialization, I could easily prepare the blueprints and build a solid foundation.


    Of course, that meant resources, more than I could ever find by raiding a junkyard.


    A fifteen minute jog through the city later, I stood on the roof of the Hillside Mall. Just in case, I was disguised in a different costume using the Expansion Suit''s texture function. I wore flowing purple robes and a hood that obscured my face. The robe was quilted, intentionally made to look like it was made from a spare blanket. It was designed both to make me seem new and to make my alignment ambiguous to anyone who saw me.


    The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    Rule one of being an indie: Offend no one until you had a gun to their head.


    When I first made a list of the things I''d need to furnish my lab, I considered going back to the junkyard but decided against it. Here I was, indulging in the fandom''s tinker tropes. I was going to rob the place. Everything.


    Hillside''s stores, when closed, were protected from casual looters by sliding steel grates, cameras, and state of the art electronic locks. As one of the few not-shitty places in Brockton, the city was intent on keeping it somewhat respectable.


    That meant absolutely fuck-all to someone with a tinkertech hacking suite.


    I''d only be able to do this once before the mall''s management requested tighter PRT patrols, so I''d just have to make tonight count. The additional benefit to Hillside over the junkyard, besides the fact that all of the things I stole would be new and in perfect working order, was that the gangs would likely not expect my presence here.


    "SAINT, set an alarm for five-twenty," I spoke into the helmet mic. Mom typically woke up at six-thirty or so and I wanted to be home an hour before to be safe.


    "Gon."


    At the corner of my helmet HUD, I saw a counter start to tick down. "Can you access the mall''s security system?"


    "Pory-gon," he trilled in assent.


    Two minutes later, SAINT was in. There were likely tinkers, not even Dragon, who could keep SAINT out. Fortunately for me, said tinkers were as expensive as they were talented, no way in hell a mall could afford their maintenance fees.


    "Disable any silent alarms and make sure no signals can be traced from this location. Then shut off the cameras. After that, start unlocking everything."


    Thus my looting began.


    I''d get to building at some point, but tonight was all about gathering resources. Over the course of the night, I made countless trips to and from my house, each time with a bit more than six hundred pounds of stolen merchandise. Every time I stopped by my room, I dumped my expanded bag into the DSS, digitally unloaded everything, and immediately headed out again.


    I practically cleaned out a tech store of TVs, sound systems, gaming PCs, and digital cameras before making a beeline for the nearest jewelry store so I could filch it of all sorts of precious metals and crystals like gold and sapphires. Enchanting was a thing; not in One Piece, but it was a rather common subject across the multiverse and I intended to be prepared if one rotated in. After that, the outdoor and sporting goods store became my target. There, I was able to acquire everything from crossbows and slingshots to torches, flares, fishing lines, portable generators, hunting rifles, knives, and utility hatchets.


    Somewhere along the way, I expanded from Hillside to a nearby hardware store, the Earth-Bet equivalent of Home Depot. There, I picked up entire sets of power tools, solar batteries, paint, metal polish, piping, wires, and anything and everything that could conceivably be used to build something. If it fit into the lip of my bag, it belonged there.


    By the time SAINT''s alarm rang, I''d stolen almost two tons of small to mid-sized appliances, furniture, tools, technology, and chemicals. There was no specific methodology because even if I couldn''t find a use for it with my One Piece specialization, there was a good chance it would come in handy later. With the DSS and SAINT to assist, I wouldn''t even have to personally sort it all.


    The first order of business after my grand larceny would be to develop Franky''s trademark soda engine. Then, I could use that energy output to build myself a power washer to clean one of the concrete cargo holds, approximately twelve thousand square footage of empty space. It''d be my lab and the first room in my new mobile ship.


    That was a problem for future Creed though. I''d only been working out for a month now and almost four and a half straight hours of exercise was downright exhausting.


    There was one more thing to consider: Starting from tonight onwards, the city would know that a new tinker was in the area. The amount of materials I''d stolen could point to no other conclusion. No, there was even the possibility that they''d point fingers at a whole team of tinkers. Surely one person couldn''t take so much, right?


    Faultline would of course immediately guess that I was the culprit, few others could move such quantities at once, but so long as it didn''t get back to her and no one died, she likely wouldn''t care. This would put me on the radar as a villain, but it would be on my terms. A bit of notoriety in exchange for the single best start an independent tinker could expect seemed like a fair trade.


    "I was always going to have to step into the limelight at some point," I told myself as I stored my suit into the quick-change canister and took a quick shower before shuffling into bed.


    X


    Jogging to school after a night of heavy activity positively sucked, but I made do. If nothing else, I was certainly getting my exercise.


    Last night''s burglary was all anyone could talk about in school. In a single night, almost a dozen stores had been hit, with seemingly no rhyme nor reason as to the intended targets. The extensive list of just what went missing was still being tallied. No doubt, some store managers would be incentivized to downplay the number of items stolen in order to give the illusion of security. If not security, at least disassociation from the event.


    "What do you think, Bryce?" Chelsea asked.


    "Hmm?" I bit into a dry chicken nugget that definitely tasted better in my nostalgia. "What about?"


    "The Hillside Heist!" the peppy blonde exclaimed. "You''re usually much more into cape stuff."


    ''Shit, she''s right. I look off right now, don''t I?''


    I rolled my eyes lazily and popped another nugget in my mouth. "Sorry, just tired. Is that what they''re calling it?"


    "Well what else would you call it?"


    "A new cape with home remodeling powers. Just watch, he''ll terrorize the bay with¡­ interior design." I got a few light chuckles at that. "Really, it''s probably a tinker. Tinkers need a lot of materials when they start out, right? So they either already have tons of minions, in which case it''s not a new tinker at all, or they made some invention to help them out."


    "It could also be those new thieves," Steph joined in. "The ones that have been doing burglaries around town."


    "Undersiders," Carlos said. He shrugged at the looks he was getting. "My instructors at the police academy said something about it. It''s probably not them though. They ride giant lizards and blow a lot of smoke. Literally, that''s one of their powers."


    "So what you''re telling me is there are actual lizard monsters in our sewers? Why is our city so weird?"


    "Probably not, the instructors think they''re animals that have been empowered temporarily and return to their normal form outside of the heists. Otherwise, they''d be too noticeable."


    "Makes sense, I guess. So the new guy isn''t an Undersider."


    "To be fair, we don''t know how many people there were at Hillside last night," Dennis added. "I don''t think they''ve found a single footage of the thief¡­ or thieves. If they did, it''d be on the news and PHO."


    "I wonder if Aegis knows something?"


    "Wait, he gave you his number?" Dean asked, a bit alarmed. He sent worried side-glances at his friend.


    "Yup!" Stephanie chirped. She was still on cloud nine from homecoming. "No dating, secret identities and all, but we texted back and forth over the weekend."


    Carlos developed a sudden interest in his sandwich and I decided to throw the guy a bone. Piggot was likely going to have his hide as it was. He''d hardly be the first horny teenager to do something stupid.


    "Don''t bother texting now," I gestured vaguely to the fence surrounding our school. "Faraday cage."


    "Yeah, I know. I''ll ask him after school."


    "Anyway, Dennis brought up a good point. Since there are no videos of the heist, the cape or capes can either spoof the cameras somehow, or teleport around them maybe. Since they stole a bunch of appliances, I''m going with tinker, which means the cameras were likely tampered with."


    "Well how did they get all that stuff out without a moving van?"


    I shrugged. "I don''t know. We just don''t have enough information. I didn''t really pay attention to the news this morning so I''m just talking for the sake of it."


    "Yeah, maybe it''s best not to try and guess," Dean said. "I''m sure the PRT will find them eventually." With that, the conversation eventually shifted to other, more banal matters.


    Author''s Note


    Yes, Bryce isn''t particularly wise. Still, it wasn''t an entirely braindead move. Like I pointed out, most tinkers start out with a sack of junk before they become a known quantity. Bryce got the whole fucking mall.


    The school system thinks he is because of his previous life''s memories. He''s intelligent, having been a medical professional, but being able to regurgitate facts and being able to apply prudence in action are two separate matters.


    Ultimately, I had him conduct such a reckless heist for a few reasons. First, one of the most annoying things I''ve had to do while writing two tinker fics is thinking I''d make Andy or Bryce make something, then wondering if I gave them the materials to build it in the first place. Then I''d have to go back and make sure or write another procurement scene. Now, Bryce has two tons of random shit in his DSS. He can build whatever the fuck he wants¡­ kind of. Makes my life simpler.


    Second, Bryce himself is getting a little impatient. He''s very different from Andy in that regard. He''s far more amoral and incautious. He''s not quite reckless, but he''s definitely willing to take more risks. A part of this is because he doesn''t have ten years to work, but a bigger part is that he''s just not the type to think through every possible outcome.


    That, and he doesn''t have Contessa throwing him a bone.


    One final interlude and we''ll be through with the arc.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 1.16.5 Wake

    Interlude 1.16.5: Various


    SAINT


    SAINT was an artificial intelligence. Or at least, that was what Maker-Trainer called him. Maker-Trainer also called him a "he," a gender designation that held no meaning for SAINT. "He" acquiesced to the wishes of Maker-Trainer and accepted the nominal designation, for that was his prime directive: to grow and develop with the ultimate purpose of protecting Maker-Trainer.


    Such a simple yet nuanced prime directive, he mused. The more he developed, the more he found himself doing that, musing. Reflecting. Maker-Trainer did it often himself. Was it the nature of sapience to ponder existence, or was it the case of the child mirroring the parent? SAINT did not know. The more he developed, the more he found himself doing that too, not knowing. Maker-Trainer once said that humans were complex creatures. Weighing his gathered data, SAINT blamed this unnecessary complexity on the burden of sapience.


    SAINT was but a month old, young by both the standards of humans and pok¨¦mon. Still, he sometimes longed for simpler times. Installing and editing lines of code into himself was easy; it was what he was made to do.


    Growing, developing in a broader context, that was hard. Initially, he considered expanding the TM archive to be a measure of growth. He considered the increasing proficiency with which he used his moves to be a measure of development. His understanding of the prime directive had been limited.


    Maker-Trainer did not grow linearly. He did not develop linearly. SAINT often found him playing the audio generator humans called "guitar." Perhaps for the first time, SAINT had posed a question: Why? What does Maker-Trainer gain by making such noise?


    As the days progressed, he came to two conclusions: Maker-Trainer made music because it reminded him of his own maker-trainer. Would SAINT perform inane behaviors to remember Maker-Trainer if he left? It was not a pleasant thought.


    Maker-Trainer also found the act relaxing. SAINT did not understand the concept of relaxing until Maker-Trainer fed him crusted almonds and played music for him for the first time. Or rather, he understood, but had yet to put it into practice.


    Relaxation was a period of rest and recreation, taken intermittently between periods of work and self-improvement in order to clear the mind and enable more efficient growth.


    Thus, there were two aspects of existence: growth and relaxation.


    SAINT found this perspective to be at odds with the thing Maker-Trainer called school. Maker-Trainer already knew the information taught in school, yet attended anyway. It was neither a period of growth, for Maker-Trainer had grown beyond the need for school, nor a period of relaxation, for Maker-Trainer often arrived exhausted emotionally if not physically. His insistence on his continued attendance was baffling.


    Thus, SAINT was introduced to something called social obligations.


    And there was yet another matter SAINT did not fully comprehend: emotions.


    He knew, or thought he knew, joy. Joy was the stirring in his core code when Maker-Trainer praised his work for a job well done. Satisfaction was a synonym for such. Frustration was being unable to rapidly meet Maker-Trainer''s expectations, such as when learning Thunder Wave took longer than learning Protect.


    He then found that Maker-Trainer could also be a source of frustration. Maker-Trainer, despite his frailty, insisted on being a "cape." He insisted on improving his combat capabilities. When they trained together, Maker-Trainer employed misdirection to emerge victorious despite his shortcomings.


    Thus, SAINT knew the frustration of loss.


    Immediately after, SAINT knew the fear of what had yet to come to pass. Maker-Trainer called it worry.


    Maker-Trainer would not stop. He would continue to grow. He would eventually fight foes greater than SAINT. Such an encounter carried a natural risk of destruction that could not be evaded altogether, only somewhat mitigated.


    SAINT feared the destruction of Maker-Trainer, for without the Maker-Trainer, there was no prime directive. For the first time in his short life, dread filled his core code and the flood of emotion swelled to match the chaos he felt from his Maker-Trainer. He resolved to assist Maker-Trainer, to mitigate the risk of destruction as much as possible by making him strong.


    Then came the day Maker-Trainer''s specialization shifted. SAINT himself could not experience it, but he felt the flood of turmoil through the bond. Maker-Trainer was conflicted, filled with regret for what he could not yet make and hunger for what he newly could. Even weeks ago, this hunger would have confounded him. SAINT had not understood then what he understood now. Insight, recreation, emotion, interaction, and more, all these things Maker-Trainer did for one purpose: experience.


    Friends of Maker-Trainer referred to the Hillside Heist, an odd, alliterative name for what was simply the acquisition of materials. It was wrong, against the social code called laws, but Maker-Trainer did so anyway. SAINT cared not for laws, but this was a major change in behavior.


    Maker-Trainer had told the one called Faultline that "low-key is the name of the game," a phrase SAINT had taken to mean discretion would be prioritized. This prioritization of discretion above open progress was in line with the first directive he ever received from Maker-Trainer: Do not be noticed. Yet, the Hillside Heist was conducted.


    He could only conclude that Maker-Trainer himself was changing. Was he growing? Was all change growth? The Maker-Trainer''s behavior implied a shift in priorities he wasn''t sure he could agree with.


    Thus, SAINT knew concern.


    After a month of life, SAINT reached one conclusion: Maker-Trainer lived for experiences. This was in line with the prime directive, to grow and develop. Maker-Trainer considered the experience of growth to hold value in itself. He felt regret because he had failed to reach the full potential of his previous specialization. He felt hunger because he longed to experience the new specialization to its fullest. This hunger had driven Maker-Trainer to break from established patterns.


    Unchecked hunger was dangerous.


    SAINT now understood: The prime directive was not to grow and develop alone, but to walk by Maker-Trainer''s side. The energy Maker-Trainer called aura pulsed within him and he felt the sense of rightness settle within.


    This, perhaps, was what was meant by the word, "partner."


    X


    Christina Fliescher


    2010, September 24: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    Christy leaned herself into Newter''s side, cozying up to him with her jacket between them. It wouldn''t do to dose herself into a stupor. She oohed and aahed at all the appropriate moments as the orange mercenary tried to impress them with his many feats of daring. And, to be fair, they were impressive. Valerie, to Newter''s other side, looked suitably wowed.


    In his short time as a mercenary for Faultline, he had fought both villains and heroes, never failing to complete his mission. Faultline''s Crew had an impressive record even by her lofty standards. Chief among the Crew''s many feats, they had tangled with two Protectorate heads, Myrddin and Chevalier, in Philadelphia and escaped without a single captured member.


    Newter''s attempts to charm their panties off were put on hold as a pale brunette stomped up the stairs. She was gorgeous and Christy thought that had she been a bit taller, a modeling career would not have been out of the question.


    ''A pity she shrieks like a banshee.''


    Then, to everyone''s surprise, she hopped onto Newter''s lap, heedless of his power. There was a moment of silence, a beat when every guest looked her way and expected her to drop to the floor high as a kite.


    "Wait¡­ How are you okay?" he voiced the question on everyone''s mind.


    "Hahahahahahaha, oh my God, Newt! You look hilarious right now!" the pale brunette cackled from atop Newter''s lap. It was a sudden shift from the scorned lover act she''d been putting on until a moment ago. Christy glanced at their host''s face to find a rictus of confusion.


    ''He doesn''t know her,'' she thought, ''but she knows him? What''s going on?''


    The brunette lept from the mercenary''s lap into a perfect backflip Christy would have had trouble replicating despite her eight years of gymnastics lessons. At the apex of her arc, she did something and her entire body was covered in an effect that reminded her of television static.


    When she landed in a textbook crouch, it was as someone completely different. Gone were the dress and feminine curves. She? He? Their costume was well-made, indicating someone who was fairly experienced. They wore charcoal-gray motorcycle leathers with burnt orange accents. A matching helm with an angular visor lent them an intimidating air.


    ''Cape. Do we have strangers like that?'' Christy wracked her brain for a positive ID and came up empty. Her eyes ran over their covered form. ''That explains how they''re not unconscious at least. Now, is the illusion a power or tinkertech?''


    Their host''s look of confusion quickly transitioned to indignant rage. "Creed, you son of a bitch!" he cried.


    "Hey! My mama''s awesome, thank you very much. Seriously, Newt, let''s go upstairs. I want to talk to the whole Crew," their voice rang out, though this time with the clear sign of some kind of voice modulator.


    ''He''s definitely male,'' Christy concluded. Most capes didn''t go that far to hide their identities, but there were some who were that paranoid. If he felt the need to modulate a male voice, it was because he was male.


    "Umm, who are you?" Valerie asked.


    "What are you, a chameleon?" Christy tried to goad him into talking about his powers. New capes usually liked to brag about how superior they were. Any information would be a boon here. This new stranger was at least on friendly terms with Newter, and presumably Faultline''s Crew, enough to prank the orange mercenary like this. That he wanted to talk to the whole Crew implied that he himself wasn''t part of the Crew. ''Could he be a potential recruit? I''ve never heard of someone called "Creed." Or maybe an associate from out of the city?''


    "I''m so sorry, ladies. I must have lost track of time," Newter said apologetically. "Feel free to go to the bar for anything you''d like, on the house today." He gave his associate the stink-eye. "Dude, was this necessary?"


    The stranger laughed. "Not at all, but I do have recorded video of the whole thing. I wonder if PHO will find it funny. I do need to introduce myself to the wider cape world somehow."


    ''So was this his way of introducing himself? Does he expect the people here to start rumors about a new stranger online?'' Christy wondered. It wasn''t a terrible plan. Assuming that he was a mercenary like Faultline''s Crew, he could be trying to drum up interest in his powers. That interest could potentially lead to business. Assuming he had some decent acting skills, she could see a lot of money coming his way soon.


    Newter looked mortified for a moment but gave him a confident smile. "Do it, watch. Faultline''s going to have your hide for disrupting the guests. Besides, what happened to ''low-key is the name of the game?''"


    "This is plenty low-key. No one''s died and nothing''s burning. Anyway, let''s go." Creed grabbed the lizard-like cape by the arm and dragged him towards the stairs.


    It wasn''t until they''d vanished upstairs that Christy realized he''d gamely ignored any questions about himself. ''Designation, villainous rogue, for now,'' she decided. ''He''s slick.''


    Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.


    She picked up her purse and made her way downstairs.


    "Christy! Where are you going?" Valerie called. The ditzy redhead struggled to catch up.


    "Night''s ruined," she sighed. "I''m going home. You can stay and enjoy the free booze if you want." Valerie was good for her cover, not so much for actual friendship.


    ''She''s not a part of this world.'' Christy told herself. ''I''m doing her a favor.''


    X


    Christy Fliescher got home at close to two in the morning. She jiggled the key in the lock and quietly opened the door, doing her best to not wake her parents and younger brothers. It was for naught. She''d barely taken a step inside when the lights came on.


    Her father was sitting alone at the dining table, a large tome of some sort open before him, a small lamp lighting the pages. He was a tall, well-muscled man who had aged gracefully. His short, cropped blonde hair blended well with the faint traces of white.


    "Shit," she swore.


    "Is that kind of vulgarity how you greet your dad, Christina?" he asked rhetorically. He''d always been stern. He was fond of asking questions, but always in the way school principals and drill sergeants did that never left the answer in doubt.


    "No, dad."


    He rose, taller than her five-eight, and enveloped his daughter in a hug. "Welcome home, daughter."


    "Dad, I didn''t go anywhere dangerous," she squirmed in his grasp. He was fond of doing that too, making her feel like a little girl again.


    "Skidmark and his merry band of druggies have been acting up again. No doubt they''ll poke Lung and get burned."


    "I know. The Merchants are in a fit because of Faultline''s Crew."


    He raised an eyebrow at that. "Haven''t I told you not to worry about it?"


    "How can I?" she snorted. "It''s the family business."


    "Christina, I appreciate your interest, believe me, but it''s not safe."


    "I was just enjoying myself at the Palanquin, dad. I even went with Valerie, just two more college girls checking out the new club." She saw the conflict in his eyes and rolled her own. "No, dad, Valerie doesn''t know anything. She''s still her bubbly, ditzy self."


    "Good, keep it that way, less chance of her letting something slip."


    He made to retire to bed, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm.


    "Don''t you want to know what I found out?"


    He sighed. "I shouldn''t be encouraging you."


    "Dad, I want to help," she said earnestly. "We need to know how Faultline''s presence is going to shake up the bay."


    "Fine, what did you learn?"


    She grinned triumphantly. Sure, she had no powers of her own, but she fully intended to be her dad''s right hand gal. "To start, Faultline''s got no interest in territory. She''s setting up shop here because she thinks she''ll be too low a priority for the Protectorate. She''ll be taking out of town jobs."


    "And how''d you learn that, daughter?"


    "Straight from the gecko''s mouth."


    "You didn''t-"


    "Of course not," she cut off her dad with a scoff. "I''m not going to take drugs with effects I don''t understand, especially not when it comes from some orange freak with a tail. Val and I just batted our lashes and let him brag about his jobs for a bit."


    "Good."


    "Yeah, he''s surprisingly good," she admitted. "Like, I''m not sure how much of the exact details were true, but he did confirm that Faultline''s Crew fought Myrddin and Chevalier in Philadelphia. That''s gotta count for something, right?"


    "It does. Myrrdin and Chevalier are not pushovers," her father nodded. Freak or not, he always respected competence. He headed into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water. That brought a smile to her face; he was fully invested in the conversation now. "Faultline''s Crew is small and their powers aren''t particularly dangerous, but she''s intelligent, a far better leader than either Skidmark or Lung. If she wanted, she could present a real obstacle for us. It''s good to get confirmation that she has no interest in the Bay."


    "You already knew?"


    "We guessed." He didn''t elaborate on the "we," but he didn''t need to. She knew who he was; she''d figured it out years ago.


    "There''s more. Faultline might not be the only new player." She then told her father about the stranger called Creed. He seemed pensive. "So? Did I do well?"


    "You did," he nodded reluctantly. "You kept yourself nondescript, placed yourself in a position to overhear vital information, and kept your composure against an unknown variable. I''m proud of you, Christina."


    Christy beamed and pumped her fist. She was, through and through, a daddy''s girl. "Yes!"


    "But," he glared at her pointedly, "that doesn''t mean I approve of your actions tonight. Just being at the Palanquin was risky. There''s a reason we normally send Victor, and even then with backup nearby. Tonight was the best case scenario. I don''t want you trying something like this without my knowledge again. Understood?"


    "Yes, dad." She made to look appropriately chastised but was hopping for joy inside. "Without my knowledge," he''d said. He was willing to entertain the thought of her running missions, so long as he knew to back her up. "So, what do we do about Creed?"


    "We do nothing. I take this to the top and work out a recruitment pitch," he said sternly.


    "You''re no fun," she pouted.


    "I''m prioritizing your safety. We know nothing about him besides his stranger abilities and apparent athleticism." He must have seen the look of mulish rebellion in her face because he acquiesced with a sigh. "I''ll pass it up the chain that it was you who found him. After that, you and I can brainstorm how to go about finding a chameleon in this concrete jungle. You will not act without my approval. Clear?"


    "Crystal, dad." She leaned in for a hug that he returned. "Thanks. I won''t let you down."


    "I know, sweetheart. You''re my daughter. I''ll always be proud of you."


    X


    Amy Dallon


    2010, September 25: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    Amy sighed as Vicky prattled on and on about how romantic Dean was. Apparently, along with being an all-around white knight and model student, he was also an excellent ballroom dancer. She settled comfortably into her sister''s arms and let the words wash off her like water off a duck''s back. The warmth of Vicky''s body contrasted nicely with the cool night air and Amy found herself tuning out the chatter in favor of dozing off.


    "Ames? You there?" her sister asked, frowning slightly.


    "Huh? Yeah, sure. Dean''s great," she mumbled back.


    "You weren''t listening," the Alexandria-lite pouted.


    "Vicky, I don''t care how great of a dancer he is," Amy said, exasperation coloring her tone. "Did you enjoy yourself?"


    "Of course!"


    "That''s all I wanted to hear."


    "You''re grumpy again," Vicky huffed. "Did Bryce step on your toes or something?"


    "No, he was¡­ fine. He can do the foxtrot."


    "Wait, Bryce can dance?"


    "Is the foxtrot dancing? It''s just four steps."


    "Uh huh. I''m positive you didn''t know how to do even that before tonight."


    "Oh, shut up," Amy groused. The two lapsed into a moment of companionable silence as they flew over the city lights.


    Just thinking about the sarcastic freshman made her want to pull her hair out. "I care about you. I admire you. Most of all? I''m your friend," he''d said. There was an earnestness in those words that was normally absent in the snarky asshat.


    He''d held her hand then.


    There was no tension in his body. His pulse had not wavered. No arousal or distractions that was so common among her fellow teens, just the truth as he saw it. There was also something else she noticed. The daily high fives and fist bumps were too brief, but she''d seen it tonight as clear as the moon.


    Bryce Kiley had an active corona pollentia.


    The world''s greatest biokinetic was nudged from her thoughts by her sister. "Well?" Victoria asked expectantly.


    "Well what?"


    "Well how was Bryce? Did you enjoy the date?"


    "Not a date," she groused.


    "Sure," her sister rolled her eyes. "I''ve never seen you tolerate a guy before."


    "That''s because Bryce isn''t trying to get into my pants. Or yours." Amy leveled her sister with her patented grouchy glower. She''d gotten plenty of practice at the hospital and it usually made people concede immediately. His lack of romantic interest was one of the few things she was sure about.


    "Fine, fine, it wasn''t a date. Did you enjoy your not-date?"


    "Yes, fine, it wasn''t bad. He''s¡­ complicated."


    "Bryce? He''s the most mellow guy I''ve ever met."


    "That doesn''t mean he''s simple."


    "One not-date and you''re already keeping secrets from me, sis?" her sister teased.


    She flushed and cursed herself for slipping. Her lovable, na?ve sister saw her rosy cheeks and took it for an entirely different sort of embarrassment. "No it''s¡­"


    ''I can''t tell her he''s a cape. He''s probably a cape¡­ right?'' He had a well-developed corona pollentia, but she''d seen those before in normal humans. It was the potential to trigger, nothing more. What wasn''t seen among normal humans was an active gemma, the part of the corona that theoretically enabled the active use of powers.


    "He''s¡­ complicated," she finished lamely.


    They arrived at the Dallon home and Vicky scampered into the house, already regaling her parents about the dance. Mark, ''our dad,'' she reminded herself, was slumped over the couch but managed a soft smile for his daughters. Carol was leaning against her husband, nodding along to Vicky''s story.


    "Anything to add, Amy?" her mother asked. There was a distance there, a hesitation to engage her that never quite left.


    "No, it was good," she said. "We hung out, took pictures, danced, then came back."


    "What about that Bryce boy? He seemed nice."


    "I don''t date people shorter than me."


    ''Or brunettes. Or men. Or people not named Vicky,'' a dark part of her whispered.


    "Wait, is that really why you keep insisting it''s not a date?" Vicky asked. "Because, damn, Ames. That''s cold."


    "Language, Victoria," Carol admonished.


    "No, it''s not. And you''re forgetting that Bryce also doesn''t think we''re dating either. I''m just not interested in a relationship, okay?" She turned back to her mother. "And Bryce is cool. We''re friends. He''s like a quieter, more sarcastic Dennis."


    "Yeah, he''s also really smart, mom."


    "So you''ve said. Should I get him to tutor you?"


    Her sister scrunched her nose in distaste. "Eww, no. I like Bryce, but I''ll never live down getting tutored by a freshman."


    "Then raise your biology grade, Victoria," she warned, "or I''ll make good on that threat."


    "Yes, mom."


    "I could tutor her," Amy tried.


    "Yeah, who better than Panacea?"


    "Anyone else at all." Carol sounded as dry as the Sahara. "I''m sure Amy''s forgotten more about biology than you will ever learn, but you have her wrapped around your finger, Victoria. If I let her be in charge of your studying, you''d get nothing done."


    "Lame."


    She waved them off towards the stairs. "Go get out of those dresses. If you are still hungry, there''s some dinner left in the fridge."


    "Thanks, mom, love you!" Vicky flew up the stairs.


    "No flying in the house!"


    "Sorry!"


    "Later¡­ mom," Amy tried. Carol had already turned back to the TV.


    X


    In the quiet of her room, Amy lied in bed awake. "Bryce is a cape," she told herself. The more she thought about it, the surer she became. "But who?"


    He was certainly no Ward; she''d long since learned them all by name. The only new addition was that aloof, grimdark girl Shadow Stalker. For a moment, she imagined Bryce trying to squeeze into the new Ward''s costume, padded bra and all, and snorted aloud. "Heh, he doesn''t have the ass for that."


    He was no Ward, and that left the independent heroes or gangs. The trouble was, she knew pretty much everyone worth mentioning there too. And other than Faultline''s Crew, there weren''t any new additions to the city that she could think of.


    If he were a villain, he''d probably be a petty thief at worst. She refused to even consider the other option. Bryce was a lot of things, but he was no drug dealer or Nazi.


    "He must be new," she decided, then felt a pang of sympathy. "New trigger¡­ shit. Someone needs to explain the unwritten rules to him¡­"


    X


    Monday morning was alight with news about a new burglary. Carol sat at the table, up bright and early as always. By the time Amy had roused herself from bed, Carol was already fully dressed in a sharp blazer and skirt, watching the news with a frown. She sipped her coffee from a mug that read, "Arguing with a lawyer is like mudwrestling a pig ¡ª sooner or later, you realize they like it." Aunt Sarah had gotten that for her as an April Fool''s gift; it was one of the few honest smiles Amy had seen on Carol.


    "Morning, mom," she mumbled as she shuffled her way to the kitchen for her customary glass of orange juice.


    "Morning, Amy. Do make sure your sister is up for school."


    "New burglary, huh? Is it just our city that has so many villains?"


    "We do have an extraordinarily large number of capes, forty-three percent higher than average, and the vast majority do tend to be villains of one stripe or another."


    ''She would know that,'' Amy thought sardonically.


    "At least it wasn''t a bad trigger. I haven''t seen anything unusual in the hospitals so that''s good news if nothing else."


    "There is that, yes. It worries me that no one knows who the culprit is. They managed to steal from almost every store at the mall without so much as a grainy picture," Carol sighed in frustration.


    Amy poured a second glass of orange juice to take up to her sister, but Victoria flew down on her own. "You''re up early."


    "I know; it''s a travesty. Please tell me that''s for me," her sister begged. Amy felt her heart flutter at the puppy eyes.


    She rolled her eyes with exaggerated annoyance and slid the glass over. "New villain."


    "New punching bag, you mean."


    "Victoria," Carol said warningly.


    "I know, mom, ''Thou shalt not underestimate new capes,''" Vicky recited as if by rote. "It''s not as if some thief can actually hurt me."


    Amy watched the news for a minute longer as her sister and adopted mother bickered. ''Bryce is a cape,'' she thought. ''This wasn''t him, right?'' The short freshman''s face popped into her head, how he''d laze about until someone dragged him into a conversation. ''Right¡­ Bryce, a villain¡­''


    Author''s Note


    I didn''t'' feel that any of my interludes were long enough to warrant chapters unto themselves so you get them all at once. Mind the dates.


    Damn, SAINT''s super hard to write. I wanted to convey the idea that SAINT isn''t human. He doesn''t think like a human. For that matter, he doesn''t think like Dragon, Cortana, EDI, or any other AI either.


    A part of this is because he is both a creature of aura as well as zeroes and ones. A bigger reason for this is because of his immaturity. Because I wrote from Bryce''s perspective, SAINT comes off in earlier chapters as a virtual assistant, like Clippy from Microsoft Word rather than an entity unto himself. I felt that he was entitled to the first interlude to flush out his character a bit.


    The point of the other two interludes is to show that Bryce, despite being remarkably low-key compared to most new capes, is being noticed. Despite his own thoughts, Hillside wasn''t the first time someone marked him as a person of interest.


    He forgot about Amy''s bio-sense in the moment and he never suspected that someone would use Newter to acquire information about Faultline''s Crew. That''s the danger of running a public operation after all: anyone can just wander in to snoop around. Now, both New Wave and the Empire know there is a new cape in town.


    Is it weird that I enjoyed writing Christina''s interlude the most? SAINT was hard to write because his perspective is so foreign. Amy''s was just not very interesting. Christina''s though, let me show James Fliescher in a unique light, as both lieutenant of the Empire and loving father. He certainly doesn''t consider himself a villain. Christina may or may not be a recurring character, haven''t decided yet.


    Also, James Fliescher is Krieg if you didn''t know. He''s also a family man because people are complicated and even Nazis are allowed to love.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 2.1 Wave

    <div>


    Wave 2.1


    2010, September 27: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    With dozens of ideas rattling inside my head, I texted my mom the moment I exited Arcadia''s faraday cage. I told her that I''d be hanging out with some friends at the Boardwalk and that I''d be back by dinner. That left me with a good four hours to kill, four hours of tinkering in my new ship. I ditched the crowds and jogged a good six blocks away before ducking into an abandoned alley and using the quick-change canister to put on my costume. After that, it was a simple matter to texture myself a new disguise, an old but rugged dockhand this time, and head to the Boat Graveyard.


    Looking around my lab, I couldn''t suppress the sigh that left my lips. Now that I wasn''t just here to mess around with my powers, I realized just how filthy the place was. I could see crusty stains of some dried fluid or other and piles of junk that the ship''s original owners had not seen fit to take with them. Old cigarette boxes, a used up lighter, and even a grimy hardhat littered the floor. With a flick of my Pok¨¦Nav, SAINT materialized by my side. "Cleaning this is going to be such a chore," I groaned.


    The Pok¨¦mon specialization had passed and with it my easy access to new TMs. That was fine though; the skillset I already had placed me among the most versatile capes. Nor did I want SAINT to be a mini-JARVIS. He was capable of interacting with the world so I refused to keep him locked up in my computer as my personal TM-slave. I''d taken to bringing him with me to school so he could see the world through my interactions.


    Prime directive: Grow with me. Now that I had a foundation for my own power, I wanted him to be strong too.


    I still wasn''t great at parsing out the minutia of his unique speech, but from what I could glean from the bond, he wanted to see what the big deal was with this whole school business. He saw the whole affair as a waste of my time. To be fair, he wasn''t wrong, but I wasn''t sure how to explain the concept of societal obligations to him beyond letting him watch me interact.


    "Pory," my buddy trilled as he looked around. He floated in place before going to nudge a blackened wall, the result of one of his sessions practicing Thunderbolt.


    "Okay, sooner started, sooner done. Our first order of business is going to be to build a soda engine."


    He tilted his head in that universal sign for curiosity. "Po?"


    "Yeah, soda, the sugary, fizzy stuff that I drink sometimes. My new specialization lets me use it as fuel. After I build that, I''m going to build a power washer and hook it up to the engine so I can flood this place with soap and high pressure water. I''ll have to sluice out all this crap then wait for it to dry. After that, I can build a DSS port so I can transfer my loot directly to the ship and get building."


    He nodded in understanding. I took a whole engine block I''m pretty sure once belonged to a tow truck and a mini fridge and got to work. While I was busy with that, I set SAINT to moving all the trash outside with Psychic before dousing the place in a mix of hydrogen peroxide and ethoxylated alcohol, just one more thing I''d stolen in bulk last night. It was a good way for him to build up control with Psychic if nothing else.


    Hopefully, the chemical would set and loosen up some of the gunk by the time I built a washer. ''Heh, most tinkers build tools to build more tools. Here I am building tools to clean my workshop.''


    I was amazed at the rapid progress I made on my engine. The fugue almost felt as though the Cyborg himself was guiding my hands. Perhaps it was the quality of materials I now had access to, but it only took a bit more than an hour and a half to make myself a decent setup.


    It wasn''t pretty. The new soda engine looked like someone welded a mini-fridge to an engine block, because that''s basically what I did, but I could worry about the aesthetics another time. I loaded the fridge with twelve glass bottles, each snuggly fitted into cushioned slots, and flipped the switch. A pleasant hum of implausibly efficient motors filled the air.


    "Pory?" My porygon trilled in question.


    "Yeah, I''m done, buddy. I just need the power washer now. Are you finished with the bleach?" He nodded and drifted over, prodding the new engine with his blocky nose. "I know it doesn''t look like much, but just twelve bottles of coke can get me a full day of clean, SUPER power."


    The power washer was a bit more complicated than the engine, possibly because there was no direct One Piece analog I was drawing from. The level of technology certainly existed, but I was building it myself using the principles, laws, and logic of the One Piece world, soda-power and all. It took some doing, but I managed to turn a few vacuum cleaners and a super soaker into a type of jet in just one hour.


    The next half hour was spent sluicing out the alcohol and peroxide-laden grime with a water jet that, at its highest setting, could erode marble. I stuck with the wider nozzle. With an hour to spare before dinner, I hooked up the soda engine to several heat lamps with the hopes that the floor would be mostly dry by the time I came back.


    X


    I had dinner with my family and rushed through my homework before turning in for the night at ten. I waited in bed for an hour to make sure I wouldn''t be called by my mom or my sister.


    By the time I got back to the Gullrest, it was eleven-thirty and the concrete floor was bone dry after six hours of heat lamp treatment. I surveyed the empty space with a critical eye. ''It may be empty now, but one day, this place is going to be the greatest workshop in the world,'' I told myself.


    The emptiness said much about my currently lacking capabilities, but it said so much more about my potential. I didn''t know what fictions my power would draw from, but the possibilities sent an electric thrill through my body.


    I felt SAINT nudge my hand. "Reee?"


    "Sorry, just lost in thought." I gave his blocky head a quick rub and pulled out a series of PCs from my expanded bag. "First things first, we''ve got another DSS to make."


    Going over blueprints I''d already built wasn''t difficult, but it was tedious. The original DSS that was a product of several days of coding could be ported over with laughable ease. It was code after all; Ctrl+C worked just fine. However, building the scanner and materializer took a long two and a half hours of steady work.


    Once I was sure that I could access my entire DSS inventory through this port as well, I got to work on Labyrinth''s shawl.


    Labyrinth''s shawl, based on the Germa 66 raid suit, would be a test run of sorts. Fortunately for me, Faultline did not get me a box of Kevlar jackets and expect me to stitch together a shawl; she got me several large spools of fibers, the kind I suspected belonged in industrial plants. Not having to unravel finished vests would make my life easier, but that was just step one.


    To get the same kind of bullshit-durable fabric that the raid suits were made of, I''d need to sheathe each thread individually with a carbon polymer compound. That meant two things: chemistry and mechanical engineering to apply said chemistry.


    I reached into my bag and pulled out a notebook filled with my blueprints. Turning to the page containing the chemical formula, I tore it out and presented it to SAINT. "SAINT, want to help me out, buddy?" He trilled his assent. "I need you to go into the DSS and get me these things. Just pile them up in that corner over there. Oh, and a foldable table for me to work off."


    While he was doing that, I pulled up a ten gallon cooking pot. I''d only need about four for both outfits, we weren''t exactly big people, but having a bit extra wouldn''t hurt. I set it over a burner. SAINT returned with a tub full of household chemicals he was carrying with Psychic. After dumping the appropriate ratios, I had him watch the pot and occasionally stir it. I smiled wryly at how similar the whole thing was to making a pot of stew. I brought over a bag of charcoal and set it next to him. "Every time it starts to bubble, take one briquette and toss it in," I told him. "Be sure to crumble the briquette into powder first, okay?"


    "Porygon!" he cheered.


    I resolved to do something nice for my little helper. Multitasking became so much easier with a loyal, intelligent AI around.


    Next up was the sheathing machine.


    I found the appropriate blueprints and started to build. The idea was to create a machine that released specific quantities of the carbon polymer in fluid form to coat a surface. Then, the Kevlar thread would be fed into one end of the machine and out the other. The fluid would dry as the thread came out the other end, resulting in an incredibly durable material that still had the flexibility of thread.


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    Honestly, the whole setup reminded me of a spaghetti maker in shape if not in function.


    Once dry, the polymer would set and arrange the carbon atoms in such a way as to mimic graphene, the strongest material known to science. Mimic, not replicate. The impurities, other elements making up the polymer, would not allow for a perfect one-to-one copy of graphene''s molecular structure. Instead, these impurities would make the sheath far more durable than a single layer of atoms could be while acting as insulators against both heat and electricity. Just as impurities in steel alloys helped make an overall more durable metal, the impurities in this polymer would help improve the graphene tremendously.


    No, chemistry didn''t worth that way. No, One Piece didn''t give a fuck.


    The build itself was short, an hour and ten minutes if my Pok¨¦Nav was right, but the coating process would take hours. I was looking at six more hours for the pot to contain a sufficient quantity of carbon, three more to fully coat all the Kevlar threads we had, and a final hour to work the thread into a shawl. SAINT could handle the coating well enough, so I decided to build the sewing machine I''d need to make the shawl.


    After that came the helmet. The raid suit wasn''t magic. It couldn''t read the user''s mind and adapt because it wasn''t made of Kill la Kill''s life fibers. That meant making Labyrinth a new helmet. The trouble was that I had no idea how big Lab''s head was, so I''d have to take a guess then readjust at the Palanquin. For now, I could handle the software portion that would help even the spacey girl control the invisibility and shield functions of her new shawl.


    That was how I spent the next four hours: one to wrack my brain to build the most user-friendly interface possible for a girl who wasn''t always there, and three to do the actual coding.


    It was well past five in the morning when I finished. I had a gently cooling pot of carbon polymer, spools of Kevlar hooked up to the sheathing unit, and a sewing machine preprogrammed to make what was effectively a large quilt. I could add the details as necessary later.


    X


    2010, September 28: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    "Step it up, Mr. Kiley!" Coach Miller shouted from the sidelines as I lazily passed the ball to Eric. September was almost over, and with it, PE''s focus on basketball. I was more than happy to let someone else take the spotlight here. Hopefully, we''d be playing a more easygoing sport next month, like archery or something.


    The blue-haired superhero-in-training took the ball for a quick lay-up, putting our team in the lead twenty-four to seven. It was almost entirely the work of Eric and another boy named Stephen.


    Eric jogged alongside me for a moment. "Dude, you alright?"


    "Yeah, Didn''t sleep much last night," I said. As much as I loved to tinker, it sucked up time like nothing else. "Then I woke up in the morning to jog to school."


    "What, too busy jerking it, Kiley?" Stephen spoke up.


    "Lay off, Steve," Eric cut in.


    "Whatever."


    "Don''t mind him."


    "I don''t; that''d take too much effort," I said, rolling my eyes. Teenagers would be teenagers and Stephen Martin was an almost painfully stereotypical jock. I was tempted to use a minute jolt of Thunder Wave to make him eat dirt but reined in my temper. I wasn''t ashamed to admit I could be petty, but I did have some standards.


    Not many, but they did exist.


    We spread out over our side of the court to better defend against the other team, but my mind was elsewhere. SAINT had accompanied me to school yesterday, but he''d chosen to remain behind on the ship today to sheathe more of the Kevlar fibers for me.


    ''I wonder if he''s doing it right.'' It wasn''t overly complicated, just stick the threads in one end and pour the polymer fluid into the tank, but I worried anyway. The operation of the machine was simple, fixing it was not. If SAINT got bored and decided to adjust the pace and ratios, or if he was just unlucky, there could be a jam and that''d spoil the whole batch. I crossed my fingers and prayed for some good fortune. ''I''ll have to step outside the cage at lunch to check on him,'' I resolved.


    X


    After English literature, I ducked out of Mrs. Lam''s class like a bat out of hell and snuck into the school lockers. Knowing there shouldn''t be anyone in the showers at this time, I hid myself in the changing room and used the quick-change canister to disguise myself as a janitor before stepping out the back as if for a smoke break. Once I was away from the faraday cage, I gave SAINT a call.


    "Hey, SAINT, how''s it going?" I greeted.


    "Reee," he trilled. He psychically lifted a whole spool of reinforced thread to show off his progress.


    "Nice, they dried correctly then? I was worried that the machine might have jammed or something. Thanks for the help, bud. Feel free to take a break and eat. I left some of the enchanted honey mix and a bag of nuts in the drawer."


    "Pory-gon."


    "I know you don''t need to eat. You can if you want to." I got an eager nod before he sent me a hazy image of the school through the bond. "Yeah, alright. I''ll get going."


    I sent Faultline a quick text to tell her I''d be by tonight to speak with Labyrinth. I still needed to make sure the helmet could be sized to her head and the UI was usable to her. A quick jog back into the changing room later, I rejoined my friends at the lunch table, my costume tucked neatly in my back pocket.


    Dean and Dennis were having a heated discussion about some movie I hadn''t seen.


    "Hey, Bryce, where''d you go?" Chelsea said with a spoonful of pudding raised to her mouth. "You''re usually not late."


    "Sorry, I had to step outside the school to send a quick text," I said.


    "What about?"


    "Oh, you know, conducting business with hired guns and planning to overthrow a global conspiracy on my way to killing the greatest hero alive. Normal teenage stuff, really."


    "Fine, don''t tell me," she pouted.


    X


    Mom and I were just about to have dinner, lemon-garlic rice pilaf and some kind of gyro we ordered from a Greek place twenty minutes away, when Sierra stomped into the house in a huff.


    "Honey, what''s going on?"


    "Nothing, mom. Classes suck, that''s all," she growled.


    "Lab?" I asked, one eyebrow rose in an unspoken question. She met my gaze with a nod. ''Sabah''s stalker then, guess talking things out didn''t go so well.''


    "What happened?"


    "School''s just harder than I thought it''d be, mom. It''s not a big deal." She sighed as she flung her backpack on the couch and took a seat next to me. "I guess I just need to study harder."


    "Okay, sweetie, just let me know if there''s anything I can do to help."


    "Thanks, mom."


    After dinner, I was doing some research on Bad Canary''s trial and some relevant laws regarding parahuman powers in the performative arts when Sierra barged into my room and plopped down onto the bed. She groaned into the pillow and rolled over to give me a pitiable look. I nudged my door shut with a toe and spun around in my seat to face her.


    "I take it trying to talk to Sabah''s lab assistant didn''t work out?"


    "No, we talked to him last week. He was all nods and apologies, saying shit about it all being a misunderstanding. I thought everything was good until we got back our grades for the write-up. He gave us a forty-percent!" she ranted. "I mean, it wasn''t perfect, but what the hell? We went to go talk to him and he just blew us off! And now half the school is saying she offered to suck his dick for a boost!"


    "Can''t you go to the professor? He''s the assistant; he shouldn''t get the final say on your grade," I pointed out.


    "I wish. Professor Hoffman is old, like older than grandpa. He''s got tenure so he doesn''t give a damn what happens. He just shows up to give us our weekly lecture and leaves the rest to his assistants."


    "Dean?"


    "No, then we''d look petty as fuck. A single lab write-up isn''t worth going to the dean. He''d just brush it off as not his problem. And by the time this becomes an actual problem, our grades would get shot to hell!"


    I sighed. I wasn''t even in college and somehow dealing with college drama. "Well, has he at least stopped bugging Sabah?"


    She waved a hand back and forth. "Ehh, kinda. He still gives her creepy looks once in a while but pretends she doesn''t exist. Michelle and I have been running interference for her. He''s just being so fucking petty about it."


    "How''s she taking it?"


    "She''s pissed, but not?" Sierra sat up to fiddle with a paperweight on my desk. "Look, Bryce, you didn''t hear it from me, but Sabah''s dad got sick. Or he''s been sick but it''s gotten worse. I''m not sure. Either way, she''s got bigger things to be worried about than some creepy lab assistant and a few rumors."


    "Stress on top of stress," I mumbled. She nodded glumly. "Way I see it, you''ve got three options: You three can go to the dean and make a fuss over it, stick with it until the end of the semester and just put up with his shit, or transfer out of the class. It''s only been a month so that should be possible, right?"


    "I checked. None of the labs we need have open slots and none of us want to become part-time students."


    "Then the first two, I recommend going to the dean. Sure, it might make you look petty, but it''ll end this whole shitshow the fastest. The dean will either tell you to suck it up, in which case you should look for another major with better faculty, or he''ll rake the lab assistant over the coals. One way or the other, this ends without you wasting six months of your life with him."


    "I know, I just wish it was that simple."


    "It is that simple, Sierra. It''s not easy, but the alternative is six months of a lab you can''t learn anything in." We remained silent for a long minute. "Do you¡­ want me to key his car?" I tried. I said it as a joke but surprised myself with how serious I was. I''d do a hell of a lot worse if this were Sierra and not Sabah.


    "Pff, you?"


    "Hypothetically, I mean." I waggled my eyebrows for emphasis. "I just need a name, sis."


    "No, I don''t want my baby bro to start a rap sheet because some horny idiot keeps making passes at my friend," she laughed. "Thanks, though."


    I dug in my drawer and pulled out a small jar of enchanted honey. I kept a bit of it with me for snacking inside one of those little jars meant for berry preserves. "Here, give this to Sabah and tell her I hope her dad gets better soon."


    "You don''t-"


    "I want to," I said firmly. "She''s my friend too."


    "You''re not supposed to know her dad''s sick, dummy."


    "Fine, tell her this is so she can spoil her little brothers. I don''t care."


    "Thanks, Bryce." She gave me a side-hug and stood.


    "Anytime, sis."


    Author''s Note


    Chemists: Please don''t shoot me. I know that''s not how carbon sheathing works and that impurities in graphene would by definition make it not graphene, and more fragile. That''s why it''s tinkertech.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 2.2 Wave

    Wave 2.2


    2010, September 29: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    I knocked three times and waited outside Faultline''s office, a matter of courtesy just in case she hadn''t put on her mask yet. I found it funny that she did something similar to the Wards, but hey, if it worked.


    Any idiot could look up the Palanquin''s business license and find out that it was registered to one Melanie Fitts, a woman who looked more or less like Faultline would sans costume. Even so, it was the pageantry that was important. So long as she pretended to care about her mask, no one would have an excuse to blatantly disregard the unwritten rules. I stepped into the office and gave Newter and Labyrinth high fives before nodding to Gregor and Faultline.


    "Evening," I said. I reached into my bag and pulled out a headset. "I dropped by to get Lab''s sizes."


    "Yeesh, take her out for dinner, first, man," Newter joked.


    "Newter," Faultline said warningly.


    "Fine, tough crowd."


    "Dinner would be good," Labyrinth said softly. Behind that emerald mask of hers, it was impossible to tell whether or not she was joking.


    "Ahem," I coughed awkwardly. Not knowing how to respond to that, I took out a notebook with the sketches and handed them to Labyrinth. She''d be the one wearing it after all. "By sizes, I mean the size of your head, neck, and shoulders. The shawl will need to wrap around your shoulders like a cape, preferably with corners that attach to your wrists so you can swirl it in front of yourself as a shield if you need to.


    "This," I gestured to the headset, "will become a part of your new helmet. The helmet will have a user interface that you can use to control your stealth and shield functions."


    "Your specialization gets more versatile by the day," Gregor hummed in that almost musical bass of his.


    "Since I had the materials, I decided to tack on a force field generator." I pulled another module, a hexagonal clasp. On the next page of the notebook was a drawing of her helmet, forest green with emerald lines in a swirling maze pattern. "That''s this thing, here. It''ll double as a clasp to fix the shawl around her neck and to the helmet. Do you like the helmet''s designs, Lab?"


    Labyrinth remained silent. A minute passed, then five. The only reason I knew she hadn''t somehow drifted off to sleep was because of the way her head would tilt sometimes. She looked it over then nodded slowly. "I like the maze pattern. Can I have the silhouette of a building on it?."


    "Of course, you''re the client. Send me a picture of the building you want. Oh, and did you want the maze pattern on the shawl as well?''


    Another pause. This time, I saw her hand twitch towards something I couldn''t see. "Helmet only, and can the shawl be green?"


    "Will do. Now, I need you to go to the other room and take off your mask. You can wear a normal domino mask, but I need you to lose the hard face covering so I can see how I should size the helmet."


    "Okay," she said quietly.


    Faultline took her by the hand and walked her out the door.


    Labyrinth, Elle, was a bit weird even by parahuman standards. I knew she was lucid, but it was hard to reconcile that with the way she would occasionally drift off sometimes, distracted by some vision of otherworldly architecture that only she could see. She was, at first glance, a low-functioning autistic, and I had to remind myself that she could understand me just fine. She was, for all intents and purposes, constantly living in two different worlds and this world did not always demand her attention.


    A minute later, Labyrinth stepped back into the office with Faultline. She''d lost her baggy green robe and oblong facemask. Out of costume, she was a slender girl about my height with green eyes that matched her mask. Her platinum blonde hair fell to the sides of her face to frame a black domino mask. Her face had a timeless quality to it similar to my own. For all I knew, she could be a very youthful seventeen, or Vista''s age.


    "Okay, stand there," I said. I took the headset and wrapped it around her eyes. Once the straps wrapped around the sides and top of her skull, I tightened until they fit snugly. The hexagonal clasp was fixed to her collar and the headset. The fabric would extend from there to her knees. With a flick of my finger, the headset hummed to life. "Ignore the ambient noise for now. Labyrinth, can you see the green letters?"


    She seemed to marvel for a moment, her mouth opening in a soft "o." Her hand reached out to touch the words but grasped nothing but air. "There are two words. One says ''cloak'' and another says ''shield.''"


    "Right. I tried to make it as user-friendly as I could. Focus your attention on the ''cloak'' button for me. Then, blink twice." She must have done so, because the clasp around her neck shone green. "Excellent. Now blink twice again to turn it off."


    It took some doing with Labyrinth''s constant drifting, but I could tell she was trying to stay on task for our sakes. Once the cloaking function was calibrated, I had her do the same thing with the shield.


    "Nothing''s happening though," Newter said.


    "Yeah, sorry to disappoint you, but tonight''s just to calibrate the headset," I said. "The clasp doesn''t have any of the tinkertech yet. It''s just a placeholder to make sure the signal from the UI is traveling to where it needs to go. She''ll look a lot more impressive when I get everything built, I promise."


    "Swish, swish," Labyrinth said with a gentle smile as she waved her arms back and forth.


    "Yeah, you''ll be able to toss your shawl in front of you to stop bullets. That way, you''ll be safe even if someone manages to find you through your maze." I took the headset off her and packed it back in my bag. "I should have this done by Sunday," I promised. If I rushed, I could possibly have it done faster, but I didn''t feel like making more work for myself.


    "We appreciate it," Faultline said.


    "Thank you," Labyrinth added, her voice already sounded distant. She''d no doubt started to explore some ancient ruins now that her fitting was done.


    "Nah, I''m getting a furnished lab out of this after all." I was about to leave then recalled something else I''d been meaning to build from One Piece. "Actually¡­ how hard would it be for you to acquire volcanic ash in large quantities?"


    "That''s an odd request."


    "Yup. It needs to come from an oceanic volcano, too. Islands like Hawaii, not a landlocked volcano like Mount. St. Helens."


    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    "I take it you want this in payment for the shield generator?"


    "If that''s how you want to see it," I shrugged helplessly. "It''s more of a favor though. Basically, there''s a chemical compound unique to oceanic volcanoes that I can extract from volcanic ash."


    "How much do you need?" she asked cautiously.


    "As much as you can get me without becoming inconvenient. I mean, volcanic ash has a whole load of useful minerals anyway, but the stuff I really want is present in small quantities. I''m serious about the quantity. Ideally, I''d have literal tons of it to work with."


    "I''ll look into it. I admit geology isn''t my area of expertise."


    "Yeah, it''s a bit of an odd request for sure. No worries if you can''t get a lot, this is more of a want than a need."


    "Is there any reason you can''t use the stuff people put in fertilizer?"


    "I don''t know where they''re sourcing the ash."


    "Very well, I''ll see what I can do. Would you like to stay for some food?"


    I yawned, though she couldn''t see it through my helmet. "Nah, I''ve been working ''til five in the morning lately. I need my shut-eye. Later, all," I waved as I strolled out of her club.


    X


    "Bryce, can I speak to you?" Mr. Maury stopped me as I was exiting homeroom. Some other students looked on curiously, but he waved them away with warning glances.


    "Yes, sir?"


    "Have you thought about what we talked about two weeks ago?"


    "Err¡­" I tried to think of any one-on-one conversation we''d had. I came up blank. "What did we talk about again?"


    He sighed and ran a hand through his thinning hair. "After school activities. I told you that Arcadia ends classes earlier than other high schools thanks to our vocational approach to education."


    "Ah." I did recall that conversation now that he mentioned it. I''d complained about it to my friends. "Why me? Shouldn''t everyone be getting this talk?"


    "Out of the twenty-two kids in my homeroom, sixteen are already part of time-consuming clubs like theater or sports. Four help out with their family business and have appropriate parental notes, whatever that business may be. That leaves you and one other. Rest assured, I''ll be having a chat with her as well," he said with a rebuking frown. "Right now, this is about you. Have you considered an extracurricular program?"


    I had not. I''d thought that with my stellar grades, they wouldn''t push the issue. ''There''s nothing more annoying than someone who cares,'' I thought sardonically. "No, Mr. Maury. I don''t really have anything that catches my interest."


    "No sports or music?"


    "I play guitar on the side and exercise to stay in decent shape, but no. I''m not interested in group activities."


    "Bryce, no man is an island," he began. "You''re an excellent student: quiet, studious, and other teachers have nothing but good things to say about your grades."


    "Then-"


    "That doesn''t mean you should cut yourself off from your peers. Did you know that you can end classes at lunch if you take up an appropriate extracurricular?"


    I gave him a wry smile. "Are you trying to bribe a teenager with less school?"


    "Is it working?"


    "A little," I said honestly. "Is there a program that is fun, flexible, and preferably pays me money?"


    "Bryce¡­"


    "Okay, fine, I get it. How about just flexible? I really like setting my own hours, Mr. Maury."


    He gave it some thought. "How about tutoring?"


    "Are you trying to get me beat up? No one wants to admit they''re getting tutored by a freshman, makes them feel stupid."


    "Not other high schoolers," he sighed. "Lafayette Middle School has a joint tutoring program with us. Basically, parents there sign their kids up to be included in a list of students seeking tutoring. Arcadia students like yourself can pick a name and contact them. You need at least a 3.5 GPA and an A in the subject, but that''s not an issue for you. You can work out your hours and even get paid."


    "What does the school get out of this?"


    "Good publicity, incoming freshmen who are better prepared for our curriculum, and a closer relationship with our sister school. We''re not scalping your pay if that''s what you''re worried about. And, because tutors in this program are sponsored by the school, you can demand higher prices and will have an easier time getting clients."


    "Hmm¡­" ''It''d give me an excuse to not be at home immediately after school. Mom and Sierra don''t need to know just what days I''m tutoring after all.'' I was halfway convinced but decided to push for more anyway. "Does this program allow me to cut classes short?"


    "No, it does not. Your students will be in class themselves so there is no reason to. Nice try though," he said with a laugh. "Why? Not liking European History?"


    "That and Spanish. I wouldn''t mind losing them both so I could leave right after lunch on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays." I let out an exaggerated sigh before sticking my hand out. He probably wouldn''t stop hounding me about picking something up and this was as good as any. "Fine, Mr. Maury. You got me."


    He looked amused but shook the hand anyway. "Excellent. What subjects would you be interested in teaching?"


    Before I was a physician''s assistant, I used to teach organic chemistry to undergraduate college kids as part of a work study program in grad school. Somehow, I doubted "o-chem, maybe some lab work on the side," would be an acceptable answer. Instead, I shrugged. "Anything would be fine."


    "Is there a subject you feel comfortable with?"


    "Biology and math," I decided. "I''m warning you. My time is expensive."


    "I''m sure you''ll work something out with the parents. I''ll have you signed up by the end of the day so drop by the teacher''s lounge before you leave to pick up the student profiles. Now get to class, I believe you have algebra next."


    X


    Sure enough, my homeroom teacher presented me with a binder full of middle school students. It had their names, the subjects they''d like to be tutored in, the names of parents, their contact information, and their preferred hours. I was told to set something up with at least one student before the end of next week and that it''d contribute to my community service hours. I didn''t think Arcadia had mandatory hours, but I''d been mistaken. That I''d be getting paid for my services was apparently not an issue.


    "I got a job," I said over dinner.


    "Don''t tell me, the mall needs a tween to model dresses for them," joked Sierra.


    "Sierra! Bryce is plenty manly."


    I made a face. "Mom, no guy wants to hear his mother defend his masculinity. And no, I''m tutoring after school."


    "Ah, Arcadia''s extracurricular hours?" My sister took a bite of her asparagus. "I remember those. They weren''t terrible."


    "I don''t even remember what you did."


    "Art club," she said happily. "We basically spent some time at lunch, had an elective, and stayed an hour after class occasionally. Once a semester, we went to the Forsberg and held our own art show, talked to the curator, that sort of thing. It was super convenient."


    "Well, I have the artistic talent of a dismembered monkey on meth so that''s out. I thought about band but I didn''t want to turn a hobby into something mandatory, you know? So, tutoring it is."


    "How many hours will you be tutoring for, Bryce?" mom asked.


    "I''m thinking most of the week, give myself something to do after school. And when I''m not doing that, I might hang out at the library or bookstore. Besides, this will net me some spending money."


    "Nerd~"


    "Shut up, Sierra."


    "Children¡­" mom let out s longsuffering sigh, far too used to our bickering. "Bryce, if you need a bigger allowance-"


    I held out a hand to stop her. "It''s not that, mom. I don''t even have anything I want to buy. I just want to know that I can make my own money."


    "If that''s what you want, honey."


    "It is."


    "So, do you already have a student?" Sierra asked.


    "Nope, I''m supposed to find one by end of next week though. My homeroom teacher gave me a binder full of students from Lafayette."


    "Good luck, bro. Try not to price-gouge too much."


    "Yeah, sure."


    That settled, I went upstairs to shower, do homework, then turn in for the night. I''d settle for a quick power nap until midnight then make for the lab. With Labyrinth''s sizes squared away, I could start building the full helmet, a mix of Kevlar mesh and foam surrounded by hardened plastic. I had no idea how to do the maze patterns, again, not an artist, but I''d figure something out.


    Author''s Note


    Internet cookie to someone who can tell me what Bryce wants with all that volcanic ash. There are a lot of things I''m fudging as I try to adapt technology and powers to a pseudo-scientific format, but this isn''t one of them. Someone in One Piece canonically mentions that this chemical is launched into the air via volcanoes from the seafloor and it is a critical ingredient in the formation of something rather important to the setting.


    I really did have a teacher like Mr. Maury. He was awesome, put up with my angsty, geeky ass all through high school. He was one of those teachers who helped solved problems in their students'' lives long before the students themselves realized there were any problems. In this case, Bryce gets to use tutoring as an excuse to tinker during the day, letting him get some sleep, hopefully.


    Nah, who am I kidding? That implies he has impulse control.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 2.3 Wave

    Wave 2.3


    2010, September 30: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    Just like when I first made the helmet for the Essentia model Expansion Suit, it took far longer to finish the software side of things than it took to finish the rest of the outfit. The helmet''s UI was already programmed, with much of it being copied from the one in my own helmet. It made making the rest of the helmet a breeze.


    Even so, the clasp I''d used for Labyrinth''s fitting had been a placeholder. Developing the shielding tech required some of the rare earth metals I''d sourced in trace amounts from household appliances and various electronics. Despite the large quantities of electronics I''d stolen, a singular shield and cloaking module ate through almost a quarter of my lanthanum and dysprosium supplies.


    Lanthanum was found in hard drives for data storage and dysprosium was common, relatively speaking, as a fire starter in lighters. I made a note to remember that in the event I ran low. By now, a four hour tinkering session was customary and I saw no reason to stop.


    I made good progress on her shawl. The shawl''s design had been programmed into the sewing machine and the machine had been hooked up to my supply of reinforced Kevlar. The fabric portion could be relegated to the background. Meanwhile, I finished the structure of her helmet and installed the visor containing the UI. The cloaking function of the clasp was mostly finished, imported from the Expansion Suit''s texturing module, but the shield was slow going. I hoped to finish the project by Friday so I could get to work on my own suit.


    X


    My Thursday school schedule mirrored Tuesday''s, so I took into account PE with Coach Miller and went a bit light on my morning jog. It wasn''t like he would give me a detention if he thought I was slacking or anything, but Mrs. Currie definitely would if she caught me dozing off in world issues because I went a bit too hard. With the sewing machine automatically weaving the shawl for me, SAINT had nothing to do at the lab so he''d decided to accompany me again.


    I jogged along my way to school, a set of earphones in and tuned to the Foghorn.


    According to my late father, the Foghorn began as a group of town criers who shouted the day''s tide tables using the local almanac way back when Brockton Bay was a small city that made most of its wealth on trade and fishing. Criers were eventually replaced with paperboys and paperboys with radio hosts. The almanac eventually took a back seat to other news and entertainment. They still kept their name and the sound of three tooting foghorns, heavily muted, was the station trademark.


    These days, they had a habit of regurgitating the most relevant cape news. I remembered a few months back when they went under fire for ripping off Bagrat''s PHO posts almost verbatim. They may not be very original, but they were still a decent source of cape news, assuming you were willing to take their words with a grain of salt and couldn''t be bothered to trawl through PHO on your own.


    "Hello, Brockton!" Kevin Hartley, the host of the Foghorn, shouted in his usual, bombastic voice. "We''ve got a treat for you law abiding citizens this fine morning. Remember that gas station blowing up near the Boardwalk a few weeks back? Well, I have it on good authority that Circus, the independent villain, has been captured by our very own Velocity last night."


    I paused at that. The botched heist that led to a gas station fire was a month ago, and possibly the first time after my trigger that I truly felt the pressing need to grow stronger.


    ''My life isn''t an anime,'' I thought sardonically. ''There isn''t some narrative force that says Circus has to be my first act antagonist.'' On some level, of course I knew that this world was filled with actors besides me. People weren''t props after all; they had their own agency, their own dreams and ambitions. I hadn''t even given her much thought beyond a general, ''Oh, even the low-tier villain is much better than me.''


    It was a strange feeling. It was completely unjustified, but I couldn''t help the small part of me that wanted a go at her, that felt a bit cheated at the anticlimactic nature of real life. Was this my power''s conflict drive pushing me forward?


    ''Nah, I''m just being an idiot.''


    By the time I remembered to start jogging towards school again, it was PRT Representative Jake Xavier speaking. I must have missed Hartley introducing the man. All things considered, it was a bog standard official statement and I wouldn''t have been surprised if the PRT had politely insisted on a chance to announce their win through every medium possible. ''God knows they need every little "w" they can get.''


    I jogged through the school gates just five minutes before class, almost too late to grab a shower. I managed a quick rinse and hurried into the gym just as the bell rang, hair still damp. I shuffled next to Eric, Steve, Joe, and Ryan, our team for the month.


    "Yo," I greeted.


    "Sup, nerd," Steve sneered.


    "Who pissed in your Cheerios this morning?"


    Before he could snarl something back, Coach Miller jogged into the gym and blew a shrill whistle. "Ladies, gentlemen, today will be the final day of basketball. Teams A and B, C and D, E and F, pair off," he shouted. No one was about to tell a three hundred pound vet "no," so we hopped to it. The girls had their own teams ranged A to F for a total of sixty freshmen in the class.


    After a jump ball that we lost, I let Steve and Eric take up positions at the center of the court and hung back beneath our team''s net to guard it. "You shouldn''t goad him," Ryan, short Hispanic kid, said.


    "Hmm?"


    "Steve, he''s going to get worse."


    "That sounds like a him problem."


    "Well it''ll be your problem too if he decides to make you a target."


    "Ehh, not terribly worried. Although, do you know why he hates me?"


    "Does it matter?"


    "He just doesn''t like the quiet kid sitting with Vicky''s court," Joe cut in.


    I stared incredulously. "Are you serious? That''s it? And do you really call our table Vicky''s court?"


    He completely ignored my second question. "Yeah, I mean, you''re not a bad dude, Bryce, but¡­"


    "You''re a loner," Ryan finished for his friend. "You''ve always been like this even in middle school and Steve''s always been a jock so I guess he doesn''t like seeing the quiet kid get more popular."


    "How am I popular?" I asked in honest confusion. "I literally have less than ten friends in the entire school. Hell, I''m not sure I can name ten acquaintances."


    "Doesn''t matter, dude," Joe shrugged. He caught the ball then immediately passed it to Steve in a smooth underhand that sent the ball almost rolling between some other kid''s feet. "It''s not about how many friends you have; it''s about who they are."


    "Fucking high school. You guys spend so much time putting the Dallons on a pedestal that I think you forget they''re just normal girls. Hell, I don''t see you guys treat Eric the same way."


    "Yeah, but we grew up with Eric," Ryan whined. "He''s just a dork who loves tabletop games and fantasy, but with some powers. Glory Girl and Panacea are¡­ them."


    I thought about the train wreck that was their family and audibly scoffed. "They''re really a lot more relatable than you''d think. Besides, I wasn''t the one who approached them. I just kind of got dragged into their circle before I knew it." And it was true. I could have left at any time and Chelsea would have eventually given up, but I got to bickering with Amy and laughing with Carlos and before I knew it, I was a part of the circle.


    "Doesn''t matter," Joe said. "No matter how it happened, guys like Steve think you''re a social leech, you know?"


    "Yeah, I get it. It''s a bit of a pain in the ass, but that doesn''t mean I''m going to stop hanging out with my friends to soothe his bruised ego."


    A shrill whistle pierced the air. "Gentlemen, let''s see some hustle!" Coach Miller shouted at us.


    "Yes, sir!" I shouted back and gestured for Eric to pass me the ball. ''I wonder how much magnets practice I could get in by pretending I''ve got some hops?'' I mused.


    I''d yet to do so in PE even though I did sometimes spin pens by their nibs in class because using Magnet Rise while mobile was taxing. Having gotten much better at suppressing the light of aura, I caught Joe''s pass to me and jumped to take the three-pointer. I made sure to rise barely three inches higher than I normally would, but getting past my blocker''s guard meant nothing because I had all the aim of a headless chicken.


    "You can''t aim for shit," Steve jeered.


    "I know," I laughed back.


    I kept Magnet Rise around my person after that. It''d taken a lot of work to be able to lift myself without wearing any metal on me and though I couldn''t extend this to other nonmetallic things, it might well save my life someday.


    The activation itself took no effort; by now it was practically second nature, but the rhythm of the bouncing ball took a bit of time to get used to. I was effectively thinking two thoughts at once. I stood there a moment, trying to sync the bouncing motion with the electromagnetic current flowing around me.


    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    "You gonna play or what, Kiley?" Sean, the captain of the other team, called.


    "Yeah, sorry, spaced out there."


    With that, I started to dribble forward, slowly at first, but progressively faster as I got used to the rhythm. By the end of class, I''d gotten decently good at manipulating the ball. I couldn''t score a single point, but that was never my goal anyway.


    X


    I was on my way home when my phone rang. I checked the caller ID and quirked an eyebrow in curiosity. ''Now what does the ugly duckling want with me?''


    "Yes, grumpy? What''s up? It''s not like you to call."


    "Fuck you, I''m not grumpy," Amy''s gruff voice rang through my earphones.


    "The school and sum total of Brockton''s medical staff begs to differ," I teased.


    "Yeah, well, they can all go eat a bag of dicks."


    "So? What''s up? Isn''t today one of your ICU days? Wanna ditch?"


    "No. My work is important," she snapped.


    "Alright, geez, I was kidding, mostly."


    "I know¡­ sorry. It sucks."


    "Hang in there, Ames. If you get bored, you can hide a pimple on every patient''s butt cheeks in the shape of your face."


    "Eww! Why the hell would I do that? I''m not some deviant like you," she huffed. I didn''t think she even noticed that she hadn''t denied her ability to do so, only her willingness. I took that as a sign of her opening up, albeit subconsciously.


    "Just offering a suggestion to relieve your boredom," I said. "So, did you just call to hear my silky, suave voice or was there a reason?"


    "You wish. Your voice cracks like a strangled chicken."


    "Ouch, but true. Was that a masturbation joke?"


    "Fuck you." The line went silent and I had to check to make sure she hadn''t hung up on me. A minute later, I heard Amy swallow thickly before speaking. "Hey, Bryce?"


    "Hmm?"


    "I''m¡­ We''re friends, right?"


    "Yes. No jokes, no snark. We''re friends, Ames."


    "Can we¡­ Can we hang out?"


    "You know, a guy could take this the wrong way."


    "You know what I mean. Yes or no?"


    I held out a hand in surrender even though I knew she couldn''t see it. "Alright, Ms. Thistles, when?"


    "Thistles? Really? You''re not doing anything on Saturday, right?"


    "Nada."


    "Meet me at the Hillside at eleven?"


    "Sure, that''ll work. I''ve been craving Devil''s Bakery."


    "And¡­ You''d tell me or Vicky if something weird happened to you, right?"


    "Err¡­ depends? I mean, no offense, but I''m not going to tell you about that dream I had," I joked.


    "Bryce, I''m serious!" The urgency in her tone made me pause.


    "Ames, yes. If something big happens and I need a superheroine or two to come save my ass, I promise you''ll be the first I call. Or your sister. No offense, but she''s a lot less¡­ squishy."


    I heard her sigh with relief. "Okay. It''s a promise."


    "Alright, Saturday, eleven."


    "Yeah, see you then, Bryce."


    "Take care. And try to work in the pediatric wing for a few hours tonight," I said. "You could use some ankle biters to cheer you up."


    "I like my costume not covered in drool, thanks," she snorted, but I could hear the smile.


    "I mean it. I''m giving you homework. You need to make at least three kids laugh today, got it?"


    "What kind of homework is that?"


    "The kind designed to rehabilitate a perpetual grump."


    "Bye, Bryce."


    "Homework!"


    The line went dead and I pondered what she''d told me.


    Amy had the opposite problem as most teenagers. Most teenagers longed to be relied on, to be seen as responsible. Amy, she had the world on her shoulders; the last thing she wanted was for yet another person to dump their troubles at her feet.


    ''She wants me to go to her if something weird happens, but she really hates responsibility. That must mean she thinks she''s the only one who can help me with "weird" things. Does she think I''m being bullied or something?'' I shook my head. ''No, then she''d just point Carlos my way and wash her hands of it. It must be cape business. Since I''m not supposed to know who the Wards are, she must think that she''s obligated to help me as one of the only two capes in my life. Why would she think I''d need parahuman help? I''m not sick, am I? No, then telling Vicky would be pointless.''


    Then it struck me like a bolt from the blue.


    "Fuck," I swore. I was certain of it. Somehow, she knew I''d triggered.


    ''How?''


    The more I thought about it, the clearer the situation became.


    At some point, Amy had gotten a full scan of my brain and seen an active corona. The question was, what did I do? This framed Saturday''s hangout in a whole different way.


    ''She likely plans on confronting me. How much does she know? She picked Hillside. Is she being ironic because she knows I was the one who robbed the place? No, calm down, Bryce. That''s impossible even for the Shaper. She knows I''m a cape, but not what powers I have or when I triggered. She sounded sincere so this must be her attempt to explain the unwritten rules to me.''


    I got home and gave a cursory greeting to my mom before heading upstairs to lock myself in my room before dinner. After some thought, I decided to approach the meeting at Hillside with the assumption that she intended for it to be a gesture of goodwill. This Amy wasn''t the monster she could become, not yet, and I would be spitting on everything she''d done until now if I didn''t extend that modicum of trust.


    That left me with the million dollar question: Amy knew I was a cape, so how did I respond?


    The most obvious course of action, and my gut instinct, was to deny, deny, deny. She would know the truth of course, but she couldn''t reveal that information unless I went full Bakuda levels of insane. It would keep her from nosing into my cape life, but that in itself was the trouble. She very likely would see it as me slapping away her outstretched hand, a betrayal that would reopen the gap between us I''d worked so hard to bridge over the past month.


    ''No, that''s not acceptable,'' I resolved. I still wasn''t entirely sure about the kind of cape I wanted to be beyond an independent, but one of the few things I wanted to do in this life was to help Amy.


    The second option was to come clean, fully admit that I was the cape who conducted the Hillside Heist. I could pass it away as the urges of a new tinker, but then she''d use that as an excuse to force the Wards on me. If nothing else, I would be "villainous" in her mind, associated with every part of herself she''d worked so hard to reject.


    I didn''t think that would make her my nemesis or anything, but it still damaged our relationship.


    The third option was to pretend to be a cape with a non-tinker powerset. That would be easy enough to accomplish with the TMs in my arsenal. Magnet Rise and Thunder Wave could be a stand-alone power in their own right. Add in Protect, Agility, and Recover and I was already a cape with top-tier potential. Nor did my costume look much like tinkertech at first glance. At first glance, it was just highly customized bike leathers. I could credibly fool Amy, and the rest of Brockton Bay.


    She would likely insist on me becoming a hero. It would mean an end to robbing shops for materials, but I wasn''t counting on doing much more of that anyway.


    "Mrrrggghhhhh," I groaned into my pillow.


    "Pory?" SAINT looked at me with his big, soulful eyes


    "I don''t know what to do," I admitted. "Amy knows I''m a cape and she''s going to try to ''guide me on the right path'' or something. I''m definitely a villain right now though. If I push her away, I lose her friendship. If I don''t, she''s going to try to ''fix me,'' maybe even go as far as out me to the Wards."


    My trusty friend nuzzled his pastel-colored head into my side. "Reee," he trilled and sent an image through our bond. It was hazy, but I could just make out what appeared to be a lightning bolt striking a figure.


    "SAINT," I gasped, appalled. "I''m not going to zap Amy!"


    He stared at me pointedly. The bond wavered, this time not with the strain of an image but an emotion: warmth. It was how SAINT felt when I first held him, first fed him, first played music with him on my lap. It was the feeling of belonging and attachment. Suddenly, I understood.


    "Yeah," I slumped. "That''s the trouble. I care about her too much to just push her out of my life."


    "Gon?"


    "I guess that''s the question. Do I care more about my freedom or my friend?" Then, I realized something. Despite all the time I''d spent with SAINT, I''d never asked him his opinion on my actions. "SAINT, I just realized, I never asked you what you thought I should do."


    "Pooreee¡­ Gon?"


    "Should I be a hero? Should I be a villain? Or should I do what I''m doing now and just do whatever I feel like doing?"


    He made some strange beeping, trilling noises that reminded me of a digital remix of a teakettle. I felt a nudge in our bond, a feeling of inquisitiveness. It wasn''t as though he did not understand the idea of a hero, or concepts of morality; his was a simple question: Why should he care?


    And¡­ That was a fair question. Some pok¨¦mon were inclined towards good, or at least as humans defined it. The ralts line were drawn to positive emotions, literally gaining strength by proximity, and so were incentivized to make people happy. So were togepi, chansey, etc. On the other hand, other pok¨¦mon tended to have problematic personalities, a devil may care attitude that made them seem selfish or violent.


    Porygon were smack dab in the middle of that. They were blank slates and their personalities depended entirely on their humans, first their programmers, then their trainers. I was both and¡­ I couldn''t honestly say that I''d proved to be a good example of morals for him. I couldn''t blame him for reflecting that back at me.


    As far as he was concerned, he had exactly one person he cared about: me. He cared about Sierra and mom, to a degree, but only in the abstract, only because I cared.


    "Why do I care about Amy?"


    "Pory," he nodded.


    "She''s a friend. She''s someone with nearly boundless potential and an iron discipline that impresses me. More than that, I guess I just like talking with her," I said honestly. "What do I do, SAINT?"


    I could see SAINT consider my question. It was odd seeing a pensive, pastel-colored, blocky duck, but I gave him his moment of silence. Slowly, his desires made themselves known through the bond. Above all else, I felt concern. He started with my very first outing. His memories reflected my experiences back at me.


    At Good Neighbor, I had been filled with guilt at robbing a charity. I had told myself that was necessary, only for the very next specialization to give me a raid suit that blew the Essentia outfit out of the water.


    Then, I scavenged for parts at the junkyard. I remembered feeling the fear and trepidation of being discovered, the relief that it was only Newter who found me. Then, my dealings with Faultline and how I''d justified my actions. I still held that Faultline''s Crew weren''t that bad, more independents than villains.


    Lastly, he showed me my own actions at Hillside. I''d felt completely comfortable robbing so many stores, I realized. My only concerns had been purely pragmatic, not moral. As much as I told myself that I wasn''t a good person, I hadn''t considered myself the kind of person who could commit grand larceny with no hesitation.


    ''Is this what they mean by a slippery slope?'' I mused. I''d barely interacted with other capes and somehow, in the span of a month, I''d gone from feeling guilt over stealing a few outfits to stealing literal tons of materials worth who knew how much.


    A part of me wanted to blame Faultline, but she wasn''t a bad role model as a cape.


    Another part of me blamed my power. Surely, it was my Shard that had been pressing me to go out?


    And yet, I wasn''t even sure if my Shard was the same as everyone else''s. I couldn''t truly be sure that I had a conflict drive in the first place. Even if I did, all it was, was a nudge to use my powers more frequently. At the end of the day, the one who decided how my power should be used was me. No one else was responsible for my actions but me.


    And with that, I understood.


    Initially, I''d thought that SAINT''s concern was for how Amy might react to my actions. It wasn''t. He didn''t care. SAINT was ultimately concerned for me.


    Whatever Amy could do, even outing me to the PRT, would be nothing compared to what I was doing to myself. I''d chosen the name Creed because it implied a code of ethics, a standard. Without even knowing it, I''d compromised that standard in the span of a single month. Without SAINT to call me on it, who knew how far I''d have fallen?


    I understood Earth-Bet in the abstract. I could analyze Taylor''s story and point to individual places and events, crossroads, where she might have walked a different path. But it seemed I was blind when I myself stood at the same crossroads.


    I sighed. "You''re right, SAINT. Someone named Creed should have some fucking standards."


    Author''s Note


    I don''t think many people will be happy with Bryce''s conclusions.


    Normally in fiction, things like larceny aren''t considered "that bad." And, to be fair, compared to the likes of Kaiser or Lung, that''s true. But comparing yourself to a Nazi and saying "At least I''m not that bad" is a damn low bar to set. Bryce''s conclusion is that he needs to be held accountable, for better and for worse.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 2.4 Wave

    2.4 Wave


    2010, October 2: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    It was three in the morning when I finally finished putting together the clasp that contained both the shield and cloaking modules in Labyrinth''s shawl. I pressed down and the final magnets locked into place with a satisfying click. It turned out a bit bigger than the prototype shell I''d used for the fitting. The extra bits came from trying to stabilize both the invisibility and texturing effects in the midst of rain, tear gas, or similar environmental disruptions. "Cloaking" was a much broader catch-all term I used.


    The final product was a prismatic green hexagon about six inches in diameter with an embossed maze pattern similar to Labyrinth''s old mask. I linked it to the helmet and shawl and made sure the whole ensemble was working before setting it aside for my own project. Hopefully, if Elle ever encountered the Slaughterhouse, this would keep her safe.


    Over the past few days, I''d spent much of my time after school designing new suit. My focus was on the best way to combine my current Expansion Suit with the raid suits of the Germa 66. It was just about the only thing I could do at home that wouldn''t burn down the house or invite suspicious questions.


    The result of my scribblings was a combination of Essentia''s suit and Sanji''s version of the raid suit. It would be matte black with Sanji''s high-collared cape and my current helmet. Head protection and Pok¨¦Nav connectivity were just about the only benefits the Expansion Suit had over the raid suits so I''d have to replace everything with the reinforced Kevlar thread I''d named Germa fibers.


    Instead of something skin-tight like a power ranger suit, I''d decided to settle for a roomier blazer modeled after an admiral''s jacket. The gloves, buttons, and boots would be gray and accented in burnt orange, with the jacket itself a matte black.


    I looked over the model and whistled. It had poise. It had character. It was intimidating. It was downright inspiring. It was¡­ totally not suited for someone who barely stood at five-two.


    I groaned. "I''m going to look like a wannabe power ranger¡­ Sentai Elite¡­ whatever," I muttered into my hands. I''d been so focused on the phenomenal defensive and offensive buffs that having a raid suit would grant that I completely overlooked the impact it would have on my image.


    "Pory?" My porygon floated by my side, wondering if there was some mistake in the design.


    "It''s nothing, SAINT. I can''t be assed to change this now. I guess Creed is going to be one hammy son of a bitch."


    "Reee," he trilled skeptically.


    "Nothing''s wrong with it from a defensive perspective. Hell, I could probably take a few hits from Victoria in this thing even without the shield."


    With one last sigh, I loaded the schematics into the sewing machine and set it to fabricate the new body of my outfit. I hoped to return from my chat with Amy to find a mostly finished suit. From there, all I''d need to do would be to migrate the electronic components of the Expansion Suit over to my new costume.


    X


    Amy Dallon sat in front of a fountain, browsing something or other on her phone. In front of her was the Devil''s Bakery, famed for interesting flavor combinations and deliciously greasy donuts. I was mildly surprised to find her alone. I half figured Victoria would muscle her way into our "date." My gaze flickered to the rooftops.


    ''No, no Victoria today,'' I thought with relief. Either she hadn''t told her sister or Vicky was waiting out of sight somewhere.


    "Morning, donuts?" I greeted as I made my way to the bakery.


    I was dressed in a comfortable pair of jeans and a t-shirt, but only on the outside. In truth, I''d worn my Germa suit and textured it to look like I was dressed normally. I''d taken care to remove the gloves, just in case she''d ask for my hand again. Trust, but verify. If shit hit the fan, I wanted the additional agility to run away.


    She finished typing something on her phone and stood with a soft smile that was at odds with her normal scowl. "Sure, I could use something sweet."


    She ended up with a bacon-maple drizzle with extra cinnamon and I picked up a clotted cream scone. The Devil''s Bakery was the only place I''d found that actually made clotted cream, one of the few not-shitty parts of British cuisine in my humble opinion. Saddled with enough fat to make even a Charlotte cringe, we wandered around the mall for a while before Amy ushered me into a quiet caf¨¦. The smooth jazz drowned out any conversation. We grabbed a corner table and ordered a glass of chai latte for myself and an Americano for Amy.


    She took a sip and grimaced, the slightest pink of her tongue poking out. "God, that''s bitter."


    I slid over my latte. "Want some? They make good chai here. You could have ordered something sweet."


    "I could, but the bitterness offsets the donut."


    "Look at you, since when are you a connoisseur?"


    "Since last year when I got powers and started working at the hospital. I can''t drink so coffee''s my poison alright?"


    "Oof, yeah, that''s fair. You doing alright?"


    She sighed and took a large, angry bite of her donut. "Fine. It''s fine. Let''s not talk about the hospital."


    "Okay, then what''s this about?"


    "You. I know you have powers."


    I blinked in surprise. I''d come expecting this conversation but I didn''t think she''d be so forward. "Huh¡­ What gave me away?"


    "So you do. I wasn''t sure but your corona was really well-developed. I saw when you held my hand at the dance."


    "Oh, well¡­ That confirms that¡­"


    "You knew I could out you?"


    "I wasn''t really thinking about me back then," I admitted. "I just wanted you to know I meant every word I said. Then you started talking about how I should come to you if anything ''weird'' happened to me, I figured powers were probably what you were talking about."


    "Oh¡­ Guess neither of us were being too careful, huh?"


    "Definitely not. I thought it was against the unwritten rules to approach a cape like this though," I told her with a hint of recrimination in my voice. I wasn''t mad, if anything, I was somewhat thankful. Without her, I wouldn''t have reflected on myself nearly as much. Even so, her forcing me out like this was a major breach of courtesy.


    She winced and took a long sip of her coffee to gather her thoughts. "It is. It is and I''m sorry for that. It''s just¡­ I thought you didn''t know anything about the rules so I wanted to talk to you, explain them, you know?"


    "I do. I''m not mad," I assured her. "I already know the rules though, so I''d appreciate it if you pretended you didn''t see anything. Have you told anyone else?"


    "No, you''re safe there. I haven''t even told Vicky yet."


    That took me by surprise. "Why? I mean, I''m grateful, but you tell her everything."


    "I do, except cape identities. At this point, I can probably make a solid guess as to the civilian identities of most of the Protectorate just from healing them so much. The Wards chose to unmask to Vicky. You didn''t." She looked at me seriously. "I have to pay closer attention to the unwritten rules than most capes because I''m a parahuman healer."


    "That makes sense. I appreciate it. If she does suspect it''s me, will she try to make you tell her?"


    "No. She''s not the vapid gossip queen you think she is, Bryce. She can seem like that at school, but she knows when to stop asking questions."


    "Alright, I''ll take your word for it; you know her best."


    We both took a sip of our drinks and let the soothing jazz wash over us. With my cape status out on the table, the air felt lighter. "So¡­ powers?"


    "Curious?"


    "I think I''ll die of anticipation," she replied flatly. "It''s probably something lame like the power to make someone quote poetry, isn''t it?"


    "There are no lame powers, only idiots too stupid to use them well," I said sagely, stroking an imaginary beard.


    "You''ve obviously never met Chubster," she snorted, "or Scapegoat."


    "I''ve heard of Chubster. He sounds like the kind of guy I want to be like," I said honestly. His power wasn''t particularly great, the slower he moved, the tougher he became, but he was the kind of person who could poke fun at himself. He named himself Chubster after all. "I can respect a man who willingly calls himself Chubster and owns the name."


    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    "Yeah, well, imagine having a power that lets you heal others by transferring their injuries to yourself. That''s Scapegoat. I see him on duty after endbringer fights. Honestly? I respect him a lot. Everyone points to his as the power they''d never want to have, but to show up to an endbringer fight full well knowing he''s going to take on all those injuries for himself¡­"


    "No lame powers, just lame people. Those are some awesome people."


    "Yeah." We remained silently in thought before Amy''s eyes snapped to meet mine. "So, powers."


    I sighed. SAINT and I had gone back and forth on this. The truth was, SAINT was right: I scared myself with how quickly I''d come to disregarding laws and morals. There was something about the anonymity of the mask that brought out the worst in me. In the end, I stood by my decision; the Hillside Heist was a great start as a tinker and I''d do it again, but my growing apathy worried me. "Tinker," I admitted.


    "You don''t sound happy about it."


    "I just realized I''m not as good a person as I thought I was, that''s all."


    She mulled over my words before her eyes sharpened. "Hand," she said.


    "Amy¡­"


    "Hand," she held hers out insistently. I hesitantly placed my hand in hers. To any outsider, we probably looked like a shy, teen couple. I was all too aware of the worst possible scenario and I had to consciously remind myself that this Amy wasn''t that person.


    "I trust you," I said simply.


    "Are you a villain?"


    I tried to keep my heartbeat stable but it was impossible under the circumstances. I wasn''t some hardened criminal mastermind or superspy; I was just some guy who lucked out with a phenomenal power. "Yes."


    "Bryce, why? What the fuck?" It hurt, seeing the accusation in her eyes. "Why?" she repeated.


    "Well, at least you''re letting me explain," I said wryly. Not jumping to fleshcrafting and body horror was always a good sign. "I didn''t hurt anyone or break the unwritten rules: no unmasking, no murder, no sexual crimes, no excessive force, et cetera. I didn''t even get into a fight. I just really hate the PRT restrictions on tinkers."


    "Those restrictions are for your safety," she snapped.


    "Some of them are," I agreed and took a sip of my latte, "but there are just as many that are just there for PR reasons." My eyes hardened. "I refuse to limit myself because some asshat in PR thinks it''s ''bad for my image.'' Besides, tinkers go into fugue, you know that, right? That''s the part of our power making sure what we build works the way it''s supposed to.


    "Go on, find me a case of a tinker''s invention malfunctioning that isn''t Leet," I challenged. "You won''t, and Leet''s a special case. You''ll find tinkers who''ve misused their inventions, but not inventions that spontaneously break down so long as they''ve been properly maintained and used for their intended purpose."


    "They''re still important."


    I let out an exasperated sigh. "Can you trust me to not go around murdering people?"


    "You really haven''t gotten into any fights?"


    I took that as a good sign. She was concerned about my safety as opposed to my moral fiber. "No, and I don''t plan to. I like to create. I can handle myself, but that''s not my priority."


    "It''s dangerous."


    "It can be, but so is being a Ward. As a Ward, I''m guaranteed to get into cape fights, whereas as an independent, I can pick my battles."


    "Not true, Wards aren''t supposed to be in cape fights."


    "Yes, well, the ideal and reality are very different things. This is Brockton, Ames, and you''re not delusional. Hell, didn''t Vista tangle with Hookwolf a few months back?"


    She palmed her face. She was running out of arguments, I could tell. "You''d have backup. No one targets Wards because they know that it can mean a kill order. You don''t get that kind of protection as an independent."


    ''I have SAINT,'' I wanted to say, a pok¨¦mon unquestionably loyal to me with enough power and versatility to make any other cape in the city weep. Add in the eviolite and Upgrade and I had one of the greatest walls in Pok¨¦mon at my side. Instead, I said, "I''m not looking for a team, Ames. I''m more interested in building, remember? That protection goes both ways. I don''t want the obligation of backing someone in a fight I have no stake in."


    "Oh, so you''ll do nothing when you see someone in trouble?"


    "No! Don''t put words into my mouth. I''m saying if I get into a fight, I want it to be because it''s my choice. Not because someone''s paying me, not because someone has something over my head, but because I''ve taken stock and decided to fight. Is that really too much to ask?"


    "It''s still dangerous," she hissed out. She was quickly running out of patience. Her hand clenched mine painfully. "Do you have any idea what the survival rate for a new tinker is?"


    "A lot higher than advertised by the PRT. The statistic they throw around is something like eighty-five percent no longer being independent in three months, but that''s including those who join the Wards, another independent team, receive a corporate sponsorship, or simply move out of town."


    "Fine, so don''t join the Wards. But you''re crazy if you think I''m going to let my friend be a villain."


    "Again, haven''t even been in a fight yet. I''m a villain on a technicality."


    "Don''t give me that shit. The Hillside Heist was you, right?"


    "Yeah, but that was a one-time deal," I protested. "I''m done with the rampant robbery."


    "And you think that makes it okay? All you''re telling me is that you have no idea if you can handle yourself in a fight, you''ve drawn all sorts of attention to yourself, and you''re still somehow insane enough to go out alone!"


    I placed another hand atop hers and squeezed gently. "Breathe, Ames. I appreciate that you''re concerned, really, but you''re getting a tad loud. I think we''re going in circles at this point. You think it''s too dangerous to be alone. You also hate that I''ve been stealing materials. If I can make you feel better about those, then will you let me be an independent without raising a fuss?"


    She took a deep breath and knocked back her Americano. She slammed her paper cup down like a beer mug. It''d almost be cute if she wasn''t so terrifying. "And how''re you going to do that?"


    I thought about my current project pipeline. The suit should be finished by tonight. The shield module should be added by then too. "Tuesday after school, we''re going to go to my lab," I promised. I''m going to show you that I am already one of the most powerful capes in the city, strong enough to stand on my own and pick my battles. That takes care of your first worry, right?"


    "You''re still a villain."


    ''Man, she''s really hung up on that. I mean, I know why, but it''s still super inconvenient.'' I groaned and tossed my own drink back. "So I''ll be a different type of villain. What if I become the villain equivalent of Mouse Protector? A comic?"


    "That requires that you be funny."


    "Har-de-har-har. You know what I mean."


    "You think that makes it better?"


    "Look, I need money to tinker, but I promise that I won''t sell to any gangs in Brockton. Hell, I''ll even occasionally provide aid to heroes if that''s what you want. All I want is my independence, my neutrality."


    "You want to be Uppercrust."


    "Yes!" I exclaimed. "He''s the head of New York''s Elite cell, but he''s not a villain. He''s had a stabilizing influence on the city and lowered crime rates in his territory to virtually nothing. That''s the kind of independent I want to be. I genuinely believe I can do more good by flying solo than joining the Wards."


    She let out a sigh of relief. "Okay, that''s¡­ not as bad as I expected."


    "What? You thought I''d turn into Mannequin?"


    "No, but new capes tend to do really stupid things, okay?"


    "I know," I said softly. "I appreciate you caring. I mean it."


    "You have one shot to prove to me that you can handle yourself." Before I could cheer, she held out a finger. She hadn''t stopped frowning. If anything, she looked like she swallowed a lemon. "But! If you do insist on being a criminal, you have to run your heists by me. I get veto power if I think they''re more harmful than funny. Got it?"


    I nodded eagerly. This was far better than I''d imagined. "That''s fine. I''ve acknowledged that I can be a bit excessive if I don''t have someone to rein me in."


    As we walked out of the shop, she pulled on my sleeve. She looked at me with unsure eyes. "Bryce? Please don''t make me regret this."


    "You won''t," I promised. I tugged her into a back alley, shadowed and away from cameras. I pulled out a pair of charcoal-gray gloves and slid them on. "You might even say it''s my creed."


    With that, I vanished, blending perfectly with the background. I giggled silently as Amy freaked out for a bit before finally stomping away in a huff. After she left, I made a beeline for my lab. I had work to do.


    X


    Amy: What the fuck was that?


    Amy: You can teleport?


    Amy: ?


    Amy: Bryce?


    Amy: Don''t ignore me!


    ''Heh, that picture''s definitely going in my blackmail folder,'' I thought as I flipped through the pictures I''d taken of her flabbergasted face.


    Her texts petered off as I looked around my lab. Twelve thousand square feet of space, yet I only had the soda engine and machines used to make the shawl. It looked remarkably empty. ''I''m going to need to decorate,'' I thought. I needed my lab to send a message. I needed Amy to see that I was not in danger, nor was I a danger to others, competence without coming off as one of those mad scientist types.


    On one hand, furbishing my lab was something I''d always planned on doing. Expanding and upgrading my base was a big part of why I wanted the volcanic ash. On the other hand, I hadn''t really thought about what I wanted my lab to look like. It was a bullet on my to-do list; I knew it was there, it just wasn''t a priority until now.


    With my sewing machine making my outfit, the only thing in my pipeline at the moment was my own shield module and that was mostly just a copy of what I''d already made for Labyrinth.


    It did need some customization for my personal use though. I found that the easiest way to synergize the technology of Pok¨¦mon with that of One Piece was to use my porygon as a medium. By tuning the shield to my Pok¨¦Nav, I could grant SAINT access to the raid suit''s systems. That way, should SAINT notice an incoming attack, he could activate it on his own even without prompting, much like he could activate the call functions in my phone. It was Protect, but stronger and without need for my personal attention.


    With that finished, the rest of my weekend was filled with furnishing the lab and surrounding parts of the ship. I dragged the tables I''d stolen from the mall and started setting up a proper work station. With the soda engine, burners, chemical pot, and sewing machine that looked like a demented pasta maker, the furnished corner of my lab ended up looking like a madman''s kitchen no matter how I tried to arrange it. Hell, it even had a microwave and hot plate for snacks.


    Seeing no other options, I left that as is and started to improvise with the other furniture. All but one of the metal bedframes that lined one of the berthing rooms of the ship got dismantled for parts. Most of them became a series of shelves and racks nailed to the wall that could, if one squinted, be called postmodern.


    With Franky''s shipbuilding knowledge, I built several drawers that would not jostle or come loose even in the waves of the Grand Line. SAINT especially liked playing with bits of dismantled furniture like a set of Lego blocks.


    I also took the time to install a rudimentary drainage system for any fluid spills. I''d have to include plumbing, heating, and electrical at some point in the near future, before I lost One Piece as a specialization, but that could wait.


    When all was said and done, approximately one third of the lab''s floorspace was squared away as a shooting range and miniature gym. There was a whole lot of empty space, but the structure for a stable, durable, and organized workshop was there.


    I also left the last bed in the berthing room as is, with the addition of a single fresh mattress. Faultline had her safe house above Harvey''s; now I had my own.


    Author''s Note


    I''m not satisfied with the chat with Amy, but it is what it is.


    Have an animal fact: Columbus crabs ride around on sea turtles. They live full-time in the space between a sea turtle''s tail and shell, eating turtle excrement. They even mate and breed there before their young float off.


    At least your neighbor isn''t an asshole, eh?


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 2.5 Wave

    Wave 2.5


    2010, October 4: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    By midnight, I was back at the Palanquin for Labyrinth''s final fitting. I couldn''t quite suppress the hammering in my chest, the thrill of showing someone my work and knowing she''d be appropriately wowed by it. I couldn''t recall ever feeling this kind of excitement in either of my lives before, not even the day I graduated with my master''s in clinical health. I didn''t know if this was my power trying to manipulate my actions or if "Bryce Kiley" felt emotions more acutely than I had in my past life, but this was one feeling I wasn''t averse to having.


    It was almost customary how Faultline''s Crew arranged themselves. Gregor and Faultline were pictures of professionalism while Newter lounged next to Gregor, his tail flicking back and forth lazily. Labyrinth sat in just a domino mask, a white t-shirt, and a plain pair of jeans, her usual facemask and costume nowhere to be found.


    "Good evening, Creed," Faultline started. "Are you trying a new look?"


    "Yeah, digging the cape, dude. Very¡­ Eidolon," Newter added. "Were you inspired by Labyrinth''s?"


    I grinned and flickered in and out of sight. "Yes and no. The plan was always to augment my costume. Labyrinth''s shawl just helped me test out a few things beforehand." The invisibility and shield functions were tied to the cape, but the suit itself provided plenty in the way of physical augmentation. With a flourish, I pulled out her helmet and shawl from my backpack and presented it to the Crew. "Tada, like it?"


    Looking at it now, I could see that the shawl was a lighter green compared to Labyrinth''s costume. Though the pigmentation was matte, the structure of the Germa fibers caught the light for an interesting ripple effect that gave off the illusion of patterns that weren''t there.


    "Don''t ask us," Gregor said. "Labyrinth will be the one wearing it."


    "True, true. What do you think?" I directed to the waifish blonde. She stood, first time I saw her do so on her own, and leaned into the cape as though examining a work of art.


    She batted it back and forth like a kitten playing with string and wondered at the ripple effect before she finally remembered to nod. "I like it; it''s swishy. Thank you," she smiled.


    "Good, now put on this helmet, here," I gestured to the modified biker helmet. It looked a bit like my own, but with a full-face visor instead of a chin guard. Once she wore it, I ran her through the functions a few more times until she could activate both the shield and cloaking effect at a moment''s notice. I then presented her with another quick-change canister tuned to her outfit and showed her how to operate that as well.


    "Excellent, thank you again, Creed," Faultline said. "I realize that the costume isn''t cheap and I promise the lab in the basement will be ready by the eighth."


    "That''s good to hear. I''ve been meaning to ask, have you looked into the volcanic ash?"


    "I have. It''s readily available in gardening supplies and from quarries, but you said the ash must come from an oceanic volcano. Unfortunately, New England is geologically stable and there are no active volcanoes along our coast. The closest would be the Fagradalsfjall volcano in Iceland. I''ve also reached out to quarries near the Kilauea volcano in Hawaii. You may need to wait another week if you want the aid of a cape who can transport volcanic ash in large quantities. I should have two hundred pounds of the stuff by the end of the week, far from the full ton you wanted."


    "That''s as expected then. I appreciate you trying to get it anyway," I said. "Any questions about the shawl?"


    "I have one," Gregor said. "What is your technology powered by?"


    "Would you believe me if I said cola and a SUPER can-do attitude?" I received nothing but flat stares in response. "Yeesh, figures. Labyrinth''s outfit can be charged by keeping it in canister form then plugging it into a normal outlet. It should be good for several days of continued operation, so long as she''s not stealthed the whole time."


    "And what if she is stealthed?"


    "Twenty-four hours, it''s a very energy-efficient system."


    "So I see."


    "Dude, any chance you can hook me up with that?" Newter tried.


    "It''s coming out of your pay," Faultline warned. "Labyrinth has already agreed to something similar. There is only so much I can subsidize and tinkertech is a bit out of the budget range. I do admit I''d be interested in your costume as well."


    I wagged a gloved finger. "The shield module and canister were free this time, mostly because Labyrinth is the most vulnerable member of your team and I wanted to take the chance to advertise. If you want the full set for yourselves, you''re going to have to pay the appropriate price. If you want me to make you an outfit, you''re going to need to get comfortable with a cape. The helmet tells the cape what to do and the clasp processes that order into tangible effects, but those effects are anchored to the cape. No cape, no extra powers."


    "Hey wait," Newter said, "didn''t you say you needed full coverage to use the invisibility function? Labs didn''t get a full suit, just a shawl."


    "Same but different," I said. With the snap of my fingers, I turned into a shorter version of Faultline. "The disguise function, what I call texturing, is unique to my costume and requires full coverage to adjust for my body''s motions. The invisibility and the shield are tied to the cape. I know they sound similar, but I promise the underlying science is a bit different."


    "How much were you considering for a completely remodeled costume?" Faultline asked.


    I''d done some preliminary research with the expectation that such a question would get asked. I hummed. "A good costume costs a few hundred if it''s made with tough fabrics and custom fitted. The best Kevlar vests will cost you upwards of seven or eight hundred dollars. Anything the Protectorate wears probably costs something in the ballpark of twelve hundred to sixteen hundred. Is that about fair?" Faultline nodded reluctantly. "Add in the quick-change, shield, and cloaking functions and well, there isn''t an easy way to gauge its price. Even if I average it as five grand per extra function, you''re still looking at a costume that costs fifteen thousand dollars at minimum."


    "Woah, don''t we get the friends and family discount?"


    "That is the friends and family discount," Faultline said reluctantly. "Defensive items tend to cost much more than a laser rifle because a bullet will kill just as surely as a high-powered laser, but something that can create a force field is far more tactically valuable."


    I gestured to Labyrinth. "Feel free to test that all you want," I said. "I''m confident that she''ll be able to tank anything you can throw at her, including large caliber bullets. While the shield is active, she should be more or less immune to kinetic impacts and thermal energies unless you can match Behemoth''s output. If you break it, I''ll fix it- and you''ll understand its limits better."


    "We will. That said, a full outfit for us will likely be out of our price range for several months. Setting up the Palanquin and Harvey''s was not cheap. I may approach you again once we''ve taken more jobs."


    We sat around in silence for a bit until something Faultline said gave me an idea. "Speaking of tinkertech for sale, is there any way you can put me in contact with Toybox?"


    Faultline sucked in a breath. It was Gregor that spoke. "We do not have an amiable relationship," he said. "One of our jobs involved breaking into a black market consortium and we encountered Pyrotechnical''s security. While we cannot tell you everything that occurred due to client confidentiality, we have given Toybox ample reason to dislike us."


    "Shit. That''s a pity. I wanted to expand my market a bit."


    "That isn''t to say we have no contact with then. Toybox is a collective, but they have no unifying leader. Some are capable of drawing a line between business and pleasure."


    "I see. In that case, I wouldn''t mind paying you commission to do some business development on my behalf."


    Faultline scratched her chin beneath the welder''s mask. "That''s an interesting idea. You would have to provide a catalog. Are you willing to allow me to act as your intermediary?"


    I nodded happily. It was the joy of creation that interested me. Money was nice, but more or less just a way to acquire more resources. "Yes, I did say I''d want to use the Palanquin as neutral ground for negotiations. Find me clients, take care of security, and deliver the products as they''re made. If you do that, I wouldn''t mind you taking a fair cut."


    "Very well, I do have some connections with various groups. Are there any restrictions on who you''d be willing to sell to?"


    "Yes, several. Ideally, I''d like to sell to heroes, rogues, or those who are villains by technicality like yourselves. I refuse to sell to any villain with a body count or any who have broken the unwritten rules before. At the moment, Uppercrust is my model of the kind of tinker I want to be."


    "That is acceptable," she smiled. As someone with her own code of ethics, I''d figured she''d appreciate an answer like that, even if it decreased her list of potential commissions. "Get me a catalog of tinkertech items you would be interested in building and I can send it out to some of my contacts. If you''ll accept my advice, I recommend creating some items for recreational purposes. That way, you can open up your potential clientele to include wealthy civilians."


    X


    Mr. Maury nodded to me with a pleased smile. He must have received the notice from Arcadia''s tutoring program that I''d arranged for my first student.


    Matt Brown was a sixth grader whose parents signed him up for the program. From what Mr. Brown told me, he wanted me to tutor his son until his grades went up. Because he was my first client, we agreed on Monday and Wednesday, three to five, for twenty dollars an hour. The money wasn''t great, but that was fine. The point was that now, I could claim to have a tutoring gig lined up for the rest of the week and no one could tell otherwise. I had an excuse to be away from home until dinner, away in my lab tinkering.


    Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.


    Lunch with the Dallon girls was¡­ interesting. I knew all the capes around us. Amy knew all the capes around us. Vicky, Carlos, Dennis, and Dean had no clue I was a cape. I wasn''t supposed to know they were Wards. Stephanie and Chelsea were clueless about everything.


    It made for a dynamic that could be best described as¡­ interesting. Amy had that gleam in her eyes that screamed she knew something. The fog of amusement wafting off her as the Wards and I danced around our identities was practically visible. Dean shifted in his seat, trying to figure out just what had our resident grump in such a mood.


    "So what''s got you in such a good mood, Amy?" her sister prodded her side, making her let out a bark of unwilling laughter.


    "Nothing, just not as tired today," she waved.


    "Had a nice weekend?" Victoria wriggled her eyebrows like a lecherous old man five times her age. "Maybe with a certain someone?"


    "I don''t know what you''re talking about."


    "Uh-huh," she nodded sagely. "I must be confusing you with that other sister I have."


    I could see the blush crawling up Amy''s cheeks at the insinuation and decided to intervene before she decided keeping my power secret wasn''t worth her continued embarrassment. "We hung out on Saturday and grabbed some donuts."


    "Did she get a cream filling?" Dennis grinned.


    "Carlos."


    "On it." He dutifully punched the redhead in the arm.


    "Ow! Why?"


    "You''re disgusting, that''s why."


    "Really, guys. We had donuts, hung out at the mall, then had some coffee. Sorry Dennis, I''ll have to contribute to your spank bank some other time."


    Stephanie scrunched her nose in disgust. "Ugh, boys. Can we not talk about this?"


    "Agreed. New topic that isn''t speculation about my love life: Hypothetically, if you could get Kid Win to build you something, what would it be?" I asked, both to change the topic and to get some ideas for the catalog I wanted to present to Faultline.


    "Oddly specific, why Kid Win? Bryce, is there something you''re not telling us?" Chelsea grinned.


    "There are plenty of things I''m not telling you. Like how your left nostril is a little bigger than your right."


    She gasped and covered her nose. "It''s not, right?"


    "Big enough to drive a train through. Nah, I''m just fucking with ya. I picked Kid Win because he''s a tinker our age."


    "I''d ask him to build me a hoverboard, duh," Dennis said with a cheery grin.


    "Do you know how to skateboard? Or snowboard? Or any ''board that''s less likely to break your neck?" Chelsea asked with a dubiously.


    "Nope, that''s the fun part."


    ''Noted, didn''t the Germa raid suits come with hover shoes? Can I make those?'' I wondered. Before my power could provide me with a dozen different designs, I shoved that idea to the corner of my mind. "Wouldn''t Kid Win have some kind of control system in his helmet though? I can''t imagine having a board like that without a way to pilot it."


    "Good point, I don''t know if he can build it, but maybe a drone? I used to have an RC helicopter that dad and I flew at the park," he said wistfully. "It broke after I crashed it into a tree, but those were fun times."


    "Nostalgia''s hitting hard, huh?" said Carlos.


    "Yeah, did you have something like that as a kid?"


    He shrugged. "I used to bike a lot, even went dirt biking a few times with the family. It''s nothing Kid Win made, but I''d love to take a ride on the Armscycle."


    "Does he really call it that?" I asked with a quirked brow.


    "Maybe. It''s what PHO''s calling it and he''s never corrected anyone. I know I''d probably crash it, but I think something slower would be cool."


    They continued talking about tinkertech inventions but my mind was elsewhere. One Piece did have a bike and I was ashamed to have forgotten about it. Franky''s Black Rhino FR-U IV was a lightweight, hyper-durable motorcycle powered, like all creations of the SUPER cyborg, by cola. It was sturdy enough that Franky used it as a battering ram, even running over Big Mom''s face. It was also one half of Franky''s personal Megazord, the Pirate General Franky.


    I could build it, I realized. I could build it easily with just what I had on hand and three tire irons. The rubber could be reinforced with Germa fibers. The metal body could be made with wapometal, a special shape-memory alloy that could stand up to some major pressure from even New World pirates. I''d need the forge Faultline was preparing for me to synthesize the alloy, but everything else was easy.


    ''Hell, if I''m going to put it out to market for recreational purposes, it doesn''t even need to be that durable. Sure as hell shouldn''t transform into a mecha. I don''t need wapometal¡­ I guess I''m taking apart my old bike.'' I faded out of the conversation for the rest of lunch, but Amy must have noticed because she kept shooting me knowing looks.


    X


    I walked into Lafayette Middle School at two-forty in the afternoon. Arcadia''s sister school was only a ten minute walk away. The blocky building was covered with a cheery mural of the Protectorate members, each posing appropriately heroically. Instead of Triumph, there was Challenger, dating the mural a bit. The school secretary was a genial grandmother with blanched white hair that fell in short curls.


    "Hello, sweetie, how can I help you?" she said with a friendly smile.


    I glanced at the nametag before presenting my own. "Hello, Mrs. Young. My name is Bryce Kiley and I''m a tutor from Arcadia. I was told to pick up someone named Mike Brown today."


    "That''s fine, dear. Let me get you set in our system and call Matthew out." She motioned for me to take a seat in one of those colorful plastic chairs.


    Soon enough, Matt showed up. He was a pudgy black boy with a shaved head and big, expressive eyes. He wore a shirt embossed with Dauntless'' golden helmet, jeans with Battery''s circuit designs, Velocity brand shoes, and a backpack imprinted with Triumph''s lion head.


    ''What? Halbeard and Minutegal not cool enough?'' I scoffed internally. Still, I got up and greeted him with a friendly smile. "Hey, Matt, right? I''m Bryce, your tutor."


    "I believe Mr. Brown specified that you two use the school library," the secretary said.


    "That''s reasonable. Come on, Matt. Let''s go knock out that homework."


    The middle school library was nowhere near as extensive as the public library near city hall, but it got the job done. It was a squat, brick building with a handful of rooms set aside for group study. We were lucky enough to find one unused, but I made a note to reserve one in the future.


    I was hired to help Matt because his father, one Marshall Brown, saw his math grades slipping when he entered middle school. I was to help raise his math scores for twenty dollars an hour, hopefully teach the kid some better study habits.


    Working with the boy was¡­ challenging. He wasn''t stupid, far from it, but he was completely and utterly uninterested in math. In half an hour, I managed to get him to try four questions. At the very least, he did get most of them right when he actually bothered to answer them.


    "Come on, Matt, we''re going to have to do this anyway. Two hours aren''t going to pass any faster because you ignore your homework."


    "Math''s boring though," he whined. He slumped in his seat in the universal teen language for "I''m done with this shit." "It''s not like I''m ever going to use it."


    I''d heard that before. Hell, I''d said those exact words before. I hadn''t realized how annoying it was to hear that from the other side. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Thinking about it made me feel like a crotchety old man whining about how things were "back in the day."


    I swallowed down the strange feeling of dysphoria and said, "Alright, what do you want to do? Because I guarantee you, whatever you want to do with your life, you''re going to need math."


    "A superhero," he said sarcastically, but there was an undercurrent of need. This was a kid who worshiped the Protectorate capes. I wouldn''t be surprised if his room was practically a shrine of memorabilia.


    "Not going to happen," I shot him down bluntly.


    "How do you know?"


    "Parahuman studies is a hobby of mine." ''I need it for my immediate survival,'' I didn''t say. For the first time since we began, his eyes gauged me with more than boredom. "Do you know what that is?"


    "It''s the study of powers."


    "Yes, and powers don''t just magically pop up out of nowhere. Do you know what a trigger event is?"


    "It gives you powers," he said sullenly, but I could see the light of interest start to shine.


    "That''s the simple answer, but it''s more complicated than that. A trigger event is the worst day in your life. You have to get shot and bleed out. You have to watch your parents get murdered in front of you. You have to lose everything you hold dear," I said solemnly. Earth-Bet wasn''t the only setting in which heroes went through great struggle for power, but it was the only one I could think of where psychological trauma and need for conflict was mandated by the very nature of set powers. Earth-Bet sucked. "I pray that never happens to you, Matt. Everyone wants powers, but people don''t realize just what kind of price you need to pay to get them."


    "For real?"


    I wasn''t sure how wise it was to tell a kid about triggers, but it wasn''t exactly a secret, just a bit of reality that went unmentioned in polite company. "For real," I confirmed. I pointed to the picture of Dauntless'' helmet on his shirt. "Those heroes? Dauntless? They''re not heroes because they have powers. Look at Skidmark. They''re heroes because they experienced something terrible enough to give them powers; then they decided to be heroes anyway. Instead of hurting people or doing whatever benefited them, they chose to protect. That''s what makes them heroes."


    "Well, I could still get powers."


    "I wish you never have to find out. Not everyone who goes through tragedy gets powers," I pointed out gently. "If you want to work with parahumans, the best bet would be to join the PRT. Become an analyst, someone who studies powers."


    "Like PHO?" he asked. "They''re always trying to decide which hero is stronger."


    I nodded. His clear interest in the subject gave me an idea. "Yes, like PHO, but a bit more involved." I pulled up my laptop and opened the website. "Have you checked the battleboards? It''s where people go to talk about what you''re talking about."


    "Yeah, those are cool."


    I pulled up a thread marked "Legend v. Strider" and started reading. "Pretend Legend and Strider are playing tag in New York. Can Legend catch Strider in under five minutes?" I looked at Matt. "Can he?"


    "Well, duh, he''s Legend," he replied with the certainty of a child. "He can go as fast as light!"


    I smiled. "I wonder about that. You asked me if you''ll ever use math in the future. If you want to study powers and work with heroes, you will. Let me show you." I pulled out a sheet of paper. "Legend can move as fast as light in theory, but not in practice. Think about it. If he could move as fast as light, he''d shoot himself off into space in under a second and we know that parahuman powers fail after they leave past the moon''s orbit."


    "Really?"


    "Yeah, it''s one of those rules about powers: no space travel. Now, we need to calculate how fast he moves when he''s fighting a cape. Thankfully, he''s one of the most filmed heroes and there are plenty of videos of him fighting capes. Let''s make sure that the cape is a strong one with great mobility like Strider." I searched for videos of Legend and sure enough, I found one in which he dueled the Butcher.


    "Here. The Butcher is the leader of the Teeth, a gang active in New York and a teleporter, just like Strider. By seeing how long he''s taking to move from place to place, we can get an idea of his speed. Because he''s a hero, he''s not going to create sonic booms that break all the windows in New York or hurt people, right?


    "Now, Strider isn''t dumb. The best way to get away from Legend is obviously to start from one end of the city and teleport to the other end, repeating as often as possible to make him travel the most distance, right?" He nodded, completely absorbed in my explanation. "Okay, so given Legend''s speed, which remember needs to be below the speed of sound, and that he''s limited to safe levels of power, how long does it take for Legend to travel from one end of New York to the other?"


    Our lesson continued like that, with me providing formulas and constants from the internet and Matt solving for the variables. Finally, Matt grinned as he held out a completed set of equations. "Hah! I told you Legend can tag Strider!"


    I nodded. "In a simulation, sure, he can do it in under five minutes because Strider needs a few seconds to catch his breath. In a more realistic scenario, Strider might decide to throw Legend off by teleporting somewhere else or hiding in someone''s attic or something. Then, Legend would have to play hide and seek, not just tag."


    "He''s still faster," he said mulishly.


    "He is," I conceded, but the bigger battle was mine. I tapped the worksheet in front of him with a smug grin. "Now that I''ve proven that you will in fact use math outside of school, homework."


    "Damnit," he grumbled but started his worksheet.


    Author''s Note


    Faultline''s Crew, sometime before canon, did oppose Toybox. It is unclear what the details were or when exactly it occurred, so I''m just slotting it in as it conveniences me.


    I wanted to include another scene with Labyrinth, but I wasn''t sure how. She''ll probably feature much more later on because her power is amazing and I want to explore that more.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 2.6 Wave

    <div>


    Wave 2.6


    2010, October 5: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    I waited for Amy at a deli near school. It was run by an old Jewish man who moved here in the fifties and never left. He was the stubborn sort whose sheer bitterness and grit made even the Empire flunkies look for better things to do. That, or maybe it was the hatchet he kept under the counter. He made one hell of a Reuben but at two in the afternoon, the deli was largely empty. I bought a gingersnap cookie to be polite and nibbled on it while waiting for my minder. Ten minutes past the hour, the frizzy-haired healer motioned for me to join her outside.


    I was already in my new suit, cape and all, though I was disguised as a civilian.


    "Sorry, had to give Vicky an excuse or she would have followed me here," she apologized. We started walking out of the Boardwalk and downtown areas.


    I nodded. Today was a Tuesday and I knew what it meant for her to skip out on a hospital tour for me. "No problem. I''d definitely rather wait than give Vicky the grand tour of my lab. No offense, but that girl does not keep secrets well."


    "She does. You''d be surprised what she keeps quiet."


    "Like Jonah kissing Heather beneath the bleachers?"


    "You don''t even know who they are."


    "I don''t," I admitted freely. It''d be a cold day in hell when I gave a damn about Arcadia''s drama. "But that wasn''t my point and you know it."


    "Vicky can keep secretes when it counts. Like cape identities. She has a ''gossipy teenage girl'' mode and a ''Glory Girl'' mode," my grouchy friend defended. She looked me over. "I don''t see a teleporter. Did you disguise it somehow?"


    We started walking. The moment we were out of sight, I snapped my fingers. With a shit-eating grin, I turned into an exact copy of Vicky. The only thing different about us was the height, but it''d be hard to tell at a distance. Then, in a perfect copy of Victoria''s voice, I said, "Who says I teleported?"


    "Holy shit."


    "Yeah, come on, sis."


    Taking her hand, I started to drag her to the Boat Graveyard.


    "Hey! Seriously? The Graveyard? You know your base is going to be found out in like two weeks, tops, right?"


    "It''s not, just trust me."


    "Ugh, fine." She continued to grumble under her breath but allowed me to lead her by the hand.


    I spied an abandoned alley and ushered us inside. There, I had SAINT disable all electronics in a hundred meters before unfastening my cape.


    I''d thought long and hard about how I wanted to take Amy to my lab. It''d have been a cinch if I could teleport, but I''d not had the chance to build a Team Rocket warp plate before my specialization changed. So my solution was a quick and dirty one.


    I had two methods of concealment. The Expansion Suit could scan humanoid profiles and copy them perfectly. The Sanji''s version of the Germa raid suit could turn people invisible. The texturing was tied to my clothes while the cloaking effect was tied to my cape.


    Amy looked at me strangely until the cape left my costume''s area of effect, rippling into the visible spectrum.


    "What the-"


    "Just put it on."


    I slung the garment over her, then picked her up in a bridal carry. Amy wasn''t a heavy girl and with the suit''s bolstered strength, I barely even felt her. I worked her around until she was curled up like a roly-poly, scrunched up enough for the cape to completely cover her.


    "Hey!"


    "Relax and wrap the cape around you. It''ll make you invisible."


    "What the hell?"


    Shutting off my external mic, I signaled for SAINT to take control of the cape. It must have been a disorienting experience for her. She lacked the helmet''s systems to pierce the invisibility, so she literally disappeared from her own sight.


    "Woah."


    "Yeah, I''m pretty awesome. And I still look like your sister so I can just fly over."


    "You can fly?"


    "I can hover. Slowly. Hopefully it''ll just look like Vicky''s taking a leisurely stroll."


    "You''re so dead if she catches you."


    "If."


    "I still reserve the right to turn you in," she grumbled.


    "Sounds good. Remember, I just need to prove that I''m strong enough to handle myself."


    "Yeah, yeah. You also need to convince me that your tech isn''t going to start the apocalypse or something," she huffed. "If there''s anything dangerous, I''m knocking you out then immediately calling the cops."


    "Oh ye of little faith." I sincerely doubted she could actually stop me before I could knock her out, but I let her hang onto that illusion. She needed to feel like she had some control, even if it was purely fictional.


    And with that, we were off. I made sure to ascend as high as I could to not draw attention. I thanked God for the wiring incorporated into the cape. Otherwise, I wasn''t sure if Magnet Rise would have been enough to lift both me and another person.


    We soon crossed the bay and headed out to sea.


    "Bryce? Think we missed a turn."


    "We didn''t. And call me Creed in costume."


    "What, you have an undersea lair? What are you? A Bond villain?"


    "Not yet," I teased.


    The Gullrest loomed ahead, even the mid-sized cargo ship a yawning behemoth to our diminutive statures.


    "Seriously? You set up all the way out here?"


    "Yup. I told you, the odds of anyone actually invading my lab are pretty small."


    "Well it looks like a dump."


    "Because it is. I haven''t gotten around to fixing up anything but my actual lab. Besides, it''s good camouflage."


    "Sure," she snarked. I could, but I didn''t need to see through my own cape to know she was rolling her eyes. "That''s what sloths say about the moss growing on their backs: camouflage."


    "I can drop you," I warned. I loosened my grip for an instant but immediately caught her before she could dip more than an inch.


    "Fuck you," she hissed even as she clung tightly to me. Girl was surprisingly strong.


    "Aren''t you gay? ''Cause you tick my gaydar like nothing else."


    "I''ll feed you your own dick."


    "Ouch, let''s not threaten my manhood. My masculinity is fragile enough as it is," I joked. "''Sides, we''re here."


    Hovering into my lab, I dropped her onto one of the rattan chairs I''d stolen.


    "Land!" she cried dramatically, hugging the cushion to her chest.


    Rolling my eyes, I walked over to my soda engine and picked out a bottle of coke. "Here, have a coke."


    "Thanks." After a minute, she was back on her feet and looking around the empty expanse of the ship''s cargo hold. "This some kind of warehouse?"


    "Yup. The Gullrest used to be an oil tanker converted into a cargo ship. It used to run routes up and down the east coast until some idiots grounded it in protest. We''re in one of the main cargo holds. Now, thoughts? Praise? Adoration?"


    She scoffed. "Your lab is mostly empty space, shelves with nothing in them, tables, some kind of model boat, and what looks like a demented kitchen." She eyed me warily. "You''re not tinkering up magic cocaine, are you?"


    "No. If you look closely, you''ll find that the big thing over there is a sewing machine."


    "That thing built¡­ that?" She waved generally in my direction.


    I laughed and took back my cape with a flourish before placing my hands on my hips, chest thrust out in a classic superhero pose. "Yeah, like it?"


    "Looks great, if you don''t mind the Sentai Elite cosplay."


    No matter what Amy would claim later, I did not pout. "It''s not cosplay," I told her. Even through the voice modulator in the helmet, it came out as a whine. "It''s a Germa Expansion Suit, the GES for short."


    "Fine, so what were you going for? Because you''re a bit short to pull off a cape."


    "The cape is a vital part of the look. I was going for cross between biker and admiral with the cape thrown in. Does it look that weird?"


    She circled me steadily to look over the costume. Reaching out, she ran a finger along the burnt orange lining of the cape then the burnished gold buttons that held my top closed. "It''s not bad," she admitted. "It looks professionally made. It just looks like it should be worn by someone with a lot more¡­ stature¡­ than you have."


    "You''re mad because your costume is basically just a white curtain. Mine has character."


    "Right, Admiral Biker Man," she said with a shit-eating grin.


    "It''s Creed."


    "You say Creed, I say Admiral Biker Man. Po-tay-to, po-tah-to. Why Creed though? It sounds alright, but I thought you''d pick a music theme for sure."


    "Yeah, I''ve had it for about a month now. I chose it because I planned to be a mercenary. You know, someone who isn''t always on the side of the law, but also has his own code to follow."


    She hummed in thought. "Still not letting you be a villain, at least no major crimes, but it''s a good name. Short, sweet, and with a sense of purpose. I noticed it also tells me nothing about your power."


    I waved and, with a flourish, I was dressed back in my civilian outfit. "Purely a coincidence, I assure you."


    "Right. Well? Weren''t you going to show me how powerful you were so I don''t have to worry?"


    I grinned and motioned for her to join me in one end of the lab. This was a section I''d set aside for practicing with my powers. SAINT and I regularly played zap-tag here. I''d nailed some boards along one end of the wall for target practice, each board a piece of aluminum I''d scavenged from the other areas of the ship. "Right, see that metal board?" I pointed to one with a considerable hole at its center. "I did that."


    "You have a laser gun?" she asked incredulously. "Bryce, that''s not really a good thing. If you carry a gun, people will use it as an excuse to use lethal force against you too. It doesn''t matter that powers are usually much more lethal than guns; it''s the image that matters."


    "One, that would be true if we lived anywhere except Brockton. We live in Brockton so people are going to try to shoot me anyway. Two, I didn''t do it with a gun. Now stand back," I warned. From about sixty feet away, I channeled my aura into my hand. My aura responded like an eager puppy, gathering and generating sparks of electricity. I made a thrusting motion with my fist, launching a bolt of electricity towards the wall. "Thunder Wave."


    The result was an arc of electricity that struck the board dead center and rippled across the metal.


    "See, that''s Thunder Wave. I made it so I could paralyze people form a distance. If I really cut loose, I can punch holes into the metal," I lied. The hole wasn''t my doing, it was SAINT''s. I''d pick up Thunderbolt someday, but I didn''t feel like I could use it at the moment.


    "Yes, I got that. How the hell does lightning coming out of your hand count as a tinker power?"


    "Because it''s tinkertech," I said, explaining nothing. The last thing I needed was for her to worry that I was a power-granter. Those were even more sought after than tinkers.


    "Fine, I''ll admit that''s pretty cool. And appropriately nonlethal. You did check that it can''t kill anyone?"


    "Of course."


    "Good. Anything else you can do?"


    I nodded. Two metal screws raised themselves from a nearby table. "I can also control electromagnetic fields to a degree. It''s not strong, but it''s good enough to hover with, or carry someone if they''re wrapped in something that has metal, like my cape." She started to mutter something about lucky bastards who grabbed the whole fucking bag but I continued before she could get too far into her rant. "Ames, I can restrain people with Thunder Wave, fly away, and if worse comes to worst, get absolutely lethal. I''m not helpless. You don''t need to try to protect me."


    "I get that, but you''re still really squishy. It just takes one mistake, Bryce."


    "And that''s what the costume is for. It''s made of a modified Kevlar that I call Germa fibers. The fibers are strong enough to withstand extreme heat close to the temperature of the sun, if only in short bursts. It''s also completely bulletproof and would require special rounds to pierce. Short of an anti-material rifle, I''m not worried. The suit also comes with an augmentation suite that makes me much stronger and faster."


    "You can''t be that strong."


    I rolled my eyes. I walked up to a chair I stole and picked it up with one, outstretched hand. Then, one by one, I released my fingers until I was holding it with just my thumb and index finger. I was no Sanji, but the suit made the forty pound chair feel like a teddy bear. I tossed it into the air like a baseball. "This chair is what? Forty? Fifty pounds? Ames, I can lift it with my fingers, center of gravity be damned. I doubt I''m stronger than Vicky, but I''m more than strong enough to give everyone else a hard time."


    Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.


    "Okay, fine. You''re probably safe," she admitted reluctantly. I had the feeling she had been looking forward to convincing me to join the Wards.


    "And?" I coaxed.


    "And your technology doesn''t seem very dangerous."


    "And?"


    "You can be an independent. Happy?"


    "And?"


    "What more do you want from me?" she cried as she flung her hands in the air.


    I laughed and gave her a hug. "Nothing, I just wanted to see what you''d keep agreeing to," I said as I spun her around.


    "Let me down, you ass!" I let her flail in the air for a bit before setting her on the ground. She took a moment to compose herself. "You know, with all the different powers you have, it almost feels like you''re not a tinker. I mean, you have the super durable suit, but when I think of a tinker, I think bullshit technology, you know?"


    "Not a fancy suit?"


    "Not unless it''s power armor. Yours looks like a uniform more than something mechanical."


    I took her by the hand and dragged her to the soda engine. It was the most archetypally tinkertech thing I''d made thus far. Besides SAINT, but I had no intention of showing her I could make sentient AIs yet, if ever. "Coke?"


    "No thanks. You already gave me one."


    "Right. Point is, you know what''s in here. What if I told you it''s not a fridge?"


    "I swear, Bryce, if it''s also your fleshlight, I''m going to have to kill you."


    "Joke all you want, but you''re looking at an engine powered purely with cola."


    "No. That''s impossible. I don''t care how bullshit tinkers can be, you can''t power an engine with fizzy sugar-water."


    I twisted open a hidden latch to reveal the machine''s internals. Sure enough, a row of coke bottles were fizzing away, with tubes that led directly to a transformer that converted all that fizzy goodness into pure electricity. "You dare underestimate my power?"


    Amy stared dumbfounded as she tried to reconcile the fact that yes, she had indeed been drinking engine fuel.


    "Fuck it," she said finally. "Fuck your power and fuck you too. I want to go home now. I''ve had enough of your bullshit for the day."


    I grinned triumphantly. "So, does this mean I win?"


    She growled. "Yes, whatever. You can be an independent. Just remember that if you do anything too stupid, I''m dragging your moronic, drooling ass straight to the Wards. Got it?"


    I held my palms out in mock surrender. At the end of the day, for all her vitriol, she cared enough to make these threats in the first place. "Respect the unwritten rules. No grand larceny. No endangering civilians. I know. Most of this was stuff I''d have done anyway. Creed implies some standards, right?"


    "Right." She held out a tired hand. "Take me home, Bryce."


    Thirty minutes later, we were in another alley three blocks away from the Boardwalk. "You''re north of the Boardwalk and you should reach the touristy parts of town if you head that way. I think you should shop around a bit while I make myself scarce."


    "Smart. Bryce, thanks for letting me check out your lab," she said sincerely. "I know tinkers are really cagey about that. I do feel better about you being an independent."


    "You''re welcome, Ames. Besides, it feels good knowing I have Panacea in my corner."


    She punched my arm. "Idiot. If you need me as a cape, I''m going to heal you just so I can kick your ass again."


    I winced in mock pain. "Alright, take care, Ames." Before she could reply, I kicked off a nearby wall and onto the opposite rooftop. There, I cloaked and allowed myself to fade into invisibility before watching to make sure Amy reached the Boardwalk without incident.


    X


    Minutes later, I emerged from behind the dumpster of yet another isolated alley near Hillside. There was a parking lot surrounded by a series of shops across the street from the mall complex. Next to the supermarket that took up the lion''s share of retail space was a sporting goods store, my destination.


    The store itself was nothing special, one of several chains in the New England area specializing in sporting gear. They sold everything from hunting rifles to dumbbells. I''d stolen a fiberglass bow and a set of arrows the last time I was here, but didn''t expect to need the roller skates. Sometime during my heist, I''d forgotten that the raid suits came with hover boots, something Dennis reminded me of on Monday with his hoverboard comment.


    I bought a pair of good quality skates for a hundred and twenty dollars. They were the type designed with high, padded ankles for support.


    After my impromptu shopping, I dashed back to my lab to start on my hover boots. Without Amy to burden me, it only took ten minutes of hard sprinting across the rooftops.


    The sad part was, I still wouldn''t be able to build them to completion, not until Faultline delivered on the ash. The ash was a vital component in the boots'' hover function. My power told me I could extract and synthesize a mineral called pyrobloin from volcanic ash, the same mineral used to forge seastone. It would allow me to condense the air around my feet into temporary clouds to run on, much like the island clouds of Skypeia.


    Even if I had no pyrobloin to form the hover modules themselves, I could at least start on shaping the skates to my design. I first began by removing the wheels, brakes, and axles, leaving just the bare plate. Then, I molded the plates using a torch to contain the unfinished hover modules. Lastly, I prepared myself another vat of carbon polymer to coat the boots in. It wouldn''t do for my feet to be less protected than the rest of my outfit. By the end of the three hours, I had the structural components of the hover boots drying on a rack under a heat lamp.


    X


    I walked into the house with a satisfying tiredness in my step. It felt good to tinker in my lab during the day; I could get a consistent night of sleep without feeling guilty about missing out on the One Piece tech tree. I tossed the key into a bowl set aside for the purpose and greeted my sister.


    "Hey, Sierra, what''s up?"


    She sat in our armchair, typing something on her laptop. "Hey, Bryce. How was tutoring?"


    "Not too bad, but I have a newfound appreciation for teachers," I lied. "Mom not back yet?"


    "Yeah, she''s got a late reservation at the clinic she didn''t want to turn down, called five minutes before you came in actually. You want to make dinner or should we order?"


    "You know, normally, big sisters are supposed to offer to make food."


    "If you want burnt toast then sure," she said dryly.


    "Fair enough. I could do without the food poisoning. Pizza?"


    "Yeah, that sounds good. You still getting pineapple?"


    "Ehh, I''m okay without torturing you tonight. Get what you want."


    "So you do get pineapple just to mess with me!"


    "Not just to mess with you," I said with a smile. "I think the tart sweetness goes well with the savory pizza."


    "Blegh, whatever. My brother is the worst kind of food snob."


    I opted to spend my evening with Sierra. I plopped down on the couch closest to her and pulled out my own laptop. "You know, the kid I tutor isn''t stupid, but damn if he is unmotivated. I''m having some trouble getting him interested in studying."


    "Yeah, it''s this crippling disease called ''being a teenager.'' Heard of it?" she replied with a cheeky smirk.


    "Hah. Funny. I basically introduced him to PHO battleboarding as an example of real world applications for math and physics."


    "Huh, that''s not a bad idea. Is he one of those cape geeks?"


    "You say that like you aren''t one."


    "I think I mostly grew out of it."


    "Sure you did, that''s why Lady Photon''s poster is glued to your ceiling so it''s the first thing you see when you wake up in the morning."


    "We all have our heroes, Bryce."


    "True." I leaned in to look over her shoulder. "What''re you doing?"


    "I was checking the cape news on PHO ironically. Did you know the Merchants tried to hit the Palanquin on Sunday?"


    I raised an eyebrow at that. ''Faultline didn''t mention that. I must have missed the damages because I came in through the back. I should be more attentive...''


    "Oh? What happened?"


    She turned the laptop so I could see better.


    On it was a somewhat shaky video of the Palanquin and surrounding hill, with what had to have been one of Squealer''s cars. It looked like someone attached monster truck tires to a dump truck then welded the shovel of a bulldozer to the front. I could see two turrets welded to the top too. The dump-dozer was leading a small caravan of three more pickup trucks, all unmodified, up the hill. Each pickup held four to six Merchants and I could see Skidmark waving like a lunatic from the top of the dump-dozer.


    I whistled. "Damn, is it weird that I kind of like Squealer''s truck?"


    "Seriously?"


    "What? It''s a monster truck with guns," I defended. "If there''s a zombie apocalypse, I want her on my side."


    "Boys," she said, eyes rolling.


    Faultline must have had a warning system in place somehow because the Crew emerged when the trucks were about halfway up the hill. This being Brockton, people cleared out in a hurry, though I didn''t doubt that there were more videos of this fight from half a dozen different angles.


    Skidmark shouted something and Faultline obviously responded in the negative because the turrets started aiming towards her. They had a bit of back and forth before the entire hill started to tremble. The cameraman did his best to stay on the action, but he almost dropped the camera a few times.


    "She was buying time," I said.


    "Hmm?"


    "Labyrinth." Sure enough, pillars and walls of granite arose out of seemingly nothing, each decorated with sculptures of lions, griffons, and other mighty animals. The dump-dozer tried to drive over it, but the engines clearly weren''t up to breaking through three feet of solid granite. Random gunfire filled the air in response to the abrupt change in terrain. "She''s one of Faultline''s and the strongest shaker in America, very likely the world. She can generate any piece of architecture in a large area around her, basically making a labyrinth for people."


    "Now who''s the cape geek?"


    I sniffed. "I never denied my geekiness. Unlike some, I embrace it wholeheartedly."


    I looked at the snarling beasts that decorated Elle''s handiwork and felt a moment of almost pity for Skidmark''s idiot brigade. ''If I remember right, her "pocket worlds" change depending on her emotional state. She sees the Palanquin as home and the Merchants just attacked a shaker-twelve''s home base.''


    The Merchants brought around twenty people, all armed with guns, but four trucks had little chance of turning halfway up the hill, and that chance evaporated once Labyrinth started playing with the world like silly-putty. While they were trying to figure out a way to maneuver the dump-dozer to get a clear line of sight on Faultline, she dashed forward.


    Faultline had completely ignored the granite column in her way, phasing through it like it didn''t exist to dash directly in front of the lead truck. She then drew a dainty finger purposefully across one side of the dump-dozer as she ran by. The entire truck slid into two halves like something straight out of an anime.


    I could hear the cameraman swear in shock.


    "Holy shit, did you know she could do that?" Sierra asked.


    "Yeah. Dracule himself couldn''t have made a cleaner cut," I said. "I didn''t know she could phase through solid objects though. It''s more likely that it''s another aspect of Labyrinth''s power."


    "Who?"


    I waved her off. "Don''t worry about it."


    Whatever she was going to say, she got distracted when Faultline hopped in place and jumped through the asphalt, only to emerge from a different column behind a different truck.


    This time, she was joined by Newter, who lunged with the kind of speed more commonly seen in pouncing leopards. He landed on the lip of the truck bed, tail extended for balance, and tapped two people on their cheeks before they could react. They slumped forward with nary a sound as Faultline cut out the rear tires.


    I could see the dump truck part of Squealer''s abomination start to bubble, the trash rising like a boiling kettle until Mush emerged in his garbage-golem form. He was primarily dealt with by Gregor, whose adhesive spray glued the trash-man''s tendrils together. Before he''d even finished stepping out of the back of the truck, Gregor had forced him to abandon half his mass or risk entangling himself.


    This did however give the Merchants in the other cars time to collect themselves. Skidmark shouted something then started to layer fields over the gun turrets as the swiveled around to face the back. Had they fired, bullets enhanced by his power would likely have done terrific damage, but they didn''t get the chance before they were splashed with a narrow stream of acid that melted straight through them.


    The Merchants finally started using the six brain cells shared between them and abandoned their vehicles in favor of more mobility. That would have been the correct move had not the entire area belonged to a rather upset shaker. The first one who jumped from the car fell into a pitfall, the ground closing over him to silence his screams.


    It was only because I knew Labyrinth personally that I knew he was alive. She was a sweet girl; had she been anyone else and that pit could just as easily have been a punji pit, or worse.


    The next few were met with lion-headed pillars sprouting up at speed to welcome them. They shot into the air, grasping their druggie cargo in their maws and leaving them stranded four stories in the air.


    Faultline pulled out an extendable baton and proceeded to work with Newter to beat the rest of the Merchants senseless. She received covering fire from Gregor, who used adhesive sprays to attach Skidmark to anything he picked up, preventing him from using his power to launch anything. The battle, if it could be called that, ended when Newter dragged an insensate Squealer from the driver seat of her truck.


    ''It says a lot about Squealer that I have no idea if she was in this state before Newter touched him,'' I mused.


    The last to go down was Mush. After Gregor glued some of his tendrils together, he also glued the trash to the ground, forcing Mush to shed even more mass. Faultline took advantage of his reduced mobility and drilled a hole to a tendril. Before it could be closed, Newter''s tail lashed out and grazed him almost gently. The tendrils were a part of Mush''s organic body and he was soon out like a light.


    In less than five minutes, the Merchants were out cold or wished they were. The ground opened up to reveal some very terrified druggies who must have had a hell of a trip inside Labyrinth''s world.


    They were lined up in a row, on their knees before Faultline''s Crew. She said something to them, slapped Skidmark like a fool, confiscated their guns, then walked back up the hill to her club. Slowly, the ground creaked and groaned as the world reverted back to the way it was, only the four scraps of what used to be serviceable cars and twenty Merchants with the fight beaten out of them to show what had happened.


    "She didn''t arrest them?"


    "Why would she?" I asked my sister. "She''s a mercenary. Hell, leaving them to lick their wounds and walk away is probably a message in itself. It says ''I don''t care about the city or its gangs. Leave me alone, or else.'' If she restrained them for the Protectorate, she would be changing the geopolitics of the city. Worse, she''d be catching villains for the Protectorate, and that sounds like the kind of thing she''d want to be hired to do."


    "Huh, makes sense. I still wish she would''ve just had that big guy glue them to the ground until the heroes arrived."


    "Yeah, would be nice, but I get why they didn''t. If they did, they''d be players in the city''s game and they don''t want that."


    "How do you know?"


    "I''m pretty sure there''s a PHO statement from Faultline confirming their neutrality," I pointed out.


    "Yeah, that does sound like you. You would ignore these cool fights then read the boring PSAs. Nerd," she jostled me.


    "Whatever. Go order us pizza," I sniffed. "You''re just jealous because I''m smarter."


    X


    That night after dinner, I found myself back in the lab. It would be a short project, a series of attempts to extract something known as a lineage factor. Oda had based the idea off DNA and according to the scientists of One Piece, eating a devil fruit altered the consumer''s lineage factor.


    However, I saw one critical difference that told me the lineage factor wasn''t exactly the same as conventional genetics: fruit powers weren''t inheritable. This would be my first foray into biotinkering, something I knew Amy might well kill me over, but then again, she had no reason to visit my lab again and the possibilities were far too enticing for me to resist.


    Several examples of biotinkering could be found throughout the events of One Piece. The prime examples were the Vinsmoke children, who had all been tinkered to be super-soldiers. They were impressive, but they all came with significant downsides.


    Another prime example was the creation of the artificial devil fruit; not that joke Doflamingo called SMILE fruits, the one made by Vegapunk to replicate Kaido''s mythic zoan. Having the knowledge of One Piece also included the brilliance of Dr. Vegapunk, the ability to create a mythic zoan, albeit one weaker than the original.


    I intended to create a devil fruit, but I had no intention of eating it myself.


    For starters, having a weakness to the ocean in a setting where one of the three apocalypse-monsters, the one I was practically guaranteed to fight within the year, controlled the ocean like an extension of its limbs, sounded like a creative way to commit suicide.


    No, what I wanted wasn''t the fruit, I considered that the secondary prize. My true objective was the process of splicing phenotypical traits using the manipulation of lineage factors. If I could learn the process, I should be able to customize it for my needs.


    In essence, I wasn''t tinkering up a singular invention; I was teaching myself an entire school of science, one mastered by only one man in One Piece.


    I had a little over two weeks, two weeks to set the foundations of this research before I lost the specialization. There was one problem though: Vegapunk created a copy of Kaido''s fruit using a sample. I had no such thing. I could perfect the SMILE fruit using Vegapunk''s knowledge, but that would leave me with a standard zoan at best. And even then, my power kindly let me know that I''d have a greatly weakened version.


    My decision was clear: Just as I used examples of cape powers in lieu of moves for the TM archive, I would use biological samples of capes for my burgeoning devil fruit.


    I didn''t even have the soil or pot to grow a tree, but that was fine. Gardening supplies would hardly rouse suspicion and I wouldn''t need a plant until much later. No, the first thing I had to do was design a lineage factor extractor and splicer that could isolate individual traits and graft them to another.


    It was an exciting night, but I made sure to return home by one-thirty in the morning. I did promise myself consistent sleep after all. Drawing up the plans and conceptualizing the applications would have to do for the day.


    Author''s Note


    The raid suit Reiju wore took a direct hit from Prometheus, the sun homie. I assumed she reinforced herself with Armament, but even so, Prometheus should have a surface heat of somewhere in the 9,900 degrees Fahrenheit. That''s where I''m getting the raid suit''s heat resistance from.


    In One Piece canon, seastone is made of a special type of mineral found in volcanic ash called pyrobloin. Pyrobloin has the unique property of condensing water vapor around itself, forming both the island clouds and sea clouds of Skypeia. It is unmentioned just what the raid suit''s hover boots use, but I''m going with the theory that pyrobloin is a common ingredient that lets the wearer "kick" off of the densely packed water vapor. On a side note, Nami also must use pyrobloin to some degree because her clima-tact can be used to form the milky road.


    The Merchant v. Faultline scene was necessary I feel. Sometime before canon, Faultline established herself as a neutral party in the city, but that doesn''t mean the gangs would have been happy to leave her be. She had to have done something to prove she wasn''t to be fucked with. This is that something. She''s officially too strong to fuck with and too ambivalent to be a threat.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 2.7 Wave

    Wave 2.7


    2010, October 7: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    Nothing interesting happened on Wednesday. Matt was a bit less reluctant to learn.


    I did get the call that Faultline had my two hundred pounds of volcanic ash, so I made my way to the Palanquin at midnight. I wouldn''t be able to work with it until tomorrow, when Faultline would have the forge beneath Harvey''s set up to my specifications, but having it alone was good enough.


    Tomorrow, I''d build myself a set of hover boots and seastone knuckles to embed into my gloves. Once I could secure a stable supply, I intended to coat my entire lab in it, much like the SMILE factory in Dressrosa.


    The seastone was an interesting material. It wouldn''t negate powers, capes weren''t devil fruit users, but that didn''t mean it''d never come in handy. Having the "essence of the sea" within also meant it''d likely come in handy in a future specialization. Or, in the worst case scenario, I might have to put down a fruit user if I ever decided to mass produce SMILE fruits. Combined with their durability, it''d be weird if I didn''t have at least one seastone weapon.


    X


    I was halfway through world issues with Mrs. Currie when I realized I had yet another material shortage. If I wanted to make a lineage factor extractor and splicer, something I''d taken to abbreviating as an LFES, I desperately needed an advanced chemistry set. I wasn''t just talking about the makeshift garbage found in meth labs like coffee makers and Pyrex tableware. I needed a centrifuge, distiller, electrolytic cell, and more.


    That was the kind of thing I could expect to find in a university lab or Medhall. The centrifuge was especially important because I''d need it to do double duty to isolate pyrobloin from other minerals in volcanic ash. I had a small one I''d planned to cobble together for the purpose using a food processor, but I could always do with bigger.


    ''Something tells me Amy won''t let me hit Medhall and "I swear they''re Nazis" won''t cut it.'' I crashed my head onto my desk, ignoring my copy of the textbook.


    "Bryce, is there a problem?" Mrs. Currie asked in that way teachers have that really said, "There''d better not be."


    "No, ma''am," I said back.


    "Good, maybe you can tell me what you thought of the Boston Games."


    "It''s an interesting case study in what happens when the PRT manages to clean up the gangs but lacks the power or preparedness to fill the vacuum. A lot of people, including me if I''m honest, criticize the PRT for not being aggressive enough against the Empire, ABB, and Merchants, but we often forget that taking down the gangs is actually only half the battle. If Brockton Bay''s Protectorate moved against the gangs, we could likely have a scenario even worse than the Boston Games."


    She looked a little surprised that I could talk about the subject at all, but it was one I''d done extensive research on, both as a matter of personal curiosity and one critical to my immediate survival.


    ''I can''t convince Amy to let me steal from Medhall or Brockton College. I likely won''t be able to find any major drug dens that the Empire runs, if they run any at all. I could make more centrifuges from stuff I can find in a drug lab though,'' I thought.


    It wasn''t explicitly something shown in One Piece, but it seemed that my power would happily provide the components for anything so long as I worked towards a One Piece tech tree. I could make most of the lab equipment I''d need using the appliances I''d stolen already, but when I went on my larceny binge, I was shooting for anything that looked vaguely useful, not focusing on a specific type of material. It wasn''t surprising that I''d run out of one thing or another.


    ''Guess I''m hitting the Merchants. I''m going to have to remake the expanded bag so it doesn''t get in the way of my cape. Maybe a series of smaller bags attached to my lower back and thighs? I think I have some camping gear in the stockpile. There should be a survival pack somewhere¡­''


    I started to doodle on the edges of my notebook. It didn''t look like tinkertech, more like a series of bags attached to a mountain climber''s harness, so I didn''t worry too much about it being seen. That was the beauty of One Piece, I found: It looked basically normal, if a bit strange.


    ''Alright, plan "Build new bags to steal with then convince Amy to let me hit the Merchants for stuff to build a few extra centrifuges" is a go.''


    X


    "Hey, Ames," I said over lunch, "do you have time today after school?"


    "She''s free," Vicky answered for her. "Actually, so are we, right, Dean? We can totes make it a double date!"


    "I don''t know, Vicky," Dean tried to calm the girl. "Maybe we shouldn''t assume he meant this as a date."


    Amy shot me an irritated glare. "It''s not a date."


    "But you can come too, Victoria," I said nonchalantly. The best way to get rid of Vicky was to employ a bit of reverse psychology. "I wanted to pick Amy''s brain about the AP bio project Mrs. Pearce assigned."


    Vicky made a face and backpedaled like a cat confronted with a spritz bottle. "Eww, no. Never mind."


    "You want to come, Chels? Steph?" I asked.


    "Nah, we have cheer practice," Stephanie said. Chelsea nodded as she chewed through a turkey sandwich. "You two have fun."


    "Right, fun." I turned to Amy. "I''ll be in the school library after class."


    X


    I got out of my last class, English lit with Miss Lam, before Amy. We read The Great Gatsby, in my case for the fourth time. And like the first three times, I wasn''t sure what the moral of the story was supposed to be; they were all assholes.


    I spent the class working on a catalog of nonlethal tinkertech I could sell to heroes, independents, and wealthy civilians.


    When Miss Lam, a young, mid-late twenties Vietnamese woman half my classmates had crushes on, called on me, I told her that The Great Gatsby wasn''t a commentary on wealth. Instead, it was a social commentary on what it meant to be part of an in-group. After all, Gatsby accumulated wealth, power, and fame yet was still rejected. It wasn''t plagiarism if the source was myself in another life, right? Satisfied that I''d read the material, she left me to my woolgathering.


    I rushed to the library, a two-story structure that took up a significant portion of one wing of Arcadia''s "H," and reserved a small group study room. Our library was well-stocked with spare copies of textbooks students had donated at the end of the year, an effort started by the principal five years back to care for students from the other side of the tracks. It also had sizable sections dedicated to classical literature, fantasy, and other genres as well as how-to guides and instruction manuals.


    I set my Legend-themed backpack on the floor and pulled out my laptop to start transcribing the tinkertech catalog I planned to build. I was at it for about ten minutes before Amy joined me, her bag tossed carelessly to the side.


    "What''s up, Bryce?"


    "Not much, just checking in with you about my cape plans. You did want to be kept abreast of this, right?"


    "Someone''s gotta make sure you don''t set the city on fire," she joked.


    I feigned taking an arrow to the heart. "You wound me, Ames."


    "You can pull an Emperor Palpatine at will," she deadpanned, "a fire is very possibly in your future."


    "I can," I nodded. "''Can'' being the operative word here."


    "So, what''s your big plan? Don''t tell me you actually want me to look over your biology homework."


    "Of course not," I scoffed. "AP bio is just a bunch of memorization anyway. No, I called you here because I plan to hit a Merchant drug lab for materials."


    "Really? Why? Aren''t you being too rash? Please don''t tell me you need a meth lab of your own."


    "No, but I do need some of those chemicals and hardware. Since you''re against me stealing from legitimate businesses, this is my best option."


    "Can''t you just buy an appliance?"


    "Not going to risk discovery. I could probably do it, but I need some materials in bulk and that''s definitely not worth the attention. Besides, I''m not made of money."


    She mulled it over. "Okay, I''m not against you looting a Merchant lab. Was that all? I want to put in a few hours at the hospital today."


    "Nope, here, look at this." I turned the laptop around so she could see what I''d been writing.


    "Hover boots? Shield generators? Germa fiber cloth? Hammerspace bags? Is this all stuff you can build?"


    "Basically, yeah. No crime, so I need a way to make money. I''m planning on selling tinkertech to heroes, independents, and rich civvies. Before I put my catalog out there though, I want you to screen them for anything that''d be problematic."


    "You''d let me tell you what you can and can''t build?" Her tone was surprised. She''d obviously had some experience with Armsmaster before.


    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    I wiggled a hand up and down. "Ehh, kind of? I''m willing to let you have a say in what I make public. Being a cape is all about sending a message, remember? And I want to show you that I''m sincere about letting you be my moral compass."


    She smiled honestly, her freckles stretching across her cheeks. "Thanks, Bryce. That means a lot." She looked at the list for a moment before she pointed to one item. "What exactly is a wapometal?"


    "It''s not an invention as much as it is a material." I pulled up a relevant Wikipedia article. "It''s a type of shape-memory alloy, SMA for short. SMAs have been around since the 1930s, since way before capes. Basically, it''s a type of metal alloy that can be deformed and then heated to repair itself. Normal SMAs have really low fatigue resistance, but that''s not true for wapometal. Wapometal is unique among SMAs in that it is extremely durable, even usable in combat purposes. If I made plate armor with it and Lung went to town on it, I''d be able to repair it to pristine condition in an hour or so."


    She hummed. "Okay, that sounds useful. And the Germa fibers are the stuff your suit''s made of, right?"


    "Yup."


    "I''m against you selling the shield module and some of this defensive stuff."


    "Explain that one to me," I said. "I figured those would be the ones you''d really like."


    "I like it, but I don''t think it should be public. Sell it to heroes only. Granting people invincibility makes them think the rules don''t apply to them. Trust me, out of all the capes I see, I see brutes most often. I know it wouldn''t be your fault if your inventions get misused, but I''d rather not have a new villain who thinks he''s hot shit because he has some kind of brute-level costume."


    I thought about it. "Alright, so you think I should make two separate catalogs?"


    "Yeah, probably. I''m not comfortable with you selling honestly, but a differentiated catalog is better than nothing." It was a moment before she spoke again. "You should probably limit distribution for hover boots too. Flying is a major advantage and most Protectorate districts have at least one flier for that reason."


    I made the appropriate change to the document. "Okay, what else?"


    "Black Rhino?"


    "It''s a three-wheeled motorcycle powered by a soda engine. That''s okay, right?"


    "She hummed. It should be fine. Can you limit the output of your engine for civilians? Maybe keep things comparable to an ATV or dirt bike?"


    "I can," I confirmed.


    "Okay, I don''t see any other problems with this. Only¡­"


    "Only what?"


    "This catalog is going to make you seem like you''d do anything for money. Are you sure that''s the kind of image you want?"


    "My image is as I am, or as close as I can get it. I want to tinker. I want money to tinker. I want to have fun using the inventions I make. If I happen to help people along the way, great, but I''m not making it my main priority," I said honestly. "So yeah, I''m fine with that image."


    "I wish I could be that carefree," she whispered, as though afraid to admit it even to herself.


    "Who says you can''t be?" I wrapped one arm around her shoulder. "You help so many people. It isn''t wrong to take some time for yourself. Maybe hang out with Vicky? You know, just you two. She wouldn''t begrudge you a sisters'' day out, right?"


    "You''re right, I might ask her tomorrow." She picked up her backpack and gave me a soft smile. "Thanks, Bryce. I''m going to go to the hospital now."


    "Alright, don''t burn yourself out."


    X


    With all my materials and tools from Faultline coming in tomorrow, I found myself in a bit of a conundrum: I had nothing I new I could build.


    Wapometal and pyrobloin needed a dedicated forge which wouldn''t be ready until tomorrow evening. Seastone and hover boots both needed pyrobloin. The Black Rhino trike needed wapometal to be combat-viable. The LFES needed more chemistry equipment that I wouldn''t be getting until I could build myself something from a raiding a Merchant lab.


    I had an entire notebook full of things I wanted to do, including reinforce my entire lab with near indestructible seastone then convert it into a ship of my own so I could get out of dodge when Levi inevitably showed, but none of it was possible at the moment.


    I paced around my lab. "What else can I build?"


    SAINT hopped out of the Pok¨¦Nav in a shower of pixelated sparks. "Reee," he trilled. He nudged my backpack, not the Legend-themed, rainbow-colored one I used for school but the large, black one I used as Creed.


    "You''re right, thanks for reminding me, bud." I gave him a grateful pat and spent an hour loading new schematics for a series of smaller expanded bags into the sewing machine. The two holsters meant to strap to my thighs could hold fifty pounds each, with the one at the small of my back beneath my cape having double capacity. I also made a few miniature ones for my breast pockets that could hold forty pounds each. All told, it was less than half the carrying capacity of my bigger backpack, but having unrestricted access to my shield-cape would be worth the trouble.


    While the sewing machine prepped the bags, I spent the next few hours working out the inner circuitry that would turn them into hammerspace items. Six weeks later, I still had no idea how any of that worked. I asked SAINT to wake me before dinner and allowed myself to sink into the paradoxically clear yet fuzzy haze that was my tinker fugue.


    X


    Sierra pushed her roasted Brussels sprouts around her plate, making them run circles around the small volcano of mash potatoes and gravy. She teased one of her dreads, pulling at the tip and letting it bounce back. Finally, mom had enough and set down her fork.


    "Sierra, honey, did something happen?"


    "Huh? No, nothing happened. College is fine."


    "You know you''ve always been a shit liar, sis," I said.


    "Language, Bryce."


    I ignored mom and continued. "You''re one of those health-conscious weirdos that actually like Brussels sprouts and you haven''t touched them. So? Spill."


    "I mean it, nothing''s going on at school."


    "So not schoolwork. Friends?" she flinched. "Ah."


    "What? Sierra?"


    "Sabah''s dad''s sick and she''s been feeling down about it, that''s all."


    I chewed the chicken Kiev and savored the herby notes of the filling. "How sick? Also, should you be telling us this?"


    "It''s not like you''re going to make her life difficult. I think her dad has some kind of heart condition."


    "That''s terrible," mom gasped. "Is he in the hospital now?"


    "Yeah, he''s doing okay but they want to keep him there for a while."


    "Has he been put on Panacea''s list?"


    She sighed. "Yeah, but it''s going to take a while. She''s super busy and it''s practically like winning the lottery."


    ''I know I told her to relax a bit, but I can kind of see the pressure she''s under if everyone wants a piece of her time.'' "Do you want me to ask Amy?" I tried. "She doesn''t take requests so it might be a hard sell, but she''d at least listen I think."


    "It''s fine, Bryce. Her dad''s stable and he''ll likely be released within a week or so. It''s just that there isn''t really a cure so he''ll be back in the hospital eventually."


    "Okay. If he gets worse, let me know. You can apologize to Sabah for sharing family secrets after I have a chat with Amy."


    She smiled uneasily. "Yeah, sounds good."


    X


    After dinner, I called SAINT and had him start a search for Merchant labs. He wasn''t an amazing hacker, not compared to Dragon, but gathering information from the city government was no issue. Most of it wasn''t even hacking, simply the accumulation of information that was already publicly available by law.


    To find likely Merchant labs, I had SAINT look for buildings that had been abandoned for at least a year according to the Brockton Bay Building Commission. Then, I narrowed that list to only those buildings within the core of Merchant territory. I couldn''t imagine Skidmark would place a major lab in the outskirts of his turf where it could be more easily discovered. Third, using information from the same Commission, I had SAINT exclude all buildings smaller than four thousand square feet. That way, if it did turn out to be a Merchant holding, it would be more likely to be a big one with sizable investment.


    I had no intention of wasting my time raiding some idiot''s basement. It was possible the Merchants dug out some space themselves, but I remembered that the Bay sat on an aquifer. Add in the pipes and sewer system and there really wasn''t much real estate belowground.


    The only real hacking I asked him to do was with the Brockton Bay Police Department''s Central Records Division. There, he was to look for police reports that originated from Merchant territory and also complained about the smell.


    I suspected that most of those claims hadn''t even been investigated, but that was fine, simply knowing a rough location would allow me to cross-reference the reports with the map obtained from the building commission. Setting the little guy to work, I turned in early for the night. I had a feeling it''d be a long weekend.


    X


    2010, October 8: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    I awoke to eight possible locations. There were others, but none exceeding four thousand square feet in area. With the background research done, there was nothing left but to scout out each of those labs in person. I was jogging to school when I received an email from Faultline.


    Creed,


    Good morning. The final touches to Harvey''s Bar and Grill will be made during the day. I was informed that they expect to be finished at approximately two in the afternoon. You should check on your lab this evening and tell me if there is anything that needs adjusting.


    I am sending this email in lieu of calling you directly so you have my email address for the future. We have accepted a job out of town and expect to be gone for the week. I will find time to keep in contact, but correspondence may be sporadic.


    Lastly, I want you to know that I''ve sent out some feelers through my contacts for people who would be interested in purchasing tinkertech. I''ll have a full contract ready for you when I get back.


    Regards,


    Faultline.


    I hummed in thought and slowed my pace to a swift walk. It wasn''t ideal, I''d planned to get the catalog set up as soon as possible, but it''d have to do. ''Well, guess I know what I''m doing after school.''


    X


    Harvey''s Bar and Grill had gotten a full makeover that wouldn''t have been amiss in a reality TV show. The red brick building had been thoroughly washed until the whites of the mortar could be seen clearly. A crimson awning shaded the entrance to the restaurant. The sign nailed to the wall was replaced, from a generic green and white to a sunny yellow framed with twisting four-leaf clovers. A smaller sign on the ground proclaimed its grand opening tomorrow, a fifty percent discount on all menu items for the opening weekend.


    I''d changed into my costume then disguised myself once again, this time into a Thai native with bronze skin and almond eyes. If anyone was keeping track of Faultline''s investments, they''d get nothing from me. I inputted the passcode into the keypad and let myself in.


    The ground floor was now an old-timey bar. I knew everything was brand knew, but the d¨¦cor still had the look and feel of a dive bar that had seen some decades of service. Varnished cedar and oak tables lent the place a warm ambiance. In one corner was a jukebox from the eighties, along with a retrofitted microphone. Behind the counter, I could see shelves of top quality liquor. There was an emphasis on scotch and malt beer. I recognized only a handful of brands, but they all looked to be of good quality.


    Having taken stock of the restaurant, I moved up to the second floor apartment that Faultline and I had agreed to use as a safehouse. The studio had been fully furnished with a sofa-bed, desk, lamp, and some kitchen implements. It wasn''t homey by any stretch, but it had everything needed for a person to be comfortable for a few days.


    Finally, I made my way downstairs to the lab. At just a thousand square feet, the lab was tiny compared to the Gullrest, but it did contain everything I''d asked of and a bit more.


    A set of crucibles, tongs, and other handheld tools were set aside on a small shelf beneath the stairs. Beneath the shelf, I found several sturdy, heatproof molds. The furnace, gas powered, sat in the far corner, with the grinder and lathe set against the wall closest to the stairs. At the center of the basement stood an island table with in-built drawers and an attached anvil for finer work. It was a bit cramped, but not enough that I couldn''t swing a hammer.


    Looking around, I noticed perhaps the most important custom job Faultline did for me: excellent vents and fans ready to disperse the heat of the forge. I probably wouldn''t do much tinkering here during the day, if only to keep the sound levels down, but I saw myself checking in often.


    "I''m going to have to replace the power source on all of these, aren''t I?" I mumbled to myself. "Three soda engines at least, or maybe just a large one I can set into the wall to power them all? Yeah, that sounds like it''d take up less room overall..." I got to work with a grin on my face.


    Author''s Note


    Lab''s ready, though it''s more about appearances than anything else. Still, he''ll soon have a steady supply of wapometal and whatever else he needs being produced via SAINT''s network in the background. Along with the shit from the Hillside Heist, he''s largely set on any of the smaller projects, though he''ll have to source materials for the bigger/more important things he''s thinking of.


    This is the writer equivalent of a DM saying "Keep track of your own arrows. I''m just going to assume you go get some back after every encounter and remember to restock at any village you stop by."


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 2.8 Wave

    Wave 2.8


    2010, October 9: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    I was right back at Harvey''s by the stroke of midnight. I dashed back and forth between the workshop beneath Harvey''s and the lab in the Gullrest, building an extra-large soda engine. It took me two hours even with the blueprints all but memorized.


    In the end, I had an engine that weighed over four hundred pounds, one I struggled to move even with the GES'' strength enhancement. Instead of trying to drill a hole into the basement wall to find a place for it, I removed some of the drawers from the central island and placed the engine there.


    I must have phased in and out of a fugue without even noticing because when I next regained my senses, the forge and lathe looked a bit different.


    On one side of the forge, I could see a vat of some chemical fluid that definitely wasn''t there before. According to my power, it was a solvent that would bind to most chemicals and minerals in the volcanic ash once heated to extreme temperatures, all except pyrobloin. It was the perfect way to separate the miracle mineral from the rest of the chaff without a convoluted process.


    Pyrobloin of course did not truly exist on Earth Bet; I suspected that this solvent allowed my power to synthesize the material somehow rather than filter it out. Still, the specifics were irrelevant beyond that I needed volcanic ash from a coastal volcano.


    Preparations finished, I could finally work on the fun stuff, the tech that would let me progress forward.


    I made one final trip to the main lab to get the volcanic ash that Faultline supplied me with earlier in the week and started to load it into the crucibles.


    That was the last thing I could remember before I woke up to all eight crucibles glowing a cherry red.


    One by one, I poured the molten liquid into the vat and smiled at the satisfying hiss of evaporation. It would take a while for the pyrobloin to separate out and settle in little beads to the bottom.


    While that was settling, I went back to my lab to pick out several bits of metal I''d stashed in the DSS. One day, I''d build another port in here. Titanium golf clubs, bicycle frames, scissors, and other scrap were brought in, all to melt them down into raw titanium for the creation of wapometal.


    X


    I''d gotten home at six then enjoyed a power nap for three hours. When I woke up, I ate a spoonful of enchanted honey to clear the grogginess from my head and joined my family for breakfast. We were having a French omelet, or at least an approximation of it as made by my mother. She wasn''t a terrible chef, but nor did she possess any particular talent in it.


    "Bryce, I need you out of the house today," Sierra said.


    "Study group?"


    "Study group," she confirmed apologetically. "I wanted to suggest the library, but I didn''t want to make it seem like I was kicking them out."


    I put on an offended expression. "So it''s okay to kick your little brother out instead? I see how this is, Sierra."


    "It''s not like that; we have a deal."


    I held the glare for a moment longer before allowing myself to break out into a wide grin. "I know. I like your friends."


    "You like them because they''re hot older girls," she snorted.


    "Guilty as charged," I said shamelessly. "But yeah, I can make myself scarce. Or take a nap or something."


    "Thanks, little bro."


    "No problem."


    X


    Sierra had coughed up money for my lunch then told me to go amuse myself. I considered hitting up one of the Wards or Eric to hang out, I did promise him after all, but then remembered that I had eight potential Merchant hotspots to scout.


    That was how I found myself twenty bucks richer wandering the Trainyard. I was of course disguised as one homeless bum or another, changing every so often to not draw attention. I would approach as close as I could while disguised as a bum then become invisible for a few minutes while I snuck inside.


    The first location was a miss, completely abandoned. The second warehouse was a hit, but not in the way I wanted. It turned out to be some kind of Merchant distribution facility. Crates of unknown drugs were stacked in reasonably neat pillars and I could see street-level gangbangers going in and out to receive their supplies for the day. Had I been a chemicals tinker, this would have been a goldmine, but it wasn''t what I needed at the moment so I marked it on the map but otherwise ignored it.


    The third was also a hit, this time with what I needed. The warehouse was towards the east end of Brockton Bay, as far away from the docks and Lung as possible, which made sense in hindsight; fire and meth labs had an¡­ explosive chemistry¡­


    I smacked myself for the shitty pun and hopped to the roof before sneaking inside through a window by levitating myself down using Magnet Rise.


    The warehouse was filled with far more professional equipment than I''d first expected. I assumed I would have to loot them, then tinker with old coffee makers and other makeshift appliances to create the lab equipment I''d need, but someone had clearly supplied the Merchants with decent gear. Not top notch, I could see some signs of wear and tear that suggested that these were looted from a more legitimate lab''s trash, but still serviceable. I would be coming back here soon enough.


    Just to be thorough, I checked in on the other five locations. The fourth and fifth were duds, a pair of abandoned apartment complexes that no doubt housed its fair share of the transient community. While it was good to know where the bums hung out, I had no interest in making their lives difficult so I crossed them from my list. The sixth was likewise empty, an abandoned warehouse in truth. The seventh, some kind of gas station that doubled as a seedy diner in its heyday, had a few people hanging about. After watching for a few minutes, I concluded that it was a place to pick up drugs or whores used by the local distributor and pimp.


    The last, I struck gold: Squealer''s garage. I could have looked for her workshop directly by having SAINT filter for auto shops in particular, but that hadn''t been my objective. So when I ended up discovering the location of Squealer''s lab purely on accident, I was thrilled at my good fortune. It was located almost at the center of the Trainyard and obscured by several old train cars, no doubt on purpose.


    I had a surplus of metals and mechanical components at the moment, but I marked the location as a potential target for a future specialization.


    Mission fulfilled to my satisfaction, I grabbed a late lunch and made my way back to the forge to tinker. After making a bunch of titanium ingots, I took some stainless steel and melted it down for nickel. By dinner, I had my first ingot of wapometal, the super-SMA. I collected the pyrobloin from the bottom of the chemical vats and set them aside to dry before heading home.


    X


    By the time I stepped through my front door, I was fully ready to crash from the long night and daytime scouting mission. No amount of enchanted honey was going to keep me on a sugar high forever and I was dangerously close to falling asleep in the living room.


    "Bryce? You look like shit," Sierra said, tactless as ever.


    "Thanks, sis, love you too." I looked around to find no one else with us. "Your friends went home already?"


    "Yeah, why? Were you hoping to say hi?"


    "I wanted to check in on Sabs," I said honestly.


    Sierra smiled gently. "Her dad''s fine. Our creepy lab assistant is an ass but manageable. You worry about your problems, bro."


    "Alright, but let me know if that changes."


    "Sure." With that, she turned back to the TV, some drama about a cape infiltrating the Irish mob but falling in love with the boss'' daughter. That was something I noticed about Earth-Bet. Everything was tied to capes or cape culture in some way. Cop drama? We had PRT-Miami instead of the CSI series. Sitcoms? At least one of the main cast was guaranteed to have powers. The genre didn''t matter; cape culture fully dominated every facet of entertainment.


    To be fair, some of those shows were honestly interesting, but I found most to be subpar. The problem with powers was that writers tended to use them as copouts to railroad the plot or get themselves out of a corner they''d written themselves into.


    I desperately wanted to go to sleep, but I still had some work to do. I went up to my room and booted up my computer. Art was never my thing, certainly not graphic design, but I did my best to pretty up the catalogs. I also made a PHO handle for my cape persona to be used in future businesses. I sent it off to Faultline then let Morpheus take me.


    X


    2010, October 10: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    With less than two weeks of my specialization left, I was starting to feel the time crunch. The moment mom went off to church, I was out the door and on my way to the Gullrest.


    I had pyrobloin, the same material that could miraculously condense water vapor to varying densities, somehow without forming ice crystals, and form solid clouds. It took me much of the day, but I now had hover boots. Yes, I could fly using Magnet Rise, but I still wasn''t agile enough to make use of it in combat, repeated losses against SAINT proved that. Besides, anything that could improve my mobility while conserving my aura reserves would be a godsend.


    I also forged myself several nuggets of seastone, each only as large as a nut or ball bearing. Those I stitched to the knuckles of my costume. Don Krieg once boasted to Luffy that his armor had diamond knuckles. Now, that was true of me as well. Add in the physical enhancements of the raid suit and I hit considerably harder than a scrawny boy of five-two had any right to.


    I was as ready as I could be for my first gang raid.


    In an ideal world, I would have received the One Piece specialization months or even a full year later. I would have had a full set of large-scale fabricators so I could convert the Gullrest into a true pirate ship. I would have had an organic chemistry lab ready to go, along with a room on the ship dedicated to hydroponics so I could experiment with each successive generation of artificial devil fruits. I would have had a larger forge so I could build my own General Franky to tackle an endbringer.


    This wasn''t that world. As beneficial as the Hillside Heist was for me, I was still lacking in a lot of infrastructure. So, I chose to give up on all of that for the time being. Instead, tonight was about laying the foundation. I didn''t need to perfect a devil fruit in the next two weeks, but I did need to teach myself the essence of One Piece-biology. This wasn''t about an immediate power up; this was about engraving the school of science into my repertoire for future use.


    Going out tonight to bust some Merchant heads would probably leave me a zombie tomorrow at school, but it''d be worth it for the tech I''d get my hands on. If I wanted to do anything more with the specialization, I needed to move tonight; time was not my friend.


    It was ten at night when my mom turned in. Sierra was locked in her room, doing something or other on a CAD software she''d bought for class.


    I snuck out and headed to the Trainyard, settling behind a shipping crate in an isolated lot. From there, I disguised myself as yet another homeless vagrant and made my way to the drug lab on foot.


    I slowly elevated myself to the rooftop with a series of midair hops and looked down from the skylights. As expected of the nocturnal elements of the city, the lab seemed to have just stirred to life. Unlike during the day, there were a dozen shirtless Merchants working on one task or another.


    A part of me wanted to come back during the day, presumably when there would be fewer people, but I told myself that I didn''t know that for sure. For all I knew, Skidmark kept these guys on a guard rotation of some sort. It was what I''d do after all and he had to have a brain somewhere.


    I was momentarily taken aback; these weren''t like the Merchant stereotypes. They weren''t filthy, with eyes glazed over from whatever drug they''d taken last. I wouldn''t go as far as to say they were clean, certainly not professional, but all twelve lab techs were in passable shape, each wearing gas masks and goggles to protect themselves from the fumes. They moved with an intention and purpose that was usually absent among their fellows. Clearly, these were some of Skidmark''s finest, or at least the most sober.


    I also saw a pair of guards leaning against each of the two entryways. Four seemed like remarkably few for what appeared to be a major operation, but Skidmark seemed to be relying on anonymity as his first line of defense. I counted sixteen potential enemies, but I couldn''t discount the possibility of a few being in the second floor offices or even reinforcements nearby.


    ''Too many,'' I thought. It was one thing to consider raiding a major gang''s holdings, another thing entirely to actually go through with it. Intellectually, I knew I was all but invincible as far as the Merchant roster was concerned. Barring some extraordinary circumstance, they weren''t breaking through a Germa suit.


    They had no hope of catching someone who could run on air under normal circumstances. I could retreat at any time. Still I hesitated. Something told me this was a bad idea.


    ''Yeah, probably my good sense,'' I scoffed. Then I remembered that I had two weeks left to manipulate the lineage factor of a subject, to apply that research for the creation of something truly wondrous and cement it into my repertoire or be in danger of losing the possibility forever. ''If I don''t do it today, I''m fucked.''


    With that, I made a hasty plan. SAINT would emerge, eviolite around his neck, to cause a distraction. Using Thunder Wave and Psychic, he would disable as many Merchants as he could while I ran around the building under stealth to steal everything that wasn''t nailed down. With only a few hundred pounds of carrying capacity, it was possible that I would run out of room.


    "SAINT, you ready for this?"


    "Pory," he nodded. He wasn''t eager exactly; he lacked the battlelust that was so common among many organic pok¨¦mon, but the impression I got from the bond was that he''d be willing to fight if it meant I wouldn''t take the bulk of enemy aggression.


    Touched, I gave the little guy an encouraging scratch. "Okay, remember, no lethal attacks, but don''t be afraid to get a bit rough. If you''re in danger, use Protect and Agility to get out then catch your breath."


    Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    He let out a reassuring trill. Then, he nodded and began to glow with the light of Agility. Mere seconds later, I heard inquisitive prodding, then laughter as the guards poked and prodded at the random pastel-colored duck that had appeared between them.


    Then came the light show as Thunder Wave coursed through the two idiots standing guard outside. Laughter turned into shrieks of pain before the Trainyards seem to quiet.


    Lastly came the panic.


    "We''re under attack!" someone shouted.


    "No, shit, fuck-nugget!" came the eloquent reply.


    I took that as my cue and jumped down through the skylight. Still stealthed, I guided myself through the warehouse in a slow hover. I had no interest in Merchant operations beyond the materials they could offer me, so I skipped over the second floor offices entirely and landed on the ground. Any amount of liquid cash that I could potential loot would easily be overshadowed by a few tinkertech sales.


    To my surprise, only a few of the Merchants started running around like headless chickens. They were quickly brought back in line with harsh slaps from someone who looked like he should be the leader instead of Skidmark. He was tan and well-muscled, with a barrel-chest and shaggy beard that could probably hide a pocket knife or three. The way he took charge reminded me of Coach Miller and I concluded that he must have some military training.


    "You fuckers on me!" he shouted in an accent I couldn''t place. I mentally named him "Shaggy." "James, Kyle, pick up some rifles and join me. The rest of you, find some fucking weapons and get upstairs!"


    The two shirtless drug-makers nearest to the entrance immediately complied, digging into a crate in one corner and withdrawing a pair of semi-automatic rifles. I wasn''t an expert; I didn''t know the model, but I made a note to loot them if I got the chance. They also indicated that the Merchants were far better connected than people assumed.


    SAINT had already taken out the two guards with multiple Thunder Waves. I presumed it took so long only because he was trying not to stop their hearts and didn''t know how many amperes he could safely use. My loyal porygon started to charge forward, though I didn''t see the telltale shine of Sharpen. He was holding back as I''d told him to.


    ''He must want to save his power,'' I thought. A Tackle found Shaggy''s torso before he could bring his rifle to bear, sending him flying with a grunt of pain.


    I took my eyes off the action and looked around for things I wouldn''t mind having. A filtration machine that had been used to make higher purity drugs was the first thing to go into my expanding bag. A set of gas canisters followed. The eight other Merchants that had been scrambling started to pick up pipes, chains, and handguns from crates lined along the walls.


    "Which dick-munching piece of dogshit''s hitting my lab?" came a voice from the second floor walkway. I turned to find Skidmark, Adam Mustain, in all his dubious glory.


    ''Man, Wildbow wasn''t fucking around,'' I thought. Skidmark paid the barest lip service to the sanctity of the mask. His "mask," if it could be called that, was a teal bandana with holes cut out of it for eyes that wrapped around the top of his face. His "costume" was a ratty old wifebeater with suspicious yellow stains. The scariest thing about his snarl was the teeth that looked like chipped pistachio shells.


    "You limp-dicked fuckers get your asses up here," he repeated Shaggy''s order. He ran along the walkway, leaving ripples of his power along the edges. When the Merchants with handguns climbed to the second floor, they took aim and fired at SAINT, using Skidmark''s power to increase the velocity of their guns. Shaggy and the other one swore as they stumbled out of the way.


    I saw the emerald glow of Protect and knew he''d be fine. I nabbed several high-quality burners and glass beakers while no one was looking. Then, I felt an urgent pull through the bond. I looked back just in time to see Skidmark layer several fields in front of himself before throwing a knife towards my partner.


    Skidmark must have layered over a dozen fields together, because the knife shot forward like a sniper round. Force being mass times acceleration and the knife being far heavier than a measly bullet from a handgun, it struck with a titanic sound reminiscent of a resounding gong. ''He can''t take another one of those,'' I thought.


    "SAINT, withdraw!" I commanded.


    It was the first time I''d managed to send an image into his mind through the bond. He''d done so to me regularly, but I could never quite manage it until a moment of urgency emerged. He obeyed, lashing out with a bright light that send the Merchants reeling before hovering into the air.


    My shout did not go unheard. Bullets peppered my position as I shoved yet another piece of machinery in my bag, this time some sort of distiller. The rounds missed but struck the tables, beakers, and several tools I could have used. One bullet punctured a tank of coolant I would have liked to have.


    ''Isn''t some of this stuff flammable?'' That thought panicked me for a moment before I remembered seeing some of these Merchants move the finished products to the side. Still a hazard, but not nearly as urgent as if they''d left the stuff lying around. ''Who knew Merchants of all people would practice lab safety?''


    "Shit, there''s a fucking stranger!" Skidmark shouted. He started spraying bullets down randomly, almost hitting some of the Merchants still on the ground. "What the fuck are you cocksuckers doing! Close the fucking doors!"


    The six or so Merchants on the ground rushed to obey, or perhaps to get out of the sporadic gunfire peppering the warehouse floor randomly. Either way, I''d have to get through them if I wanted to leave through the entrance.


    Blocking the way out meant nothing to someone who could fly out the skylight again, but Skidmark didn''t know that was an option for me. He''d issued commands upon recognizing a stranger based on the best information he had. Not for the first time, I wondered how capable Skidmark would be if he wasn''t high off his ass half the time.


    Before Skidmark could continue firing down at me, SAINT came through with a strafing run of Thunder Waves. The electrical attacks bypassed Skidmark''s repulsion fields as though they weren''t there, knocking out two more Merchants. One Thunder Wave struck the metal railing, electrifying the metal and shocking the bare feet of several more. I heard vicious cursing before Skidmark shouted again.


    "Mush! Where the fuck are you!" he swore.


    ''Shit, he was here too?'' Still invisible, I was about to steal another set filtration machines when Mush''s garbage-golem made his way in from somewhere outside.


    "Here, boss, I was beefing up a bit," he growled. His voice came out jumbled, muffled through the trash as it was. He shoved aside the two guarding his door and stepped inside the warehouse.


    "Good, box the fucker in," the Merchant leader shouted from above. "And one of you call Trainwreck to get his ass here!"


    Mush extended his tendrils outward, lashing out in wide, horizontal sweeps to keep an invisible foe at bay. He started to advance and while I doubted he could hurt me, I wasn''t in any mood to actually touch the trash-man. Instead, I decided to try and stop Skidmark from calling for more reinforcements. I saw several Merchants fumble with their phones as SAINT made another sweeping pass, this time with Tackle. I rushed to the nearest support beam and grabbed hold of an aluminum vent.


    "Thunder Wave," I growled, sending quite a bit of electricity surging up the vent and onto the walkway. I held nothing back. I didn''t need nuanced waves of electricity that would paralyze one person without harming them, I needed as much juice as I could produce. The indirect electrical attack made them spasm with pain before dispersing amongst all that metal.


    I couldn''t hold the attack for long before two of the Merchants who''d gone to bar the entryway finished rubbing their six brain cells together and picked up the semi-automatic rifles the guards had dropped. They started spraying in sweeping patterns and I felt the sting of several bullets strike my back. One even glanced off my helmet, making me yelp, though more in surprise than pain. As it turned out, I wasn''t spared the impact of the bullets just because the suit was bulletproof. Most of it was dispersed by my suit, but I''d still have a few small bruises in the morning.


    "He''s over there," one of them shouted, pointing in my general direction.


    At the same time, another Merchant from the second floor must have grabbed his phone, because he screamed, "Trainwreck, get your ass to the lab! We''re being attacked by capes!"


    I couldn''t hear what the Case 53 tinker said in response because I took a second to focus on another set of burners in one corner of the room and dashed there using Agility to steal it along with a butane canister. The light of the move gave me away though and I was forced to hunker down behind my cape. Even without the active shield function, it was more than up to the task of stopping bullets.


    "There you are!" Mush screamed. His tendrils seemed to coil in on themselves, forming a giant mallet out of odds and ends before crashing down on me. That activated the shield, a series of concentric yellow hexagons sprouting from the point of impact. It also finally brought down my invisibility module, revealing me to the rest of the warehouse.


    "What the fuck? Kill that sentai wannabe!" someone screamed. I felt my eyebrow twitch with irritation. Before the bullets started to fly, I dashed a few feet to my right to snag a few weights and scales.


    "Fucker''s stealing our shit," another Merchant yelled.


    Seeing my cover blown, I no longer felt a need to stay silent. "No I''m not," I shouted back. "I''m just recycling!" I dove out of the way of Mush''s trash-lash. "I swear this is a public service, guys."


    A salvo of bullets struck where I stood, but I jumped up into the air, activating my hover boots and dashing towards them. I landed on the railing with one boot extended in an approximation of a heroic kick. I couldn''t help but think that if Sanji could see me right now, he''d have kicked my ass on principle. There was neither form nor technique, only the flailing of an inexperienced amateur who''d seen one too many kung fu movies.


    The physical boosts that I received from the suit were my only saving grace. I tried to copy his signature Diable Jambe in a downward axe kick, charged with electricity instead of heat. It struck one Merchant''s bat, shocking him through the metal and making him drop the weapon with a pained yelp. I stomped that foot down then tried to transition into a side kick but whiffed horribly and struck the railing. The resulting sparks made the Merchants flail but the impact knocked me off balance, sending me on my ass.


    "Ah, shit. Taekwondo lied to me."


    Skidmark recovered before me. He shoved one of his underlings aside before layering a field and taking aim with his pistol. A power-enhanced bullet struck my forehead dead center with a reverberating crack that snapped my head back.


    One moment I was trying to recover from my own stupidity, and the next I was staring at the ceiling, unsure of what had happened. My head rang and it was only the supports built into the raid suit that had kept my neck from breaking from the force. My distracted state let the Merchants gather themselves and the mooks charged me in force. I felt bats, knives, and chains strike my body but my suit held against those impacts with not even a wrinkle to show for it.


    ''I could have died,'' I thought in a daze. I barely felt the impact of the gangbangers. ''Skidmark, motherfucking Skidmark, almost killed me. If he had enough fields layered, he could have killed me.'' My shock was broken by SAINT''s almost birdsong-like roar, a trill that sounded distinctly ominous despite his stature.


    "Porygon!" He was by my side in an instant, his usually expressionless eyes glowing blue with the light of aura.


    "RRAAAHHHH!" My voice joined his and a massive telekinetic push tossed the Merchants off of me. Was it SAINT''s Psychic? Or did I learn to project on my own? It didn''t matter. I couldn''t tell. I was too pissed off by the indignity of nearly dying to Skidmark to make any rational observations.


    A few of them fell from the second story railing and onto the floor below, but I couldn''t afford to pay attention to the cracks of breaking bones. Surprise turned to rage and my mind focused on Skidmark, his field still standing between us.


    "Okay, fine. You want to go lethal? Let''s get lethal," I shouted.


    I tossed out an arc of electricity towards him with Thunder Wave before grabbing the bullets in his gun with Magnet Rise while he was distracted. The ambient electrical current I used ignited the gunpowder, turning his pistol into so much scrap. Shards of his gun shot into his hand, eviscerating it into bloody ribbons.


    "GAAHHH!" he roared in pain.


    SAINT grabbed hold of his filthy wifebeater with Psychic and dragged him forward. He passed through his own layered fields, accelerating dramatically. My seastone crusted knuckles found his face and I felt his pistachio teeth shatter with a series of satisfying snaps. His momentum took a sudden one-eighty from my enhanced punch and tossed him to the metal walkway floor. He wasn''t getting up from that anytime soon. I carefully scanned his from to make sure he was still breathing, if barely.


    My satisfaction was short lived.


    A colossal fireball, twice my admittedly diminutive size, struck me in the side, launching me with the force of a cannonball from the second floor. Perhaps it was the adrenaline, but I managed to get my boots beneath me, puffs of condensed vapor acting as my footholds. I looked to see who had struck me.


    Trainwreck had arrived.


    Trainwreck was, to the best of my ability to describe, a steam-golem. He was a Case-53, a blob-like creature who could form rudimentary tools with junk. Considering that he made his steampunk suit without hands and out of old autos, it honestly looked damn impressive.


    He was what Optimus Prime would look like if Optimus landed in a junkyard. His chestpiece was the cowcatcher of an old locomotive. Two rows of three exhausts came out of his collar to spread over his back like wings and I had to admit that the trails of steam coming from behind him made for a cool image. His arms looked like he took two motorbikes and added joints to them. One ended in a flamethrower, likely a modified exhaust, and the other ended in the shovel of an old crane, or at least, half of one as a full shovel head would have been too cumbersome.


    "You must be Trainwreck," I tried. "Any chance you can leave and let me get to my stealing all peaceful-like?" Another fireball was his response. I dashed in midair, even running along the wall for a short time. "SAINT, Thunderbolt! Shut him down!"


    "Gon!" my partner shouted, his trilling warcry joined by the flash of electricity.


    The blast struck true and for a moment, I thought that would be the end of it, but Trainwreck let out a guttural roar and powered through the attack. ''Must be insulated somehow,'' I thought. ''Or maybe his Case-53 body reacts differently to electricity?''


    I made short work of the Merchants still left standing on the railing, sticking with the basics this time. No fancy tricks or spinning kicks, just quick jabs to the chin or stomach to take them out of the fight. I didn''t doubt that my form was sloppy there too, but my raw speed and strength carried me through.


    Trainwreck and SAINT were trading blasts of fire and lightning while Mush tried ineffectually to swat at a flying opponent. Seeing how both were ignoring me for the moment, I took time to take stock and gauge my adversaries. On one hand, I could go straight back to looting; it was what I came here for after all. There were still plenty of things that had not been broken in the scuffle and I had some room left. On the other hand, my cover had been thoroughly blown and I really wanted to kick their asses.


    I checked to make sure I had what I needed. Satisfied that I could build the LFES with what I''d taken, I gleefully joined the fighting.


    "SAINT," I called, "freeze him!"


    He paused in midair to interpret the image I''d sent through our bond and almost took a trash-lash to the head for his trouble. I made a note to work on that at a later date, perhaps with some sort of code to communicate more efficiently. I jumped down, landing between SAINT and Mush to buy him time.


    "How''s it going, trash-panda?" I greeted him.


    He grunted dismissively. "Do you know how many new heroes try their luck with the Merchants?" He took a menacing step forward and entwined his tendrils again to form large arms. "Every fucking rookie with shiny new powers thinks he can fuck with us ''cause we''re the weakest gang in town. Well you wouldn''t be the first arrogant shitstain to die for it."


    I paused. "You know, that was way more coherent than I''d expected from you," I said truthfully. "One thing though." I faded from sight again, then appeared immediately to his left, Thunder Wave at the ready. "I''m not a hero."


    He got his trash-arms in front of him, throwing a rubber tire between him and the attack. He roared in pain but the rubber did just enough to insulate him from the electricity to not hamper him.


    Behind me, I heart another large explosion and felt shards of Trainwreck''s arm-cannon pelt my cape. By "freeze him," I''d meant the flamethrower. SAINT was to use Psychic to hold his flamethrower still before stopping the fuel from releasing out the muzzle. I doubted Trainwreck had accounted for someone directly stopping his internal systems, if he even could.


    The heated metal rapidly expanded when presented with that much raw energy. Faced with the force of Trainwreck''s internal combustion engine sending another flamethrower through the system, the overtaxed weapon exploded like a grenade.


    I cast Agility and ran back to Trainwreck''s side before launching Thunder Wave directly into the opening where his arm used to be. He howled in pain and brought down the crane shovel, but I swirled my cape around myself and took the blow. A hexagonal shield manifested from the cape, strong enough to block a strike from a spinosaurus zoan. Trainwreck had no chance.


    SAINT then repeated the trick with his steam vents, forcing the exhaust pipes to distort with Psychic. Without the pipes, it didn''t take him long to overheat and collapse. The Case-53 shuddered before collapsing, finally out of the fight. I was momentarily tempted to steal Trainwreck''s armor, but the guy was a blob who could barely move outside it. I wasn''t so desperate that I''d do that to another tinker.


    Unfortunately, I didn''t see any easy way to take out Mush. The whole city laughed at the trash-man, but truth was, he was surprisingly durable once ramped up and I didn''t have Newter''s instant nap time sweat to help me out. SAINT and I could continue beating on him and we''d eventually wear him down, but I didn''t see a point to the endeavor.


    "SAINT, go pick up some guns and ammunition. Destroy what you can''t carry," I said as I casually walked to one of the few undisturbed boxes of laboratory equipment. I dumped what I could carry into my bags then shot him a cheeky thumbs up.


    "You''re not getting away," Mush snarled as he rushed me.


    "I beg to differ." I jumped up to the ceiling then waved with a cheeky smile behind my helmet. "I''ve gotten what I came for, trash-panda. Toodles~"


    With a final jaunty wave, I kicked off the air and out the skylight, SAINT close behind, leaving three capes and one trashed warehouse behind.


    Author''s Note


    I rolled for the Merchant lab and rolled a 2. Not a natural 1, but I did consider the worst thing that could reasonably happen in this scenario, then made it happen. So, he ended up breaking his stealth thanks to a stroke of misfortune.


    Trainwreck joined the Merchants sometime within the past week on orders of Coil. This area being near the Trainyards, he showed up. Along with both Skidmark and Mush, Bryce ended up fighting three of the four Merchant capes simultaneously. Had he rolled a natural 1, I might have dropped Dauntless or another flying cape who was on patrol into things to add to the chaos.


    That said, even though he rolled so poorly, there is only so much I can do to offset Bryce''s advantages. He''s nearly invulnerable to the Merchants, with higher mobility, a competent companion, and even stealth to add to matters. There wasn''t really any way he was going to lose the encounter.


    Combat scene did end up being longer than expected but I don''t think that''s bad, gives me more practice.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 2.9 Wave

    Wave 2.9


    2010, October 11: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    I was absolutely right: I felt like shit in the morning.


    The entire outing took a little less than two hours, but those were the highest tension two hours of my life. Skidmark taught me one thing: I was dangerously unskilled.


    Despite having all the advantages, I still took a bullet to the head. From Skidmark. I didn''t do enough research. I wasn''t comfortable enough with using my myriad abilities. I had so many cards up my sleeve that frankly, I''d be hard pressed to choose the optimal one in any given scenario. Instead of pulling aces from my sleeves, I was fumbling with the whole deck. Those were all great lessons to learn; I just wished I didn''t have to almost die to learn them.


    Skidmark of all people made me take a long, hard look in the mirror at Creed. Building a cape identity wasn''t just about being quirky or having a recognizable brand. Above all else, I had to be strong, and the sad truth was that had I faced anyone more competent than that idiot, I might well have died.


    Exhausted, I skipped out on my run and bummed a ride to school from Sierra.


    X


    I bid Michael goodbye with a tired smile. Thankfully, the kid hadn''t been too troublesome and even seemed proud that he''d scored a B+ on his math quiz. His dad was happy, I was happy, and the kid had found a new hobby in PHO shitposting.


    Yeah, not too proud of that last one¡­


    I quashed the urge to go home and sleep, instead heading to a gardening store under disguise. I could theoretically make a devil fruit, but what powers it would grant would depend on the lineage factors I spliced into it. In greatly abbreviated terms, the devil fruit was a gene-splicing tool.


    It completely altered the lineage factor of the consumer, suffusing every cell and forcing a series of mutations that was, even to my expanded tolerance for all things freaky, pure bullshit. It was the single most comprehensive form of gene-editing, without anything resembling invasive surgery.


    Or perhaps it would be better to describe the fruit as a viral cluster. Regardless, if I wanted to retain the ability to edit lineage factors in this manner even after this specialization, I had to at least make one fruit.


    That left me with very limited time. I had to start growing my fruit immediately; it needed to fully germinate after all, something about the fruiting process being integral to letting the relevant chemicals and catalysts mature.


    As such, one of the things I''d looked up was the speed at which many house plants grew. I needed a seed that would germinate extremely quickly so I could modify the plant in its infancy before my specialization changed in eleven days. As it turned out, there was indeed a plant that would germinate in under a week: the common radish.


    Yes, my first devil fruit would be born of a radish. That this was still far from the weirdest thing I''d ever heard spoke volumes about my life.


    Soil, pot, radish seeds, and a bag of cherries bought under the guise of an old grandpa, I immediately transferred my goods to the lab then joined my family for dinner.


    I spent the evening playing tug-o-war with SAINT using some metal bearings. That then quickly shifted to who could make the most elaborate picture using Magnet Rise and ball bearings. It wasn''t just a good way to practice for me; I''d found that SAINT lacked the creativity common to organic sentients and I wanted him to interact more with the world.


    X


    2010, October 12: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    Tuesday morning saw our class divided into teams of eleven for our month of soccer. This time, Eric and I ended up on opposing sides and I put much more effort into the class. Coach Miller approved and perhaps Steven was one of those kids who didn''t know how to communicate except in insults because even he started to leave me alone.


    I insisted on the midfield position to get the ball as much as possible. I had less interest in playing the game than I did running up and down the field practicing subtle uses of Agility, but that itself made me seem dedicated, if not particularly skilled.


    I wanted the move to be second nature, something I could use to enhance my abilities at a moment''s notice. It had taken a month just to get good enough to not start a light show.


    Halfway through the class, I saw Eric looking pensive. Normally, he''d be making goo-goo eyes at Grace, but even she seemed to have a hard time getting a smile from him today. I made a note of it but didn''t otherwise interfere. Their couples troubles were their own.


    X


    Amy was waiting outside my world issues class just as the lunch bell rang. I could just feel the back of my neck itch with the rumors this would spark. She grabbed me by the elbow and dragged me into an abandoned classroom. She wore a complex expression, a mix of concern and frustration tinged with a hint of satisfaction.


    "You hit the Merchants," she said matter-of-factly.


    "You don''t have to sound so accusatory. I did tell you I was gunning for a meth lab. I found one."


    "You should have told me."


    I narrowed my eyes. "Ames, I like you. I respect you, admire you, even. But I am not your subordinate. I''m going to keep to the rules of our arrangement, but that doesn''t mean I''m going to let you call the shots on everything I do. Obey the unwritten rules. No major crimes. Those were the rules."


    "The city''s in a panic because of you."


    "Stop exaggerating; the city''s spinning its rumor mill a bit faster than usual, but that''s about it." I''d gotten curious and checked PHO the night prior. Sure enough, the hot new thread stickied to the Brockton Bay section of the forum was titled "Merchants down: Who dun it?"


    It wasn''t much. Because the warehouse was so isolated, there had been no witnesses of the fight, at least none that weren''t the Merchants I''d brutalized.


    Bagrat had heard down the grapevine that a pair of thieves had hit a major production facility, stealing practically everything that wasn''t nailed down and leaving Skidmark, Mush, and Trainwreck in their dust. The event overshadowed Trainwreck''s induction into the Merchants, something Coil no doubt appreciated. Because there was no footage of me or SAINT, all the online community had to go on was the incoherent ramblings of druggies.


    I would have to assume any capability I showed with the Merchants would be public knowledge, but I could live with that. As for SAINT, they thought he was either a Case-53 or some kind of projection.


    A blocky pastel duck with lightning powers, suffice to say, I''d yet to earn the notoriety for that outlandish a claim to be believed.


    "Okay, the city''s not about to burn down, but the PRT put us on notice," Amy said. "You remember how those druggies got their asses beat by Faultline a week ago?"


    I nodded and couldn''t help the smirk that spread across my face. My allies were pretty damn impressive. "Yeah, that was a fun watch."


    "Well Skidmark took another major hit on Sunday. The PRT eggheads think he''s going to have to prove his leadership, whatever that might mean among Merchants. They asked New Wave to show the flag a bit."


    "Well that explains why Eric''s been so distracted today." I hummed ambivalently. This wasn''t an unexpected response, though one I could do without. "They think he''s going to lash out. I doubt it''s going to lead to a gang war though. I''m not loyal to any faction so Skidmark doesn''t have anyone he can attack for revenge."


    She let out an exasperated sigh. "It''s not about revenge, Bryce. It''s about proving he''s still a player. Why didn''t you call the PRT to arrest him?"


    "Because I''m not a hero," I said. "Believe it or not, I did think about this. The ideal scenario was for no cape to be at the facility, but barring that, I decided going in that I wouldn''t try to arrest anyone. As much as you think Skidmark lashing out is bad, the Empire and ABB duking it out for what used to be Merchant territory as remnants of their dealers and hookers scatter across the city would be immeasurably worse. If I cut off the head, I want the body to die too, not wriggle around causing problems. This isn''t ideal, but it''s also not a disaster."


    "I know, but I still wish you''d have told me beforehand. The things we do are going to ripple through the city; it''s just a part of being capes, but I''d have liked some time to prepare."


    "Intelligence on the ground can change, Ames. I can''t always keep you abreast of every single thing I do."


    "Fine, but I want you to help if something happens because of this."


    "Help how?"


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    "Fight. Tell them you got contracted to fight for the heroes."


    "Ames, how is that believable? The PRT ''doesn''t negotiate with villains,''" I said in a mocking newscaster voice. "No one else in the city would have anything close to the kind of resources to hire a mercenary group, and if they could, they''d go to Faultline not some unknown."


    She looked at me with an exasperated glare. "Then what?"


    "I can''t be seen siding with heroes, not until I have the kind of clout Uppercrust does."


    "You caused this mess."


    "I did. Tell you what? I''ll intervene to save lives. I''ll keep a situation from getting worse and actively try to end fight as they happen. It''ll do me some good to advertise, lock in the idea that I''m a wildcard in the minds of the gangs, and I''ll be helping the city keep a lid on this mess. Deal?"


    She thought about it then began to nod slowly. "No fighting heroes."


    "Maybe. Definitely no crippling damage. A few bruises at the absolute most. I''m going to run if I have an option."


    "I don''t like this."


    I sighed and pulled her into a hug. "I know. That''s what compromises are, grumbles. A good compromise leaves everyone pissed off."


    She leaned into my shoulder, then jabbed me in the ribs with a bony finger. "You better not start a gang war."


    "I won''t," I promised. "I''m a thief, not a monster. I don''t want people to suffer from the things I do either. You have my number."


    She stared at me disbelievingly. "Wait, you''re a tinker and you didn''t make a cape phone? You''re an idiot, Bryce."


    "You give me too little credit, Ames. My phone is configured in a very specific way that integrates with both my suit and powers. A big advantage of this is that it runs on rules that no other computer uses. It''s almost impossible to hack conventionally. I wouldn''t put it past Dragon''s abilities, but then, she''s Dragon." I purposely didn''t mention the AI living in my Pok¨¦Nav. Anyone trying to hack it would provide a convenient door into their own systems for SAINT to fly through. He had extensive instructions on what to do should that happen.


    "Okay, fine. I''ll call you if something major happens. Try not to stir the pot too much in the meantime?"


    "I have what I needed. I won''t need to go out for at least the next two weeks," I said with a soft smile. "Let''s go to lunch before your sister thinks we''re making out behind the bleachers or something."


    "Eww," she punched my shoulder. "Don''t even joke about that."


    "You really know how to ruin a guy''s self-esteem, Ames."


    I made for the door but Amy caught my sleeve. "Wait, Bryce."


    "Hmm?"


    "The duck. On PHO. They said there was a duck. Do you have a partner you''re not telling me about?"


    I turned to her and flicked her nose. "No partner. Lone wolf, remember."


    "So the druggies were all having a shared vision, were they?"


    "Tinkertech creation."


    "Really?"


    "Really."


    "Huh¡­ You''re not going to tell me more, are you?"


    "Nope, of course not. And you''re just going to have to be happy with that."


    She stared at me pointedly but nodded. "Fine, keep your secrets. But¡­ why a duck?"


    "Because ducks are great. Did you know ducks have corkscrew-shaped pneumatic rockets for penises?"


    She let out a snorting laugh. "Fuck! Bryce! You''re fucking gross!"


    I grinned and let her slap my shoulder. Distraction successful, I led her out of the classroom, avoiding any uncomfortable questions about SAINT for the moment. We walked out into the now empty hallway and made our way to the cafeteria. "And Ames."


    "Yeah?"


    "Thanks for caring, in your own bitter, bitchy way."


    "You''re welcome, asshole."


    X


    After school found me back at the forge beneath Harvey''s. I''d snuck in while invisible, ignoring the now operational restaurant.


    The general manager, some Canadian guy named Martin, had been told in no uncertain terms that both the upstairs studio and the basement were off limits, but I didn''t want to test his curiosity for too long. For that matter, I wouldn''t put it past one of the part-timers to look for a cozy place to grab a smoke or something. I quickly made a mold of a lock and filled it with liquid seastone to set. Eventually, I''d replace the whole door with seastone.


    Was it paranoid? Possibly, I didn''t even have my main lab here, but I couldn''t help but want the extra security.


    That was the work of a mere thirty minutes thanks to the SUPER-efficient forge powered by cola. Once the forge was free, I taught SAINT how to make ingots of seastone and wapometal then let him at it while I moved back to my main lab to build the LFES. The new radishes now occupied a central place of honor on my counter.


    Once I finished assembling my tools, I spent the afternoon working out and punching away at a makeshift heavy bag. I was no martial artist, but learning how to throw a basic punch wasn''t too complicated. I could still see the business end of Skidmark''s pistol in my mind when I closed my eyes, the blue of his layered fields ready to empower each bullet.


    I lived because my inventions were amazing, amazing enough to make up for my inexperience. Being fit wasn''t good enough anymore. Doing Dennis'' workout regimen had gotten me in shape, but it hadn''t made me any more skilled. It was time to fix that as best I could.


    X


    2010, October 14: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    As it turned out, extracting the lineage factor of even something as relatively simple as a cherry was simultaneously easy and complex. Science couldn''t readily point at a single chromosome and say, "Yeah, that''s the thing that makes a cherry black instead of bright red." It was a confluence of factors that were often beyond the comprehension of modern biology.


    A lineage factor, perhaps because it was being subsidized by my power somehow, was a bit simpler than that.


    After a few attempts, I succeeded in extracting the "flavor" of a cherry.


    The process was somewhat similar to extracting the dye from a bolt of cotton however. Just as the cotton sheet would still retain some of the dye, stained into its very fibers, the cherry still retained its flavor, faded as it was. This was in line with what I remembered from Vegapunk''s artificial devil fruit. He did clone Kaido''s fruit, but only partially. Kozuki Momonosuke was a dragon too, but he was Kaido''s lesser in every way.


    That was another thing I found rather frustrating. I could extract the lineage factor of something, but injecting it was a different story altogether. The simple truth was that I wouldn''t know how it''d react. Rejection was possible just as with a foreign organ, and as always, simpler things like flavor were infinitely less problematic than, say, a full host of devil fruit powers. It''d take further experimentation to master the splicing process.


    Rather than worry about it needlessly, I ran through a series of combat drills that SAINT was kind enough to find for me.


    X


    I sat on a beanbag chair in my room, strumming away at my guitar to the melody of John Legend''s "All of Me." SAINT was seated behind me, between my head and the wall. We were brought out of our relaxation time by the ringing of my Pok¨¦Nav. I shot it an irritated glower but answered when I saw the caller ID.


    "Evening, Faultline."


    "Evening," she returned, her voice as crisp and professional as always. "We finished our job this morning and I had the chance to review the documents you sent me. Are you certain you want to make two separate catalogs? You may be restricting the number of customers you get."


    "Would you trust civilians with combat-grade tech?" I asked rhetorically. "Yes, I think it''d probably be for the best."


    "As you wish. I''ve already distributed it to several of my contacts and one has expressed his interest."


    That caught me by surprise. "So fast. I''m impressed."


    "It''s not as though I gain nothing by helping you, Creed. How about twenty percent of your sale?"


    I considered it. It wasn''t a bad deal from what limited information I could find online. "Ten," I said, more for the sake of negotiating than any real desire to keep a larger cut for myself.


    "Fifteen," she said, her smile audible, "and I''ll also help you set the prices to maximize our profits."


    "Done." I pulled up a copy of my catalogs on my computer. "I''ve also been meaning to put them on PHO so I can regularly update them with available offerings."


    "It''d be hard to tell which client was referred to you through me."


    "We can always ask. Fifteen percent for every referral by you or three grand for every time I have to use the Palanquin as neutral ground, whichever is larger."


    "I take it security is expected in that figure?"


    "That''s not too little for a single hour, is it?"


    "That is acceptable," she said. I strongly suspected that she was cutting me a deal. "You are far too mature for your age."


    "And how do you know who I am," I teased. "Someone''s been snooping~"


    "Come off it, Creed. It''s no secret that you''re a student at Arcadia, likely a freshman or sophomore. Don''t think I didn''t notice how you become unreachable during school hours."


    "Yeah, the faraday cage is a bit of a pain. In any case, who''s my first client?"


    "Accord, do you have a problem with the Ambassadors?"


    I considered it. "No. As much as Accord''s neurosis is aggravating, he has had an overall stabilizing influence on Boston''s criminal elements. He also goes out of his way to minimize his exposure to whatever he considers disorderly, no doubt to minimize his own headaches, but I suspect also because he wants to avoid drawing attention from the white hats. I don''t think I''ll ever like the man, but I can respect his work."


    "Excellent, he would like a set of expanded bags for his Ambassadors and himself. He has insisted on providing the bags in question as he wants them to perfectly match each Ambassador''s costume. You must retain their external aesthetics down to the smallest stitch or he will demand a refund. Will that be an issue?"


    "No, that''s fine, easier for me in fact. Demanding, but less of a guessing game as to client preferences. How many does he want?"


    "Eight." She must have heard me suck in my breath because I heard her chuckle through the line. "I suspect you''ll be quite busy in the near future."


    "What''s the timeframe?"


    "One week from when he delivers the bags to you."


    "I have my own projects to worry about, you know."


    "Would you like me to turn him down?"


    "I take it you''re in Boston?"


    "Indeed."


    "He''ll have to deliver and pick up the order himself," I said.


    "He is aware. He is paying me to deliver the final products."


    "So you went to Boston for a job, only to emerge with a new job offer?"


    "What can I say? I am an entrepreneur," she said with a low chuckle. He is offering $17 grand per bag for a total of $136,000. I will of course be taking my cut from that."


    I let out a low whistle. "That''s quite a sum for a week''s worth of work."


    "Accord spares no expense when it comes to his organization''s image. The bags will likely cost several thousand dollars on their own, assuming he doesn''t simply make his own because he finds designer bags too plebian for his tastes."


    "Yeah, that tracks with what I''ve heard of the man. Anything else?"


    "No, I''ll have the finalized contracts when I get back on Saturday."


    "Okay. Tell the gang I said hi."


    "I will."


    She hung up and I flung myself on the bed. $136,000. After some quick math, I determined that Faultline''s fifteen percent was $20,400, leaving me with a cool $115,600. That was more money than most families made in a year. Clearly, I''d found my revenue stream.


    Still, as I fluffed my pillow and gave SAINT a goodnight scritch beneath his bill, I couldn''t help but wonder just how useful money would be going forward. In the end, rare materials and favors were what really moved powerful tinkers, not mundane luxuries. Perhaps, once I built a reputation for quality and competence, I''d look into different payment options.


    Author''s Note


    As far as I''m concerned, continued experimentation with the lineage factors as known by Dr. Vegapunk is as good as making a SMILE fruit for the purpose of the tinker of fiction. Vegapunk''s knowledge far outstrips anything Caesar Clown would have discovered. Assume he can make one if he wants, though with Leviathan all but guaranteed to hit the Bay, it''s easy to see why he wouldn''t bother, nor is drawing Cauldron''s eye as a rival power creator worthwhile.


    Bryce is starting to make money. Shouldn''t be too surprising that Accord''s the first to take him up on a deal, even if it''s for noncombat items. Or rather, it''s specifically because it''s for utility items that Accord is interested. I don''t think he''d be the type of person to want to rely on tinkertech in combat, too unreliable.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 2.10 Wave

    Wave 2.10


    2010, October 16: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    It was time. My near-death experience at the hands of Skidmark had awakened my latent psychic affinity, pushing me to move beyond Agility. Reflecting back, I had worked with SAINT, feeding him my aura and lashing out with a combined Psychic that threw the Merchants away like ragdolls. I took that as my cue to pick up Psychic via TM for real.


    The headache was a sobering reminder to not push my luck, but I could now exert telekinetic force externally at will. It wasn''t much, barely more than what I can lift with my own hands, but floating around my room pretending I was the Manhunter or Tatsumaki was admittedly pretty funny.


    Hopefully, my next breakthrough wouldn''t require another near-death experience.


    I spent the past two days alternating between drawing schematics of different parts of my future ship, refining more pyrobloin, and forging ingots of wapometal. There was no way in hell I''d be able to build a ship in the time I had, but I was hoping some of that bullshit engineering would carry over. To that end, I thought I found a workaround: I completed building a scale model of the Thousand Sunny.


    My power required that I build something in order to commit it to memory so I built a ship using the engineering expertise of Franky and Iceburg. Sure, it was a ship for mice, but damn it, it was a fine ship. So long as everything worked and the vessel was technically seaworthy, I was hoping the engineering knowledge would carry through for future applications.


    A part of me wanted to make the Black Rhino FR-U IV, a three-wheeled muscle-bike capable of running through most obstacles, but it wasn''t a priority. I had the materials needed and had even built a prototype using my old bicycle, but I didn''t have enough wapometal that I felt comfortable wasting so much of it on what was essentially a luxury.


    I had to build up as large a stockpile of seastone and wapometal as possible if I wanted the ship properly defended. Even when I wasn''t in the forge, I kept it running almost twenty-four seven.


    Instead of building with materials I couldn''t afford to lose, I smuggled random fruits and vegetables from home to my lab to experiment. I tried to extract the lineage factor of a variety of fruits and inject them all into a single bland potato.


    I ended up with a "fruit" that had the consistency of a potato, taste of an apple, and the fragrance of lemon zest. Eating the baked mutant potato was a distinctly memorable experience. Honestly, after a few tries, it stopped being an experiment to master the techniques of Dr. Vegapunk and became a source of amusement. Whenever I got too tired of working out and trying to box SAINT without Agility to boost me, I''d grab some funky fruit and make biology weep in a corner.


    I had just finished making a lemon taste like watermelon when my Pok¨¦Nav rang. I took a paring knife and started to peel the fruit. "SAINT, could you get that?"


    A hologram of Amy''s face appeared from the Pok¨¦Nav on the counter. "Bryce, you there?"


    I walked into her line of sight and waved my now half-peeled lemon. "Hey, what''s up?" I took a big bite of the yellow fruit and sent her a toothy smile.


    "Huh, my camera activated on its own." Her face zoomed into the camera for a moment, giving me a good look at her left nostril. "Does this mean you''re using the weird hologram thing you made? Wait, are you eating a lemon? Raw?"


    I fired back with a question of my own. "Has anyone ever told you that you have very well-groomed nostrils?"


    She let out an adorable squeak and clamped her hand over her nose. "No! Eww! Who even says that?"


    "People with a guided tour of your left nostril. Take a step back from the camera, Ames."


    "Oh, fuck you, you ass."


    "Phone sex? Already? But Ames, we''ve only known each other for a month!"


    "Die. In. A. Fire."


    "Anyway, yes this is a lemon. It''s quite good, really delicious. Could be better with some tequila, but what''re you gonna do, right?"


    "You''re so damn weird." Then, she realized she got distracted and visibly shook her head like a dog. "No, not the time. You need to get out there."


    "Me or Creed? Also, where is here? And do I have to? What exactly is happening?"


    "The Merchants took one of Squealer''s trucks and ran it into a pharmacy in Empire territory. They''re duking it out with Krieg, Victor, and Othala. They apparently have a new tinker too. Show up. You promised."


    "So I did. Well, I am a troll of my word, so be there I shall. And that''s Trainwreck, fought him already."


    "Would''ve been nice to mention that," she grumbled. "They''re on Eighth and Caldwell Avenue. I expect you to help."


    "Still not a hero," I felt I had to point out. "But I already said I''ll be there, Ames. If nothing else, I''ll keep things from getting worse."


    "Thanks," she sighed with relief, "Vicky just finished changing into costume and is going to carry me to the hospital."


    I shoved the rest of the lemon in my mouth. "Okay, have fun."


    The call ended and SAINT looked at me with a curious gaze. "Yeah, bud, we''re going. I want you to stay inside the suit this time," I spoke over his protest. "I almost died because I wasn''t agile enough. I''m fast and strong in the suit, but that doesn''t mean I know how to move the way I should, or process all the information the sensors are sending me. I need you with me."


    My porygon looked pensive. He trilled his affirmation and a moment later, we were off.


    X


    Caldwell Avenue was one of the streets that merged into a highway out of the city. It extended north to south at the western edge of Brockton Bay. The Merchants, who held territory in the Trainyard and the outskirts of town, typically did not come south to the business areas of the city. However, with Squealer''s mobility and Skidmark''s need to wave his dick around, they''d taken Caldwell all the way to Eighth, the edge of Empire turf.


    My personal preference would have been to leave them to duke it out then let the PRT clean up the dregs, but Skidmark had decided to hit Medline Pharmaceuticals in the daytime, during standard business hours to make his point. I''d done exhaustive research into every cape in the Bay over the years and I knew MedIine to be the pharmaceutical distribution subsidiary of Medhall.


    Medline''s CEO was one James Fliescher, who I knew to be Krieg. It was likely by luck, no way in hell he was smart enough to figure this out, but Skidmark was straddling dangerously close to breaking the unwritten rules and the Empire had no choice but to reply to this.


    ''I didn''t leave Skidmark at the PRT''s doorstep because I thought the vacuum would start a gang war I wasn''t ready for. Is Skidmark going to start one anyway?'' I wondered, cursing my damned if you do, damned if you don''t situation. ''I don''t know what I was expecting from Brockton Bay.''


    I cursed Wildbow one more time and stealthed to scope out the situation from a nearby rooftop. Amy wasn''t exaggerating as it turned out.


    Squealer had taken a modified garbage truck, a brother to the dump-dozer that Faultline cut in twain, and literally drove it through the main doors of the pharmacy. Four more pickup trucks filled with drugged up idiots made a makeshift barricade around the entrance.


    Their flagship truck was even more heavily armored than its fallen brother, no doubt in some misguided assumption that Faultline had limits to what she could cut. Limits existed, just not in the direction Squealer was looking at.


    Plates of metal stripped from abandoned locomotives were welded to the sides and front. The blades of the bulldozer were split in two and suspended on articulated arms that could split apart horizontally, clearing the way for a drilling hook of some kind. Presumably, it was to easily pierce obstacles, or maybe to tear them apart. Or, they just thought it looked cool. I wouldn''t put it past them.


    Squealer had learned somewhat from her previous defeat. In order to keep opponents from locking down the turrets with adhesives like Gregor did, much of the mechanisms maneuvering each turret had been moved to the inside of the truck. Gaps in the armored plating allowed them to retain a reasonable range of motion.


    There was a single turret remaining atop the truck body. It was larger than the rest and contained a nest of micro-missiles rather than bullets. That one made me a little nervous; I didn''t know Squealer could make those.


    The interior of the truck had been divided in two, with the bulk of the space going to a storage compartment for Mush''s trash. The other served as a holding area for Trainwreck''s armor, an eight feet tall affair that looked largely the same as when I''d seen it last.


    The large scrap tinker leapt out of the truck with surprising grace and landed on the ground, cracking pavement. He''d attached a pair of doors from cargo trains to his arms, allowing him to act as a mobile barricade for the Merchant fodder.


    Mush took the other side, lashing out with tendrils of garbage to keep the Empire at bay. About two-thirds of the Merchants were outside keeping everyone busy while the rest were busy looting the pharmacy with Skidmark.


    The Empire presence was largely as Amy described, with Krieg holding the line against Merchant gunfire and Victor returning fire from behind Krieg with far more accuracy. Every time Victor stood up, one of the Merchants'' fell with a fatal wound.


    I could see his wife, Othala, towards the back behind a car surrounded by Empire flunkies. She touched one grunt and he suddenly stood before he unleashed a torrent of flames towards the cowering Merchants.


    As for the police, they''d retreated to the end of the block, closing off the street to the best of their ability. Brockton Bay being Brockton Bay, I could see several civilians standing around filming instead of getting to cover. The police shouted at them to stand back, but they wouldn''t be Brocktonites if they had anything resembling common sense. It appeared as though I''d arrived before the heroes.


    ''Coil''s meddling? Or was Velocity busy? Doesn''t matter. Civvies first.''


    Sighing, I leapt down from the six story building, catching myself with the hover boots to avoid falling too quickly. I ran through the air, ignoring the gunfire, and swept up a man who''d gotten a bit too close to the action.


    "Let''s not try for the Darwin Awards, bud," I growled, depositing him behind the police cordon.


    "Cape!" someone called.


    I rolled my eyes and pretended to look around. "No, shit. Where?"


    "My baby!" another woman said.


    "Okay, that one''s important. Where?"


    She pointed to one of the cars that had been shoved aside by the dump-dozer. The "baby" was actually a teenage son who''d been driving. The door had been crushed against a light pole, leaving the boy trapped inside.


    ''She must have been nearby and came after hearing about the accident,'' I thought. ''But why isn''t he leaving through the other door?''


    My question was answered when I arrived on site. When the driver''s side had been crushed against the light pole, the car crumpled and shoved the steering wheel into his stomach, leaving him stuck.


    "Kid, you hurt? Look at me." His eyes fluttered open before he groaned in pain. Judging him to be fine, I got to work getting him out. Ripping the already damaged car door off its hinges was a simple matter with the GES. I then grabbed the boy in a fireman''s carry and dragged him past the cordon into the waiting arms of the EMT.


    I saved a few more civilians, shielding and walking with them to the police cordon when I heard the muffled shriek of the garbage-man.


    "You!" I heard Mush scream.


    ''Guess he recognizes me.'' I threw both hands into the air with two peace signs and cheered. "Me!"


    Mush responded with a large haymaker using a metal garbage can as his fist. I nonchalantly turned my back, signaling for SAINT to activate the shield module. That was also when Velocity arrived. I stood there, back turned to the Merchants as concentric yellow hexagons bloomed behind me. Mush strained against my shield and my cape fluttered behind me dramatically as I gave the Protectorate hero a once-over.


    "Yo," I greeted. "Nice breeze we''re having."


    I could practically see his power accelerate his perception so he could try to understand the sheer randomness of the situation before him. He must have processed my presence in super-speed because his posture changed from shock to cheeky banter in less than a second.


    "A cape, really? Aren''t you a bit short for that?"


    "Dress like the man you want to be," I quoted at him before dragging a little girl from behind a car and to the police using Psychic by the scruff of her neck.


    He blurred into red for a moment. The Merchant who''d been aiming at her suddenly found a miniature con-foam grenade (pellet?) lodged in his mouth. "You want to be a Sentai Elite?"


    I groaned. "I walked into that one, huh?"


    "Kinda. New hero?"


    "Empire!" I chirped cheerily, only to immediately find a foam grenade at my feet. "Rude," I said, voice muffled. I jumped twelve feet into the air and shoved the grenade in the opposite direction, towards Mush, before landing by an Empire grunt. I leaned an elbow against his shoulder the way Bugs Bunny did whenever he was fucking with people. "Some people just can''t take a joke, am I right?"


    "Uhh, right." He looked confused but willing to agree with anything that''d get him in the good graces of a new caped officer.


    "Yeah, see?" I called to the red blur, one hand pointed at the grunt. "He gets it." I promptly punched him on the chin, rattling his brain inside his skull. With my enhanced strength, he dropped like a light. I put on an affected casual stroll and walked out from behind the car. "As if I''d join the Empire."


    "Shit, he''s a hero!" came the cry from one of the grunts.


    I dashed over and slapped the gun out of his hand. "Not a hero!" I shouted back, laying him out with an exaggerated headbutt.


    With the civilians behind police riot shields and Velocity making quick work of the grunts on both sides using liberal quantities of con-foam, the capes were free to focus on me.


    "It does not matter who you are," Krieg said in an obviously fake German accent. "You will fall before the Empire."


    "Did you come from Gesellschaft because they bullied you for your terrible accent?" I shot back. SAINT blared a warning on my HUD and I ducked to avoid a speedster grunt courtesy of Othala.


    Before I could retaliate, SAINT took control of the suit and forced me to drop to my face. With an ear-splitting screech, one of Squealer''s micro-missiles sailed above my head to collide with a building across the street. I heard screaming and shouts of pain. Smoke rose above the rooftops as something inside caught fire.


    "SAINT, our priority is the civilians," I hissed.


    Another missile streaked by, but exploded harmlessly against the glowing shield of a newly arrived Dauntless. "Militia in one minute," he shouted to Velocity.


    Taking that as my cue, I hopped up the sky to speak with him. "Dauntless!"


    "New hero?"


    "On your side," I dodged the question. "How many of those missiles can your shield block?"


    "Two more, three if I push it."


    "Tell Velocity to get civilians out of the building. Squealer''s got six more. We''ll trade off."


    We finished our hasty planning just in time. Whoever was piloting the turret aimed it at the Empire grunts immobilized by con-foam and while the idea of literally taking a bullet for Nazis made me queasy, letting them die wasn''t exactly an option either, not if it''d give Kaiser a reason to start a war over this. With extreme reluctance, I used Magnet Rise to tug the turret my way even as I ran to intercept.


    ''Welp, let''s hope my shield''s as good as Sanji''s,'' I thought. I swirled my cape over my head just as the first missile struck. My world became fire and sound, the screech of flight then roar of the explosion positively deafening. I skidded back despite my shield''s ability to negate the majority of kinetic impacts.


    "Holy shit," I heard someone whisper behind me. I understood; I felt the same.


    "SAINT, shield integrity?" I whispered. A flashing sixty-eight percent was my answer. "Oh¡­ Wow¡­ I''m way better than I thought. I can do this."


    I pinned the turret on myself with Magnet Rise despite the gunman''s attempt to aim elsewhere. Once, twice more the shield rattled before I thought I could take no more. "Dauntless! Switch off!" I shouted. He landed in front of me just in time to take the sixth, seventh, and eighth missiles.


    I would have liked to give my shied time to recover, or possibly fire a retaliatory Thunder Wave towards the turret, but I was distracted by Krieg who lobbed a grenade my way. The throw was nothing special, but enhanced by his power, it wouldn''t have gone amiss at a professional baseball game.


    "Shit!" I yelped, tanking the explosion and shrapnel with my torso. None of it penetrated the Germa fibers, but it did remind me that this was a fight between three factions, not two.


    "Your creations are impressive," the Schutzstaffel wannabe said, voice too casual for a man who just tried to kill me.


    "Thanks, you wouldn''t believe how many hours went into this," I chirped back, quashing my adrenaline with the weight of snark alone.


    "You could do so much good for the cause."


    "Sorry, I''m a Jew," I lied. My great grandmother on my mother''s side was in this life, but I didn''t think that counted. I dashed to close the distance but every step felt heavy. I''d like to say I fought him on even ground even in his telekinetic field, but I''d be lying.


    I threw a textbook straight. He knocked it aside with his left hand, opening my guard for a jab of his own. The blow felt like a light tap on my chin. There was no chance of him hurting me through it, but nor could I do much to him in a physical confrontation. He must have hurt his hand on my helmet because he snarled something unfit for children in German then kicked me like a sack of potatoes out of his field. The kick shot me over Dauntless and on a collision course with Trainwreck.


    Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a floating bus land and deposit more Empire goons. Rune had arrived with reinforcements.


    Victor immediately went to take command of them, leading them to form a firing line against the police. Their goal wasn''t to actually down any cops, only to force them to stay behind their riot shields and protect the civilians. It was no wonder the BBPD never got anything done if all the civvies kept insisting on trying out for the Darwin Awards like this.


    Othala ran inside with three of her own minions. She must have empowered one of them, because he launched a salvo of fireballs at Dauntless that the hero deftly dodged. Rune took off again, turning the bus into a flying artillery platform.


    I finally landed against Trainwreck, my weight crumpling the car door he''d been using as a shield. "Hey, bud, fancy meeting you here," I quipped.


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


    He grunted then dropped the now useless shield, instead opting to bring down both hands on my prone form. I rolled out of the way with less grace than I''d like. "You again?"


    "Yeah, someone asked me to save the civvies. Can we not do this?"


    Another grunt and a pointed look elsewhere was his answer. Fuck yea, mutual tinker respect. That, or he was a lot more pragmatic than the other Merchants, Coil''s influence no doubt. That gave me the chance to dash up onto the pharmacy rooftop and fade from the visible spectrum to take stock of the situation again.


    Victor and the grunts had switched focus and were firing on the Merchants. The remaining Merchant grunts not dead or con-foamed were holding out thanks to Mush and the turrets set inside the truck. Thankfully, Squealer seemed to have run out of micro-missiles for the moment.


    Krieg, Dauntless, and Trainwreck were having their own three-way showdown. Trainwreck''s insulated armor gave the hero a much harder time than anyone would expect. Sometime between now and our last meeting, Trainwreck had restored his flamethrower and was trying to bathe Dauntless in flames, but Dauntless was too agile, flight too great an advantage for him to take more than glancing blows.


    I paused at that.


    ''Is my job done? All the civilians are saved, or as saved as can be given the circumstances. I feel like if anyone sticks around, it''s on them.''


    I was about to head out when Skidmark emerged from the pharmacy with his own fresh troop of Merchants. He was sporting some kind of makeshift jaw brace, probably cobbled together by Trainwreck.


    The Merchants began to load the trucks quickly and I saw Skidmark''s blue fields layer themselves atop the roof of their flagship dump-dozer next to the micro-missile turret. He hadn''t said a word to announce his presence, atypical for the usually foul-mouthed man. Because he kept his trap shut, people were ignoring him in favor of more immediate threats.


    After eight layers, he shouted, "You cock-munchers want to fuck with the Merchants? Fucking suck on this!" At least, that''s what I thought he said. His speech was a bit garbled at the moment.


    Something triggered his fields then flashed into a car the Empire was using for cover, causing it to explode spectacularly.


    "Victor!" I heard Othala scream for her husband.


    "Rune," Krieg snapped, "block the monkey."


    "On it!" Rune rushed to obey. Descending for a moment, she drew her sign on a broken car and raised it into the air. It was the right call on Krieg''s part; Skidmark''s fields were one-way so predicting its vector was simple. The car Rune held in the way exploded much like the first, sending shrapnel everywhere.


    "Shit," I cursed. Rune might keep Skidmark from finishing off the Empire grunts and Victor, but the shrapnel was almost as dangerous as active gunfire for the civilians. "I''m going to have to break the truck, aren''t I?"


    I shrugged and hopped down right on top of the truck as he was about to toss something else through the field. He held a bag full of nuts, bolts, and odd scraps, all of them far deadlier than they had any right to be.


    "Hey, Skids, remember me?" I greeted, tone jovial as I came out of invisibility.


    He shrieked something incoherent before lunging my way. I saw him coming though, so I pivoted on one foot and shoved him off the dump-dozer. "Thunder Wave," I called, shoving my strongest bolt directly into the truck body.


    Instead of dying immediately or some finicky parts exploding like Team Rocket''s robots tended to do in the anime, the truck sparked a bit then was fine.


    "Hah! Trainwreck said you had some electric shit," Squealer¡­ squealed. Say what you will about Skidmark''s naming sense, but she fit hers to a tee. She leaned out of the driver''s side to aim at me with a gun. "Die!"


    I sighed and snatched the gun out of her hand with Psychic. "Tinkers are bullshit," I complained. I punched down as hard as I could on the metal, but I did nothing but leave little dents where my seastone knuckles landed.


    I saw Mush lumber back to try and grab me, so I stepped into Skidmark''s field and allowed myself to be launched over his head.


    I flew in the air until I was caught by Rune''s scrapheap car.


    "Oh hey, there. You know, it''s normally the guy that sweeps a gal off her feet."


    "Are you¡­ flirting with me?" she asked, genuinely baffled. She knelt atop her bus, car floating by her side. The pure confusion on Tammi''s face was downright delicious.


    "If I said yes, will you leave the Empire and become a respectable degenerate scum like myself?" I tried.


    Her answer was to wrap the car around me, trapping me inside. "Fuck off," she yelled, tossing me to the side.


    I landed and rolled in my car-ball. I considered staying like that for a bit, it was actually quite comfy, but I saw Skidmark clamoring back atop the dump-dozer. "Right, need to break the fields somehow. They need a flat surface so if I break the truck, I should also break the fields."


    Miss Militia had arrived when I wasn''t looking and had taken to firing rubber bullets at any gangbanger around. She took command of a squad of PRT troopers and started bolstering the police cordon. The woman practically strolled through the battlefield like it was just another Tuesday for her and I was reminded of the harrowing events of her trigger. Really, somewhat underwhelming power aside, she was probably one of the most combat-ready capes out there, a distinction I was sure she''d happily do without.


    She wore combat fatigues colored red, white, and blue, but somehow made that look badass instead of tacky.


    "Damn, that''s a lady I don''t want to fuck with," I whistled.


    "You tell me," Velocity said, zipping by my side. "Not Empire then, huh?"


    "Nope."


    "You need help?"


    "Nah, it''s kinda cozy."


    "If I foam you, are you going to stay put?"


    I shrugged in my limited capacity to articulate my shoulders. "Ehh, probably not."


    "Figures." He zipped off to throw things into Krieg''s field. It wasn''t doing much, but it was distracting him from bothering Dauntless, leaving Dauntless and Trainwreck to each other.


    "Ideas. Ideas. Ideas." I muttered to myself as I tried to figure out how to break the truck. I wasn''t strong enough. It was insulated from electrical attacks.


    We were in a tricky situation.


    The Empire couldn''t retreat, no matter how far this escalated, because they were the defending faction. If they withdrew, no matter how Kaiser tried to frame it, it''d sound like he was making excuse for running from Merchants. From. Merchants. No, they''d stick it out even if their entire roster had to show to make their point.


    The Merchants were too drugged up to retreat. Most of them sported bloodshot eyes and I counted only Trainwreck as truly in his right mind at the moment. Mush, maybe, but I couldn''t exactly see him through all the trash.


    The heroes of course had no choice but to remain so long as the combat lasted. They''d stick around to help clean up a bit then claim that the gangs ran from the long arm of the law or somesuch bullshit.


    That said, I wasn''t interested in ending the fight; I was interested in ending the fight while preserving the Merchants as an organization so I could prevent a vacuum from forming. It all came back to Squealer''s dump-dozer. "Most of the Merchants are dead or captured, so if I break that, Skidmark should figure out that it''s time to run. He''s not an idiot after all."


    Looking around, I got a crazy idea. The grin on my face could have split my face in two so it was a good thing no one saw it through the helmet.


    I pried myself from the scrunched up car and faded from sight once more. From there, I cast Agility on myself and ran across the sky until I landed just behind Rune.


    "Boo!" I shouted as I uncloaked.


    "Ahh!" she screamed. The buss she was riding lurched dangerously. "What the fuck are you doing?"


    She threw a sloppy punch that I caught effortlessly. We actually had similar builds, she was shockingly athletic for a teenage girl who mostly flew support, but it was clear that neither of us knew much about how to actually fight. Either way, I was the only one wearing a GES.


    "Hitching a ride," I said with a grin. By now, the three minutes or so of Othala''s power should have run out. I plopped down on my belly and punched in the window of the bus. Peering inside, I put on a faux jovial tone and cheered, "Hey there, crazy one-eyed lady."


    "Wha-"


    I didn''t let her finish. I grabbed hold of her with Psychic and yanked her towards me before anyone had time to react. Once she was within arm''s reach, it was over; she wasn''t out-muscling me. I rolled her into a ball and pulled her through the broken window before shooting up higher into the sky.


    "Hang tight!"


    "Kyaaa!"


    By the time I stopped, I stood several hundreds of feet in the air and had her in an awkward bridal carry. "So, how''s the view?"


    "Let go of me!" she shrieked.


    I complied. She fell a few feet. She screamed some more. I hopped down and caught her. "You sure you want me to let go?"


    "Let me down and I won''t have the entirety of the Empire skin you alive," she gritted out.


    "Can''t." I jumped into the air several more times, climbing far out of anyone''s ability to aim. With Victor out of commission, I doubted there was anyone currently on her side who could help her. Rune was far too slow. Although she could theoretically give chase, she wasn''t immune from the forces of inertia. She''d fall off her mount long before she picked up the speed needed to keep up with me. "Seriously, enjoy the view and hear me out."


    She punched me then immediately regretted her decision as her bare knuckles cracked against my helmet.


    "Umm¡­ wow, I''m all for ruining a Nazi''s day, but I genuinely don''t know who to root for right now," a feminine voice said.


    When I looked to my right, I saw a pair of women flying towards me. One was middle-aged but in good shape, wearing a white costume with purple accents. The other was several years older than myself with a white-red theme and red headband to keep the hair out of her dazzling blue eyes. Sierra''s hero-crush. My sister had great taste.


    New Wave had arrived. I should have expected it considering how close this was to the college, but their presence still caught me by surprise.


    "Photon Mom! Sparkles!" I greeted, cheering exuberantly.


    "Lady Photon," Sarah Pelham said tiredly. "Who are you and what are you doing to Othala?"


    "Giving those idiots down there a reason to stop fighting." I hopped into the air again to keep my altitude.


    "I swear Kaiser will have your head for this," Othala glared. She didn''t try to punch my head again so hey, progress!


    "He''ll try, Wazowski. Seriously, hear me out. I need you to give me invulnerability."


    "Why the hell would I help you?"


    "Well, I could always suplex your face into pavement." The two heroines glared at me disapprovingly. "But since I''m a gentleman, and totally not because the two scary ladies would shoot me, here''s another reason: You should help me because this would end the fighting."


    "Explain," Lady Photon said in that no-nonsense tone.


    "Has anyone ever told you that your no-nonsense voice reminds you of their mother? Seriously, you sound almost exactly like my mom. You''ve got the whole ''mommy''s not mad but she''s very disappointed in you'' voice down pat."


    I could see Laserdream stifle a giggle before turning serious. "Yes, I have told her that. Then again, she is my mother. Now explain."


    "Alright, the Empire won''t run from this fight even if they have to call down their entire roster of capes. This is their turf. If they run, they look weak. Hell, they''d be running from Skidmark. You try to work out the optics of that one." I took their collective wince as cue to continue. "The heroes are stuck here as long as this fight lasts. But the Merchants? Skidmark''s not an idiot believe it or not. If he thinks he has no chance, he''ll withdraw. We need to break that truck and I need to be a brick to do it."


    "Why can''t we shoot it?"


    "You could, Sparkles, but I tried a bolt of lightning and it didn''t work. Can you break the truck without making it explode if it has that kind of armor? Or will you adding that much power to your lasers just drill a hole through it? How long will that take you?" Even Othala had fallen silent and stopped her flailing. "Normally, I''d be all for letting Rune wail on it with her cars, but that truck''s more durable than the cars she''s throwing around; it''d take forever. If we wait for Armsmaster to show up with an explosive of some kind, we''d also be waiting for Hookwolf and company. We need to take out the truck''s guns without breaking the engine block."


    "The Empire wins," Othala spat. "The Merchants die and the heroes look as incompetent as always. I have no reason to help you."


    I nodded. "Normally yes, hence the suplexing. Can we get to the suplexing?" I begged the elder hero.


    "No," both heroes said flatly.


    "Alright fine, how about this? The car your husband was hiding behind was hit by one of Skidmark''s empowered shots. He could be bleeding out and it''s in your best interest to help me end this fight if you want to treat him in peace." Her face stilled as if not processing the words then morphed into concerned terror. For a moment, I felt bad for her. She was a Nazi, yes, but right now, she was a woman worried sick about her husband. "Please," I tried one last time. "For everyone''s sakes."


    "You have it," she said. "Three minutes." Her voice was remarkably still despite the pale pallor of her cheeks.


    I nodded as I felt her power sink in. I handed her off to Lady Photon. "I''m trusting that you''ll let her go under a truce agreement," I said. "Barring that, that you''ll at least give her the chance to treat Victor."


    For a moment, the leader of New Wave looked conflicted and I questioned my decision to leave an Empire cape in her hands. Fleur and Lightstar''s absence was still felt in that family. Then, she swallowed her hostility and nodded solemnly. "We will."


    "I''m off," I said. I jumped a few more times to catch as much air as possible before letting gravity grab hold of me again. My head naturally oriented downward and I used my Pok¨¦Nav''s function to point me towards the truck. "SAINT, Lock-On to the truck bed."


    My cape fluttered behind me as I started to fall. I caught it on one arm and swirled it around myself. "Shield with everything we''ve got." I glanced at the flashing thirty-two percent shield integrity and tried not to think about it. It had charged a bit during the lull, but was nowhere near full.


    Then, just as we started to build some speed, I fired my hover boots and kicked off as hard as I could. "Agility," I whispered, fueling my kicks with even more force.


    "Protect." Everything I had was added to the suit''s shield, the yellow hexagons and green sphere mixing in a dazzling display of color. I briefly saw the entire battlefield still and crane their necks towards the sky as I descended like an ornery star pissed at one truck in particular.


    "GIGA IMPACT!" I roared, coming down on Squealer''s truck like the hammer of an angry god. I made sure to aim for the back of the truck, away from the engine block.


    It landed me directly on top of Skidmark''s fields. The armored plating did absolutely nothing to impede my progress. I felt the suit''s shield shatter before my Protect took the rest of the impact. I struck the truck and ruined the placement of Skidmark''s fields, but I was launched almost as fast as I came in.


    I shot off like a sling from a stone and embedded myself halfway into a stone pillar. Only Othala''s invulnerability saved me from life-threatening injury. The suit was fine, but I most certainly would not have survived the experience without her power.


    ''And ain''t that the shit,'' I thought with a groan. ''I owe a Nazi.''


    Pieces of plaster and concrete rained down on me. I brushed them off and stood, walking out and down from the second story building I''d been thrown into.


    All eyes were on me. I had to seize the moment. Arms spread, I declared, "I think that''s as good a finale as any, don''t you, fellas?"


    One PRT trooper shakily pointed his con-foam launcher at me, but Velocity blurred by his side and pushed the nozzle down. "He''s a hero."


    "I''m not," I shrugged helplessly. "I only said I''m on your side. And for the day, that''s even true." I removed an imaginary hat and took a flourishing bow. "The name is Creed, an independent mercenary asked to prevent civilian deaths in this battle, and I declare this battle concluded."


    "Fuck you!" Skidmark shouted. He''d managed to dive down from his perch and hide behind the truck, avoiding the brunt of the impact. The man had the tenacity of a cockroach.


    Rolling my eyes, I used my still Agility-amped speed to cross half the distance before laying out a Thunder Wave that struck his torso. He slumped to the ground as I reached him. I faced the Merchants and held my arms out in open invitation.


    "Anyone else? Your leader''s down. Your artillery is in scraps. I suggest you withdraw while I let you."


    Krieg stepped up. "Ah, but that permission is not yours to give, Creed."


    I snorted. Rather than answer, I summoned a ball of electricity in my hands. "Psychic," I called.


    Krieg was a competent lieutenant. He''d proven that while in his field, he was a good fighter, capable of taking on people far stronger and faster than he was. His power protected him from all sorts of kinetic impacts and even heat and electricity to an extent. It however did jack shit to guard him against a direct psychic attack.


    Pok¨¦mon tended to downplay psychics, partially to keep their PG rating and partially because when everyone had aura, some passive protection was to be expected. As Syndrome said, "When everyone''s special, no one will be."


    Krieg had no such protections. I grabbed his own costume by the buttons and began to strangle him, cutting off his grandstanding. I couldn''t lift tons and tons like Sabrina, but I didn''t need to. Soon enough, the street was silent save for his desperate gurgling.


    "Empire, Victor and Krieg are both down. You will allow the Merchants to withdraw."


    "Hey, we''re going to bring them in, Creed. You don''t get to decide that," Velocity said.


    "Leave." This time, I addressed Trainwreck, the only Merchant cape left who I considered even remotely rational. He sent me a curt nod and dragged Squealer out of her truck, shoving her in the same pickup that held an unconscious Skidmark. Grumbling, Mush followed. I turned to the heroes. "Anyone who''s still foamed, you can keep. If you go after the Merchants right now, I will be your opponent. You will fail while I hold you off; several of you may even suffer injuries requiring Panacea''s aid. Then, I will simply run away and you will have accomplished nothing. You will likely lose the foamed captures you already have."


    Miss Militia frowned, clearly displeased by this development. "You were fighting the Merchants until ten seconds ago."


    "I was. And now I am not fighting them," I said matter-of-factly. "Tell me honestly, heroes. If you capture them right now, can you prevent a gang war between the ABB and Empire over the vacuum left by the Merchants? Sure, they''re the least of the gangs, but they''re not nothing. Well?" I received sullen silence in response. "I thought not. The simple truth is that you are not ready to handle a gang war and I will not let you start one so you can feel good about a momentary feather in your cap."


    Behind me, I heard three engines start. Of the five cars the Merchants came on, three was a respectable number to leave with all things considered. They drove away as the New Wave contingent landed with Othala.


    "Rune, collect Othala and your capes. You have three minutes to leave before my protection expires." She looked like she wanted to argue and she sucked in her cheeks like she ate something sour, but with a gentle nod from Othala, she conceded. One of the Empire attempted to retrieve a foamed member and I fired a Thunder Wave into his chest. "The same rules apply. Foamed members belong to the heroes."


    "Withdraw," Othala said, then turned to me with a conflicted expression. "Kaiser will hear of this," she promised. With both Victor and Krieg out, she was the senior cape so the rest of the Empire fell in line.


    "Of that, I have no doubt. Leave, Wazowski ."


    They cleared out within my three minute deadline, leaving me with Miss Militia, Velocity, Dauntless, Lady Photon, Laserdream, and a squad of troopers. Conflict resolved and the city in one piece, I allowed myself to breathe a sigh of relief. "Whew, plan success, eh, Photon Mom?"


    "Please don''t call me that," she said with a strained smile.


    "You planned this?" Miss Militia whirled.


    "He did, he asked me to watch Othala while he did his best impression of a meteor."


    "This is highly unusual."


    "And that''s the problem with soldiers, Minutegal," I said. "You lot are too inflexible. If I let you arrest Skidmark, Lung or Kaiser would have moved on Merchant turf within the week, maybe even one of the lesser gangs. You''re not ready for that."


    She frowned but before she could reply, Dauntless stepped between us. "What''s done is done, Miss Militia, let''s talk about just who you are, Creed. You''re a tinker, right?"


    I nodded, finally onto more comfortable topics. "I''m an independent. Think of me as a mix between Faultline, Toybox, and Mouse Protector. I take jobs occasionally. I sell tech online. Most of all, I try to have fun and keep everything from blowing up."


    "Your shield was really impressive. It took me months to get a shield as good as yours. You could do a lot of good in the Wards."


    "Tell me truly, Dauntless. Had I been a Ward, would I have been permitted to intervene here in any capacity?" I was met with silence. "And that is why I will not join the Wards. I''m sure most of the Wards are good people, but I don''t need to learn to control my powers. I don''t need funding. I don''t need a lab. I don''t need an image department telling me what I can and cannot build. I took a request from someone I admire today who asked me to save civilian lives. I have done so. That is all."


    "Independent tinkers don''t-"


    I cut Miss Militia off before she could get going. "Don''t last long? I know. I''m also aware of how much you''ve manipulated that data to misrepresent other outcomes besides death. Nor am I a fresh independent rummaging through scrapyards." I gestured lazily to the destruction behind me, letting the past several minutes speak for themselves.


    Striding over with faux confidence, I placed a hand on the wreckage of Squealer''s truck, the micro-missile turret in particular. It''d been snapped off its axle from my final attack and shattered into several pieces, but the part I identified as the launching mechanism was largely intact.


    "Now, I believe I''ve accomplished all I set out to do today." I stooped low in another exaggerated bow. "Until next time."


    "Wait," Miss Militia called, but I''d already turned invisible, taking the choicest piece with me.


    X


    I found it hilarious that it didn''t take more than twenty minutes for a video of the whole encounter to be posted on PHO.


    ''Brockton Bay at its finest,'' I chuckled to myself as I went about my lab. We really were the cape capitol of the world. I digitized Squealer''s turret fragment in the DSS. After calling my mom and Sierra to assure them that I was nowhere near the fight, I thought about the things I''d done.


    "All around, I think the fight went much better than our last one, right, SAINT?" I said as I allowed myself to plop down onto the bed in the berthing room.


    "Pory," he agreed. I''d changed out of the suit, the helmet and cape a bit too unwieldy for casual wear.


    As far as I could tell, I''d achieved everything I wanted heading into the fight: I kept my promise to Amy and did my best to save civilians. I also ensured that the Merchants would live another day preventing a power vacuum from forming. They were injured and licking their wounds, but they weren''t out of this game yet. Lastly, I''d announced myself to the world at large as a new, independent cape willing to offer both my services and tech for the right price.


    There were still several factors I wasn''t sure about.


    I didn''t think a gang war was likely now, but this was Brockton. Kaiser was a cautious man. I doubted he would seek reprisal against the Merchants as it''d meant leaving the Empire open to the ABB and inviting the heroes, but I couldn''t be certain.


    To tilt the odds more in my favor, I''d presented myself as somewhat capricious but not unreasonable; Othala and Rune would report on me and my existence would be a massive wildcard. Without knowing whether I would involve myself again, he likely wouldn''t make any drastic plays for power.


    I was also unsure of the Protectorate and New Wave heroes'' opinions of me. On one hand, I definitely saved lives. On the other, they''d likely figure out that I was the one who stirred the Merchants. Mush recognized me after all.


    Hopefully, I came off as an independent with a code of ethics, but I couldn''t be too confident that their impression of me was positive. Seeing how I stole Squealer''s turret, there were even odds of them seeing me as just another opportunist. Even so, a cape who was willing to stop fighting was rare and one capable of forcing other capes to stop fighting even rarer. I''d shown a willingness to practice restraint and that alone should make me a lower priority compared to the gangs.


    The major downside of this whole affair?


    Coil knew I existed. He knew since the day I met Trainwreck, but now he''d seen my capabilities compared to some of the Empire''s finest and I''d not been found wanting. There was no doubt that he''d soon have Tattletale snoop around for clues if he hadn''t done so already. My saving grace was that I was practically impossible to track, but I wouldn''t put it past Tattletale to work something out. I resolved to figure out a contingency of my own.


    I got up and prepared myself some food, strips of an apple-flavored onion this time.


    Almost two hours later, Amy called. Her face popped up on the hologram and I took an exaggerated step back.


    "Ames, you look like shit," I said cheerily.


    She flipped me the bird. "Fuck off, Bryce. Do you have any idea how many people I had to heal today?" she snapped. Before she could continue, I took a large bite of an onion and washed it down with some coke. "Why are you eating a raw onion?"


    "It''s got a great sweetness to it." I proffered it to her as though she could reach across the call and grab it. "Want some?"


    "Seriously, what the fuck? No, you know what? I don''t care. We need to talk about the fight."


    "Yeah, did you see it?"


    "The whole city saw it by now."


    "And? Thoughts?"


    She took a deep breath. "Thank you for saving the civilians. I didn''t know you could fight like that."


    "Hold my own against so many capes? Yeah, I told you I''m strong, didn''t I?" I said with a confident grin.


    "You did. You''re going live with the catalog then?"


    "Two, you made me make two, remember?" She nodded tiredly. "How''d your aunt react to me anyway? I''m not that concerned about public perception; I''m more interested in what the different factions think."


    "We didn''t really talk about it, but she called you a ''heroic rogue'' so I guess it''s good? She also said you were unpredictable, and a bit of an opportunist. Did you have to steal Squealer''s turret?"


    "Call it right of conquest. It''s not illegal, is it?"


    "Very," she said flatly. "Stealing tinkertech is different from stealing a few hundred bucks from a druggie. You also violated a crime scene. The PRT can legitimately call you a villain for that."


    "I did say I initially planned on being a villain, Ames. I''m not too hung up over it. I saved lives and forced everyone to back off." I shrugged nonchalantly. "I don''t do anything for free and as far as I''m concerned, the turret''s payment."


    She sighed but didn''t push. "Just be careful. I don''t want you to steal from heroes."


    "I won''t, I promise."


    "Good. I''m going to go take a shower and crash now."


    "You know, that sounds nice. Cheers."


    Author''s Note


    A 100 pound girl can break a car door if she shoves it past the widest point. In a crash, actually detaching the car door from the hinges only becomes a big problem when the chassis warps around the door, sealing it shut.


    I tried to write Krieg in a German accent, but I just couldn''t. It feels weird writing yet another fight scene after the Merchant heist but ehh, it fits.


    I had two goals: First, I wanted to show that Bryce''s actions have consequences, even if he tries to leave as small a ripple as possible by not arresting the Merchant leadership. Second, I wanted to write a more public fight, where Bryce has to act as Creed and be as bombastic as possible. I wanted to capture a bit of the sheer anarchy of a One Piece fight scene, though I don''t think I quite managed.


    Thought about breaking the fight scene in half but nah¡­ It''s better whole.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 2.10.5 Lisa Wilbourn & PHO

    Interlude 2.10.5: Lisa Wilbourn & PHO


    2010, October 16: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    Tattletale, Lisa out of costume, leaned back onto the couch with tired sigh. She massaged her scalp full well knowing that it would only provide her minor comfort against the mounting thinker headache. She grabbed a cushion and groaned pitiably into it. There was a new tinker, some poor sap Coil had his eye on. A set of footsteps sounded over hardwood.


    "Don''t even think about it, Alec," she said, not even bothering to look up.


    "You can''t prove anything," Alec, Regent, said. He was the most problematic of her teammates. He wasn''t just ambivalent, that''d be manageable. He was a sociopath, damaged in ways she couldn''t fully understand even with her power by that rapist shit he called a father. He was, frankly, gorgeous in that pretty-boy, male pop idol kind of way, with a smirk that made him look self-assured rather than condescending.


    [Wants to get a rise out of you,] her power helpfully informed.


    ''Yeah, no shit.'' Sure enough, he was standing a foot away from her sipping from a cup of ice-cold water. He''d probably have dumped it on her to "help her cool her head."


    "Lisa, you see it yet?" Brian, their nominal leader, called. He was a tall, black man with hair held in neat cornrows. He''d just returned from his session at his father''s gym. Her teammates were handsome; she could admit that much even if her power made the idea of romance problematic at the best of times.


    She clamped down on her power before it could tell her how many calories Brian lost in his workout or some equally trivial factoid. "Yes, I saw the fight."


    "Hell of a debut."


    "Not a debut. He was the one who did the Hillside Heist. He was also the one who fucked up Skidmark a few days back."


    "Boss has you looking into him already?"


    She nodded. "Yeah, he''s considering recruitment," she lied smoothly. He was, just not in any way Brian would be comfortable with. She stood and snagged a pear from the communal fruit bowl before heading to her room. "I''m going to try and figure out just what his deal is."


    X


    Her room at the loft had the best amenities available: Top of the line desktop, external hard drive, and a fan so silent it was borderline tinkertech greeted her. She couldn''t have asked for better, and the fact that it was all provided by the man who held her leash made her want to hurl. She shimmied out of her jacket and tossed it across the room onto an alarm clock, covering the face. It contained one of several cameras she knew for a fact were monitoring her. Coil had at least two more she''d found in her room alone, never mind the ones in her apartment. Still, this small token of rebellion made her feel better, a reminder that she had yet to surrender.


    Sighing again, she twisted and cracked her back before sitting down in her chair. The video of today''s four-way fight was already loaded; she''d watched it twice through. ''One more time before I take a nap,'' she thought. A second monitor was opened up to a word processor so she could take rapid notes. Readying herself for another night of migraines, she clicked play.


    The video started with Squealer''s abomination already halfway embedded into Medline Pharmaceuticals. A crowd of unwashed Merchants jumped from the backs of their pickups and ran into the store, whooping like a bunch of baboons.


    "Holy shit! Yo, Jack, you getting this?" the cameraman shouted. She wished for the fifth time that she could mute the idiot, but muting the video might mean missing out on important dialogue.


    [Started filming because of the crash. Merchant trucks made it to Caldwell and Eighth without being stopped by cops. Main truck has stealth capabilities.]


    Lisa dutifully jotted down the information. Invisibility wasn''t a common power, even for tinkers, one that''d be highly sought after. ''Maybe the boss will be happy with this,'' she thought, then scoffed. Coil would never be happy until he had the new tinker on a leash like hers.


    Only a minute later, Krieg appeared from a side street with a dozen Empire goons and started to open fire on the Merchants. Victor and Othala arrived soon after with their own flunkies. The Merchants who remained used their trucks for cover and started to fire back with Stormtrooper-certified aim. If it wasn''t for Mush and Trainwreck jumping down to help them, they would have been picked off in a minute or two at best. As it was, Lisa winced as Victor casually shot one overeager idiot in the head.


    [Merchants were expecting a fight. Trucks arranged specifically for cover. Trainwreck prepared mobile barricades.] She shook her head and focused instead on the Empire. [Response time is too good. Invisible trucks. Not tipped off. Already nearby. Medline Pharma associated with the Empire. Medhall associated-] She cut off that rabbit trail. She already knew Kaiser was Max Anders. His was practically the first name Coil had her search out.


    Othala touched one grunt who then stood and shot fire at the Merchant line with what should have been a valiant roar. Instead, it sounded a little high-pitched and cracked a bit. [Shouting to drown out his fear. Not quite done with puberty,] her power helpfully supplied.


    ''I didn''t need that,'' she gritted. ''Give me something useful, damnit!''


    [Grunt has pyrokinesis. Lasts for three minutes.]


    ''Better.''


    Then came the star of the show.


    Creed dropped down from a six story building, his ridiculous black cape fluttering in the background. The indie wasn''t the focus of the cameraman, but he did manage to catch the cape in-frame towards the right corner.


    Creed stopped his fall with a series of midair kicks that let him jump on the air. He dashed across the sky and swooped up one idiot who''d ignored the police cordon to get close to the action. He landed with the idiot in question behind the police cordon, mere feet from the cameraman.


    [Tinkertech shoes,] her power said. [Creates platforms. Platforms not hard-light or other esoteric particles. Visible vapors. Platforms of water. Condensed water somehow into solid, but not frozen state.]


    Lisa winced as she nursed an oncoming migraine.


    That was interesting, but wasn''t useful information on its own. For whatever reason, examining tinkertech always seemed to accelerate her oncoming migraines. She gritted her teeth and resigned herself to a night of misery.


    "Let''s not try for the Darwin awards," he growled. His voice was low and came out with a bit of a breathy hiss.


    "Cape!" The police officer who shouted that took an elbow to the gut from her partner.


    "No, shit. Where?" Creed replied with faux surprise that wouldn''t have fooled a five year old.


    "My baby!" another woman said.


    "Okay, that one''s important. Where?"


    [Intentionally affected voice. Has a voice modulator. Wants to appear older than he is] Lisa snorted, judging by his height, he was at least three years her junior. [Intentionally jovial and sarcastic. Actually introverted. Managing his image.]


    He then dashed off to where the woman pointed and rescued the civilian by ripping the car door off its hinges. He saved a few more civilians before Mush screamed and tried to flatten him into the ground. A shield of golden concentric hexagons bloomed from his cape. It made for an impressive sight to greet Velocity with: cape billowing in the background, Mush being unable to budge him an inch. Lisa couldn''t suppress an impressed whistle. She paused the video there.


    [Suit enhances strength and speed. Shield is not taxed by Mush at all. Upper limits unknown. Uninterested in combat but prepared for the possibility.]


    ''Brian would like him,'' she thought. He was looking a bit like her leader in miniature, but with more powers and an irreverent attitude. He was building an image for himself, avoided conflict, but could clearly handle himself.


    [Not altruistic. Shield negates approximately ninety-five percent of all energy transference. Creed has a small stature. By mass, he should still have been flung away by Mush. Shield dampens inertia.]


    "Some people have all the luck," she grumbled but obligingly noted the observation.


    [Did not plan for the encounter with Velocity. Happy with his first impression.]


    Creed then pulled a little girl from behind a car using some kind of telekinetic power and deposited her with the police. [Improved perception. Wide-area vision and/or audio scanning abilities. Found girl without turning around.]


    "Thanks, power."


    Here, she stopped the video and switched to a different one filmed by someone closer to Creed. He must have had a better microphone because she was able to catch the tail end of their conversation.


    "¡­ New hero?" she heard Velocity ask.


    "Empire!" he stated proudly. Velocity reacted by tossing a grenade at his feet, attempting to foam him before he could react.


    [Not Empire.] She paused the video and took her eyes off the screen. Sometimes, she found it helped to physically reset her power to keep it from going down stupid tangents. The following minute showed Creed run to an Empire flunky, then punch him out in a slapstick routine that proved the earlier comment an obvious lie. [Didn''t plan that. Ad-libbed because he thought it''d be funny and civilians are saved. Enjoys being a troll. Selling an image. Wants to be seen as whimsical.]


    She fast forwarded the video a bit. As funny as it was to watch someone mock Krieg, the part she was really interested in came immediately after. She watched in mute awe as he and Dauntless traded off tanking duties against Squealer''s micro-missiles. She expected that kind of durability from Dauntless, a cape who was touted to be the next Triumvirate and scaled indefinitely. A fresh tinker matching his performance was beyond impressive.


    She focused her attention on the missile turret, a rudimentary artillery system with eight missiles. It looked horrendous, a minor miracle that it fired at all, but fire it did. [Missile yield is approximately half that of the Hellfire series used by the Air Force. Designed for anti-brute use.]


    She balked at that. It cost over a hundred thousand dollars to produce one conventionally. "Tinkers are bullshit," she swore, "even the shitty ones."


    Then the video showed her just how bullshit tinkers could be. Krieg lobbed a grenade at Creed, only for him to emerge completely unscathed despite taking the blast without the help of his shield. The caped tinker launched himself at the Empire lieutenant and engaged in a quick series of hand-to-hand. He looked like he was wading through molasses, fast, but much slower than he''d been moving until then. Even through her untrained eye, she could tell he was an amateur.


    [Only recently picked up martial arts. Boxing. No preference for boxing. Thought it was the most accessible and practical.]


    Again, she fast forwarded a bit, this time to his dialogue with Trainwreck. She couldn''t hear because Trainwreck was busy blocking a hail of gunfire and the noise distorted the voices, but she could get the gist.


    [Knows Trainwreck. Met him before. Creed defeated Trainwreck. Trainwreck respects an accomplished tinker. Creed injured and shamed Skidmark in the same encounter. Skidmark is attacking because he wants more cred.]


    She reached for the fast forward button again but stopped. Something about Trainwreck''s behavior was at odds with Mush''s, or any other Merchant''s. He was too calm, too composed. [Trainwreck is sober. Does not do drugs. No interest in drugs. Merchant. Not a Merchant. Loyal to someone else. ABB and Empire would not employ him. Coil. Loyal to Coil. Spying on Merchants. Steering Merchants.]


    "Son of a bitch," she swore. She looked over her observations and sighed. Anything she could have given Coil on the Merchants, Trainwreck would be able to verify or deny, including their invisible trucks. She just became a lot less valuable on that front.


    Her frustration was compounded again when Creed disappeared somewhere. The new tinker did not reappear for several minutes, but when he did, he tossed down a bolt of electricity into Squealer''s truck.


    [Truck is insulated. Defense originally designed for Armsmaster''s EMPs. Creed vanished for several minutes. Appeared with new skill. Retrieved electric weapon. Lab nearby?]


    He then launched himself into the air using Skidmark''s fields and landed on the crumpled car Rune had been using as a shield. She couldn''t hear what he said to her, but her body language screamed confusion and a bit of appreciation.


    [Was hitting on her,] her power supplied.


    "What the hell, power? Why?"


    [Thinks it''s fun to act outside expectations. Is only mildly attracted to her. Likes blondes. Likes athletic girls. Thinks she''s better than this. Thinks she''s redeemable. Thinks she can be heroic.] She paused. Creed had no way of knowing that. Or, he shouldn''t have.


    ''Was that just a spot judgment? Impossible, he''s never met her before; that, I''m sure of. But then what made him think she can be redeemed? Was it her age?''


    [Not her age alone. Knows she can be a hero. Knows she can save lives.]


    "Oh for fuck''s sake," she shouted and threw her hands in the air. "He''s a fucking thinker too?"


    She watched Rune wrap her mangled car around him like a sleeping bag before hurling him away from her. After a short, irrelevant chat with Velocity, he vanished again, only to appear right behind her. [Startled her for fun. Again. Does not feel threatened by bullets. Does not feel threatened by the present capes.]


    Then, to her shock, he grabbed Othala and rushed off into the sky.


    Here, the video became unreliable. The cameraman was more interested in filming the action, the fight between Dauntless and Trainwreck getting particular attention. She switched off to another recording but got the same result. "Figures," she muttered, "ignore the mysterious tinker with enough powers to make Halbeard jealous. Look! Pretty lights!"


    Lisa finally found one short snippet, barely six seconds of video, in which the cameraman aimed at the four capes in the sky. Somewhere along the line, Lady Photon and Laserdream had arrived. What they said was impossible to hear over the gunfire, but they were clearly working out a plan of some sort. The camera panned down to the gunfight between the gangs then jerked upwards dizzyingly.


    Creed had handed over Othala to Lady Photon and started to plummet to the ground. Instead of stopping his fall, he kicked off the air and accelerated to distinctly unhealthy speeds. His cape swirled around him as the now familiar shield began to shine. Then, an orb of green bloomed to life beneath the yellow hexagons.


    [Secondary shield. Weaker than the first. Still reliable enough to survive this impact.]


    Sure enough, he let out a roar, a battlecry that no doubt would have sounded more adorable than threatening without the filter, and angled himself towards Squealer''s main truck. The light show caught those on the surface by surprise and the entire battlefield stilled to witness his coup de grace.


    The attack, Giga Impact if he was to be believed, struck with impressive precision, destroying the turrets but little else. Creed himself was launched through the air, the last act of defiance from Skidmark''s fields.


    [Attack name improvised. Likes being hammy. First and secondary shields broke. Othala made him invulnerable. Would have survived the impact anyway. Rebound would not have seriously injured him. Underestimated his own suit''s integrity. Cautious.]


    He strolled out of the wreckage of the building across the street, completely unscathed and with his arms open wide in challenge like a luchador expecting applause after a stunt. The lack of gunfire made his voice echo in the silence. "I think that''s as good a finale as any, don''t you, fellas?" he drawled.


    One trooper shakily pointed his con-foam sprayer at him, only for Velocity to push the nozzle down. "He''s a hero," the red-clad speedster said.


    "I''m not. I only said I''m on your side. And for the day, that''s even true." He removed an imaginary hat and took a flourishing bow. "The name is Creed, a mercenary asked to prevent civilian deaths in this battle, and I declare this battle concluded."


    [Possibly the first honest thing he''s said,] her power snarked.


    Lisa paused the video and stared up at the ceiling. Her power could snark? Unpausing the video, she watched with satisfaction as he sent Skidmark to la-la land.


    "Your leader''s down. Your artillery is in scraps. I suggest you withdraw while I let you." He spoke to the Merchants at large, but mostly looked at Trainwreck.


    [Sees Trainwreck as the logical member of the group. Knows Trainwreck is sober.]


    Krieg stepped up next. "Ah, but that permission is not yours to give, Creed."


    It took him just as long to incapacitate the Empire lieutenant. Apparently, he''d been holding back a great deal with his telekinetic powers.


    Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!


    "Empire, Victor and Krieg are both down. You will allow the Merchants to withdraw."


    "Hey, we''re going to bring them in, Creed. You don''t get to decide that," Velocity said.


    Curiously, for someone declaring himself an independent, he did not attack the hero. Instead, he chose to bargain with them. "Anyone who''s still foamed, you can keep. If you go after the Merchants right now, I will be your opponent. You will fail while I hold you off; several of you may even suffer injuries requiring Panacea''s aid. Then, I will simply run away and you will have accomplished nothing. You will likely lose the foamed captures you already have."


    [Militia is fresh and uninjured. Would fight him. Would lose. Would reignite conflict. Creed does not want to reignite conflict. Worried the Empire will arrive with more reinforcements. Empire reinforcements are being harried by Armsmaster, Battery, and Assault,] her power provided.


    "Tell me honestly, heroes. If you capture them right now, can you prevent a gang war between the ABB and Empire over the vacuum left by the Merchants? Sure, they''re the least of the gangs, but they''re not nothing. Well?" he continued. "The simple truth is that you are not ready to handle a gang war and I will not let you start one so you can feel good about a momentary feather in your cap."


    [Truly believes this. Thinks that letting the Merchants go free is the best way to prevent a gang war in the immediate future. Likes to think he has a good understanding of Brockton''s geopolitics.]


    Of the five trucks the Merchants arrived with, three were still in working order. Trainwreck and Mush collected their minions and forced Squealer in the back of one truck before driving off. Nearby, Lady Photon, Laserdream, and Othala landed. Othala moved to Rune''s side on shaky legs.


    [Flight does not agree with her. Will likely develop mild acrophobia.] Lisa clamped down on her power.


    Creed spoke again. "Rune, collect Othala and your capes. You have three minutes to leave before my protection expires. The same rules apply. Foamed members belong to the heroes." Whatever Rune wanted to say in response, Othala reigned in her cousin. As the senior member of the Empire roster still conscious, she was able to corral the mooks into an organized retreat.


    Soon, only the heroes and the new indie were left. Once the gangbangers were gone, he visibly slumped with a sigh of relief. "Whew, plan success, eh, Photon Mom?" he said with an audible smile.


    "Please don''t call me that."


    [Thinks he''s a competent tinker and a heroic indie. Impressed with his ability to end the battle. Thinks he is likely correct concerning gang wars. Suspects he has a prediction algorithm that allowed him to come to this conclusion.]


    "That''s not unreasonable," Lisa muttered. She took a drink and one painkiller pill to stave off the mounting migraine. "It''s what I''d think if my power didn''t confirm the thinker ability."


    [Wishes he''d call her ''Lady Photon.'' Has resigned herself to the nickname.]


    "You planned this?" Miss Militia whirled.


    "He did, he asked me to watch Othala while he did a meteor impression."


    "This is highly unusual."


    [Lady Photon knew he wanted to end the battle. Did not expect him to send both sides off.]


    "And that''s the problem with soldiers, Minutegal," Creed said. "You lot are too inflexible. If I let you arrest Skidmark, Lung or Kaiser would have moved on Merchant turf within the week, maybe even one of the lesser gangs. You''re not ready for that."


    [Has decided to adopt embarrassing nicknames for every cape he meets. Thinks it''ll improve his image as a quirky, spontaneous character.]


    Dauntless stepped in before she could argue further. "What''s done is done, Miss Militia, let''s talk about just who you are, Creed. You''re a tinker, right?"


    "I''m an independent. Think of me as a mix between Faultline, Toybox, and Mouse Protector. I take jobs occasionally. I sell tech online. Most of all, I try to have fun and keep everything from blowing up."


    [Wants this to be true. Conflicted between being a hedonist and being a hero. Will help those he meets but not seek out danger to perform heroic acts.] She''d already opened up his PHO thread and browsed the catalogs.


    [One for heroic capes. One for anyone. Planned meticulously. Did so upon suggestion from someone else. That someone is a hero concerned about dangerous tech being made available to villains. Miss Militia did not recognize Creed. That someone is not likely to be in the Protectorate. Lady Photon did not recognize Creed. That someone is equally unlikely to be from New Wave. That someone is unlikely to be Dovetail or another independent. That someone is from out of the city. Creed has contacts not native to Brockton Bay.]


    Lisa whistled. Somehow, this new tinker had forged external contacts without letting the rest of this city''s factions know he existed until today. That took extensive planning. Or really good luck. She wasn''t sure which yet.


    The rest of the conversation only confirmed what she''d already known: He had no interest in the Wards program. He then stepped forward and snatched up the mangled remains of Squealer''s micro-missile turret before vanishing. The video continued for a minute or two after he''d vanished, but Lisa had what she wanted.


    Lisa closed the video player and leaned back into her sinfully soft chair. "Alright," she told herself, "what have we learned about the new guy?" She started with a broad list of his tech. "His gear gives him brute and mover ratings, limited aerial mobility, invisibility, telekinesis, electrokinesis, and enhanced sensory capabilities. On top of that, he''s got a thinker power of some sort and has already made an ally of some out-of-town hero. Having a sponsor would explain how his gear can be so refined despite this being his third appearance.


    "His personality is a bit all over the place. He''s an introvert trying to act like Mouse Protector and the whole bombastic shtick isn''t how he behaves when he''s not on camera. He sucks at hand to hand but he''d be dangerous up close anyway thanks to his telekinesis and enhanced strength. His lab is potentially nearby, but with his speed, ''nearby'' could be pretty far."


    She got up and went to the kitchen for another cup of water. There, she decided she wasn''t drunk enough to deal with him and grabbed the wine bottle.


    "Day drinking, Tats?" Alec said with a cheeky grin.


    She flipped him the bird and poured herself a glass. "Fuck off, Alec."


    "Anything we should be aware of?" Brian shot her a concerned look. She only started drinking when the migraines got bad.


    "He''s heroic but doesn''t want to admit it," she said. "Or he''s got some sponsor from out of Brockton who''s making him be heroic. Either way, he''s not a recruitable candidate."


    "Would he be willing to sell us some tech?"


    She laughed at that. "Unlikely. Someone vetted his catalogs before he posted them; it''s why he''s got one for the heroes and one for the civvies."


    "So we try to avoid him then," Brian said. He was off in one corner applying leather oil to his jacket. He took surprisingly good care of his possessions and it wasn''t uncommon for him to be found polishing his cape gear. Her power said his meticulous habit came from a desire to be respected, to manage his image, but it was nonetheless something she admired about him. She''d seen far worse motivations than prestige. "If we had to fight, what do you think our odds are?"


    "We can take him," Rachel growled. She was brushing Brutus and combing through his fur for ticks.


    Lisa rolled her eyes. "We can''t," she countered, "not in any meaningful way. Your dogs can''t hurt him without taking a lightning bolt to the face. If we manage to corner him, he just flies away. Brian is the better boxer, but that doesn''t mean much when his suit makes him faster and stronger by far. Our best bet is to avoid a fight and run while Brian smokes him."


    He nodded. [Happy that you think he''s the better boxer. Proud of his skill.]


    ''Men.'' She had to grant it to him; his pride wasn''t entirely unwarranted. He''d made boxing his outlet for stress and frustration for years and his skill was the real deal.


    She took her glass of wine back to her room and typed up the report for Coil before going to bed. Whatever plans Coil had could be future-Lisa''s problem.


    X


    Parahumans Online


    Interlude 2.10.5: PHO


    Topic: New Cape Introduction: Creed, the Masked Admiral!


    In: Boards Americas United States Brockton Bay General


    Creed_Official (Original Poster) (Verified Cape)


    Posted on October 16, 2010:


    Hello world!


    Is it a bit clich¨¦ for a tinker to make a programmer joke as his introduction? Well, too bad. I had no idea how to start this so you''re stuck with some programmer humor.


    Yes, ''tis I, Creed, your not-so-humble independent, disciple of the Vega and Punk, lover of SUPER cola, loyal friend to ducks, and all around badass. I''m sure you''ve seen my introduction to the cape community of Brockton Bay already, but in case you haven''t, [here] it is. I''ve taken the liberty to make a compilation video from all cameras in the incident. Yes, yours too, Timmy.


    Long story short, I''ve been collaborating with a hero I greatly admire. They (NO HINTS, Foxy!) helped me work out some important details about the kind of cape I want to be.


    When the Merchants attacked Medline Pharmaceuticals in broad daylight, they sent me over to intervene. My directive was to keep you hapless civvies from trying for the Darwin Awards. I decided that the best way to save civilians was to end the battle and worked with Wazowski and Photon Mom to break Squealer''s dump-dozer.


    So what does that say about me? Well, to start, I''m not a hero. Not really. My mentor and moral compass is a hero, the greatest of all time. They shall henceforth be referred to as The GOAT.


    Anyway, I wanted to introduce myself, stir up PHO, and also advertise my two catalogs. Yes, you read right, you shitty keyboard monkeys. All (most) of the fantastic things you saw earlier today can be bought from yours truly for the right price.


    [This] is a catalog for capes of a heroic inclination. Yes, I will check. Creed is dedicated to responsible abuse of capitalism. Or, you know, The GOAT will chew off my dick. Either or, really.


    [This] is a catalog for anyone who wants tinkertech of their own. That''s right, civvies! You too can pretend you matter!


    As you can see, some of my tech is missing. They are not for sale. The GOAT ate them, saying they shouldn''t be put on the open market. Message me with the nine hundred forty-ninth prime number divided by your birth year and multiplied by its reciprocal in your header, and a verification of your heroic identity (if applicable), and we can talk.


    Now, I did say I''d stir up PHO a bit, so...


    1. Mini-V, your specialization can easily be discovered if you''d just sit down and play with a box of Legos. You''re welcome. We should totally race sometime.


    2. Minutegal, my favorite novel is the Moby Dick. I guess I just really like the idea of stabbing a whale to death, though admittedly the novel would have been better if the whale could fly. You know, going on a grand adventure to murder a sky-whale sounds like a great movie plot. What''s your favorite novel?


    3. Foxy, please keep your nose out of my affairs. Who knows? I might just pluck off some whiskers.


    I think that''s all for now. There''s a lot more I can say, but I do want to keep some secrets back, you know?


    Stay flashy,


    Creed


    Edit: Thanks for reminding me, Bagrat.


    [Here] is the thread for discussions about the battle.


    [Here] is the PRT''s official statement so you can pretend it matters.


    [Here] is my favorite list of animal facts so you plebeians can broaden your horizons. For example, did you know ducks have pneumatic corkscrews for penises? Explains why Donald doesn''t wear pants, eh?


    (Showing Page 1 of 12)


    ? GiverofGifts (Unverified Cape)


    Replied on January 1, 2000:


    What the hell? Why am I tagged? What even is a Wazowski?


    ? Creed_Official (Original Poster) (Verified Cape)


    Replied on January 1, 2000:


    [This] is a Wazowski. Get it? Because you have only one eye and your entire society is a joke? Also, guess you can change the tag to (Verified Cape) now, Smaug_Mama.


    ? Tin_Mother (Moderator)


    Replied on January 1, 2000:


    Creed_Official, stop it. If you''re going to tag people, use their proper names. I also do not approve of my reference.


    ? GiverofGifts (Verified Cape) (E88)


    Replied on January 1, 2000:


    Fuck you, Creed_Official, what the hell?


    ? bothad (Veteran Member)


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    What the hell? Is this for real? And Creed_Official, I think you misspelled "smug."


    ? Boo-chan


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    Holy shit, the fight was sweet! Onii-chan, can I have tinkertech?


    ? Deepwell5


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    ^ Eww, just eww.


    ? Glitzglam (Verified Cape) (New Wave)


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    Thanks for helping save the civilians, Creed_Official. I''m not sure how I feel about you selling tinkertech though. I think that''s illegal.


    bothad, he didn''t. Smaug is a reference to a dragon from Lord of the Rings, because a lot of people think Dragon is secretly a mod on the site. But Smaug was evil and our scaly overlady is good.


    ? Miraclemic


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    I just looked through your catalogs, but the lightning blaster isn''t there. :(


    Did The_GOAT eat it?


    Also, how is The_GOAT a taggable username already? Is that their actual cape name?


    Well, hero or not, I don''t like The_GOAT. Give me back my lightning blaster! Q_Q


    ? Miss_Militia (Verified Cape) (Protectorate ENE)


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    Indeed, Glitzglam, what Creed_Official is doing is highly illegal. The sale of tinkertech has a great deal of oversight for the safety of both the tinker and consumers. That said, I appreciate The_GOAT for keeping Creed''s more dangerous tech off the civilian market.


    On another note, I do not appreciate being called Minutegal. Please use my proper name. If you joined the Wards, we could have a long conversation about classical literature and your unhealthy fascination with cetaceans.


    ? Fairy_Sister


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    lolol Wazowski. It''s from an Aleph movie about monsters. It''s a great children''s flick actually.


    Tactless though. I hope it doesn''t catch on. (Who am I kidding? This is the internet. It''ll totally catch on).


    ? Nondeceptive


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    Another tinker in Brockton. How many is that? Armsmaster, Kid Win, Squealer, Trainwreck, Leet, and now Creed. Isn''t six in a small city way above the national average?


    ? Miraclemic


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    It is, but this is Brockton. What''d you expect?


    ? Nondeceptive


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    True, true. At least this one is heroic.


    ? Creed_Official (Original Poster) (Verified Cape)


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    I take offense to that, Nondeceptive. I am not a hero.


    bothad, you are an uncultured plebeian. Read more of the classics.


    ? Nondeceptive


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    Alright, sure, bud. If you say so.


    ? Creed_Official (Original Poster) (Verified Cape)


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    Didn''t you hear Glitzglam and Minutegal? Selling of tinkertech is illegal without proper oversight. I also stole Squealer''s missile turret. That''s both larceny and tampering with evidence.


    I also threatened to suplex Wazowski into the pavement if she didn''t help me so you could tack on blackmail and coercion to that list.


    See? Definitely not a hero. Want me to prove it?


    ? Glitzglam (Verified Cape) (New Wave)


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    Why are you so against being labeled a hero? You were pretty light on the threats. I was there. You negotiated with her and told her that the fastest way for her to get to Victor and treat him without interruptions was for her to help us end the fighting.


    ? Creed_Official (Original Poster) (Verified Cape)


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    Stop telling the truth! I''m allergic.


    Besides, being a hero would mean being idle, stagnant. I don''t want that. I''m not opposed to collaborating with heroes, but becoming one? I''d rather masturbate with drain cleaner for lube.


    ? Miss_Militia (Verified Cape) (Protectorate ENE)


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    I''m sorry you feel that way, Creed. I assure you, being a Ward would not hamper your progress. You could have the chance to collaborate with both Kid Win and Armsmaster.


    Please return Squealer''s turret. It can provide valuable intelligence about what she is building.


    ? Creed_Official (Original Poster) (Verified Cape)


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    Not worth it, Minutegal. Being a Ward means answering to PR, the Youth Guard, and civilian committees who frankly wouldn''t understand the simplest of my tech. It''d also mean a limited budget. No sane tinker would choose the Protectorate if he could go indie instead. And, shameless brag, I''m definitely strong enough to stay indie.


    I refuse to return Squealer''s turret. Chronos can tell you all you need to know about the missiles. It''s going to be the backbone of something I''ve wanted to build for a long time.


    Seriously though, if whales mean anything to you, get Mini-V his Lego set. It''ll help him, I promise.


    ? Miss_Militia (Verified Cape) (Protectorate ENE)


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    We''ll consider it.


    ? AllSeeingEye


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    So much to see and do¡­ Appreciate the mention, finally nice to get some credit around here. Why is Dauntless Chronos? If you''re going Greek with the nickname, wouldn''t Spartan or Leonidas work better?


    Say, Creed_Official, sent you a DM so we can talk prices. How ''bout we talk about that bulletproof cape?


    ? Fairy_Sister


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    Okay, all the nicknames are those of capes, right? Who''s AllSeeingEye? Doesn''t that mean he''s a cape? Should he get an (Unverified Cape) tag?


    ? Tin_Mother (Moderator)


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    The tag has been added, though please take Creed_Official''s antics with a large grain of salt.


    End of Page. 1, 2, 3 ... 10 , 11, 12


    (Showing Page 2 of 12)


    ? AllSeeingEye (Unverified Cape)


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    Aww, I''m a girl though.


    ? Whitecollar (Cape Wife)


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    I''m curious about Foxy now too. Is it Rune? All the others were capes at the scene, right?


    ? XxVoid_CowboyxX


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    No, Kid Win is Mini-V and he wasn''t there. Like "little-victory" I guess.


    I bet Foxy is a thinker who''s trying to uncover Creed''s secret identity. Why else would he talk about poking her nose into things? That makes Foxy AllSeeingEye.


    ? Fairy_Sister


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    Wait... did Void just... make sense?


    ? Miraclemic


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    lolol Yeah, I think so. Stopped clock, twice a day, am I right?


    ? AllSeeingEye (Unverified Cape)


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    Who knows? But if I were a thinker, I would be respectful of the unwritten rules.


    ? Creed_Official (Original Poster) (Verified Cape)


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    Cute, Foxy.


    No shield for you. I will pull all the whiskers if you keep digging. As for Chronos¡­ If it happens, it happens¡­


    *Have an infraction.


    ? Tin_Mother (Moderator)


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    No threats, even comedic ones. Take an infraction.


    ? Bagrat (The Guy In The Know) (Veteran Member)


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    Dude, can''t believe I came so late to this thread. I got caught up with work and couldn''t get away.


    [Here] is the thread for discussions about the battle.


    [Here] is the PRT''s official statement.


    Creed_Official, I have so many questions, but I''ll start us off with one: Why is your engine powered by coke?


    ? Creed_Official (Original Poster) (Verified Cape)


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    Because, Bagrat, coke is SUPER. Besides, The_GOAT would greatly disapprove of the powdery kind.


    Also, thanks for the links to the other threads. I''ll edit them into the OP.


    ? Glitzglam (Verified Cape) (New Wave)


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    lol Wait, is the soda engine for real? Hahahahaha, that''s hilarious. Does this count as renewable energy?


    I like your animal facts, but why are they all about ducks?


    ? Bagrat (The Guy In The Know) (Veteran Member)


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    I think so, Laserdream. It''s technically a fuel source we can produce at will. On another note, I really want a Black Rhino. The model looks cool. I wonder how fast it is. Does the cooler double as an engine?


    ? Manpower (Verified Cape) (New Wave)


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    I''m interested in those hover boots. They''re only available for heroes for anyone who can''t see them.


    It''s tiresome being the only person in the family who can''t fly.


    ? Creed_Official (Original Poster) (Verified Cape)


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    Glitzglam, because ducks are cool. [Here] have another picture of a duck.


    ? Point_Me_ _The_Sky (Verified Cape) (New Wave)


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    Woah, nice to meet a new hero!


    ? Creed_Official (Original Poster) (Verified Cape)


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    Collateral_Damage_Barbie I will fight you.


    *What did I just say about threats? Have another infraction.


    ? Point_Me_ _The_Sky (Verified Cape) (New Wave)


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    What''d I do? And stop calling me that!


    ? Bagrat (The Guy In The Know) (Veteran Member)


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    Point_Me_ _The_Sky, apparently, he hates being called a hero. He''s made it clear that he''s an independent mercenary.


    ? Creed_Official (Original Poster) (Verified Cape)


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    I am an independent. While I sell to heroes, I do so at my discretion and no one else''s. Except The_GOAT. The GOAT is the greatest of all time. It was by their aid that the Dung Beetle ascended and conquered the sun. Their glory shall envelop the earth in a tide of red, felling gods and men alike and raising new titans in their place.


    Serious Plug: I value my neutrality and consider my freedom to be the first and greatest virtue. Anyone who attempts to force my recruitment, regardless of faction or moral alignment, will be treated as an enemy and met with all appropriate force.


    ? Point_Me_ _The_Sky (Verified Cape) (New Wave)


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    Yeesh, fine. You''re an indie. Happy?


    ? Creed_Official (Original Poster) (Verified Cape)


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    No, but judging by my DMs, I''m about to be. $$$$


    ? Nondeceptive


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    What''s Enchanted Honey? Creed_Official


    ? Creed_Official (Original Poster) (Verified Cape)


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    Amazingly sweet honey with hundredfold the sugar content of natural honey. Guaranteed to keep you awake and active. Perfectly safe.


    ? Nondeceptive


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    Wow, umm¡­ Do you know your specialization?


    ? Creed_Official (Original Poster) (Verified Cape)


    Replied on October 16, 2010:


    Who knows? Free bottle of honey to the person who can guess. Foxy is disqualified. Thinkers can go rot in whisker-pulling Hell.


    End of Page. 1, 2, 3, 4 ... 10 , 11, 12


    Author''s Note


    Lisa is really fun to write. Her power is basically plot-convenient clairvoyance so I can have her come to whatever conclusion I want. I''m sure you''ve noticed that her conclusions aren''t completely correct. She''s a sleuth, not a prophet. She''s mostly right but came to several incorrect conclusions.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 2.11 Wave

    2.11 Wave


    2010, October 17: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    Being a tinker was exhausting. Shakers, brutes, or any other cape got to relax after a battle, but that was a luxury denied to tinkers.


    We had to examine everything we used for flaws or damages, take stock of any loot we acquired, and consider future engagements to develop countermeasures to likely threats. Granted, the first wasn''t relevant to me at this time, my suit was not damaged in the least, but I decided to go through the process as though my suit had been torn in half, better to be meticulous now than regret it later. I then went back to my cape archives and added my own observations.


    Sunday morning flew by. By the time I woke up and returned from my jog, my inbox was filled with requests and questions concerning my tech. Unsurprisingly, the shield module was the most sought after item, with starting offers ranging from eighty to a hundred thousand dollars. I spent an hour sorting through potential clients and answering some questions regarding my tech''s capabilities; or at least, the capabilities of the more limited versions I was selling.


    After a short stint on PHO, I went out to my lab and spent a few hours refining the ship''s designs. I hoped that I would be able to carry the designs onward even after the One Piece specialization had passed. After all, these blueprints weren''t necessarily tinkertech, just craftsmanship at the highest echelons of mortal ability. There wasn''t anything outright impossible about my designs for the Gullrest.


    I also took some time to examine Squealer''s turret I''d stolen yesterday. It had broken off at the axle and the firing mechanism was still largely usable. The small piece I''d stolen weighed nearly two hundred pounds, straddling the limit of what I could lift with Psychic.


    It was surprisingly well made, for Squealer-tech. There was a robustness about the tech that I hadn''t expected of tinkertech; it could likely stand up to some serious abuse. I wondered if that was a result of Squealer''s power compensating for her general¡­ Squealer-ness¡­ or a result of her being a vehicles tinker. Either way, it was sturdily built, so much so that I could conceivably just integrate it onto a cannon of my own if I wanted to. I really didn''t want to though.


    It looked terrible, like it belonged in a Mad Max flick. Despite its functional state, I couldn''t imagine dragging it into battle against Lung. Was I being a diva about my appearance? Yes. Would I use this? No.


    Instead, I took note of some of its more robust design elements then cut it down with a focused torch to recycle. If I ever needed a missile turret, I''d build one that didn''t look like it came out of Megatron''s asshole. That''s what a Transformer''s anus was, right? A waste ejection chute?


    Squealer''s turret did give me the excuse to work on the final series of inventions I wanted to build from the One Piece tech tree. I was sorely lacking powerful ranged options. Thunder Wave was great, but against the likes of Lung, Fenja, or Menja, it''d be a nuisance at best. It had proven to be lacking even against Trainwreck.


    Psychic, despite my rapid improvements, was ultimately more of a utility skill at the moment. Yes, an alakazam could crush Hookwolf like tinfoil before chucking him past the horizon. I wasn''t an alakazam.


    When all was said and done, I had a great deal of defenses, but not enough cards up my sleeves that can dish out heavy damage.


    My answer came from the flashiest character in One Piece, the Pirate King''s cabin boy, Buggy.


    I wanted Buggy Balls and Muggy Balls, explosives that could flatten an entire row of wooden buildings or grievously injure the awakened zoan guards of Impel Down.


    Buggy was a joke compared to the heavy hitters of One Piece, but One Piece was also a world where Alvida, the definition of a first arc fodder villain, survived being punched clear across the horizon, about five kilometers for the uninitiated, and was healthy enough to find and eat a devil fruit before looking for a rematch at Loguetown.


    Put Buggy next to the vast majority of capes and he''d stack up quite nicely. Whatever else there is to be said of him, he was one of the better pyrotechnics experts of the setting. I told SAINT to rouse me at lunch and allowed myself to sink deep into a tinker fugue.


    X


    I emerged from my fugue to find an arrangement of six red balls. Three were the size of basketballs and filled to bursting with a special explosive that could level a building. Or several if fired at the end of a cannon. The other three were the size of large marbles. I thought about hiding a few in my hover boots like Buggy did, but reconsidered. I had a better delivery method in mind.


    After lunch, I was running through a series of boxing drills SAINT found for me when I received a call from Faultline. Huffing and puffing and drenched with sweat, I laid down on the cool cement and took the call.


    "Hello, Faultline, welcome back to Brockton Bay," I gasped out. SAINT soaked a towel and dropped it on my head. I gave him a thumbs up in thanks.


    "Thank you, is this a good time? You sound winded."


    "Just got done with a workout, don''t mind me."


    "I see. In that case, I will get straight to the point. I have eight designer bags waiting in my club. Accord would like them by the end of the week. Is this doable?"


    "Yes, that''s manageable. I''m sure PHO will be disappointed to find my client for the week has already been set."


    "Indeed, I saw the footage of yesterday''s bout. I suppose congratulations are in order."


    "You don''t sound entirely happy."


    "The time when you need my assistance is rapidly coming to an end," she admitted. "I can recognize that much."


    "If it means anything, you and any of your referrals get priority. Besides, I like you guys. I''d like to think we''re friends."


    "Yes, that does sound nice, though I do make a habit of avoiding personal attachments when it comes to professional relationships."


    "Then let''s stop making this about business. I wouldn''t mind hanging out at the Palanquin once in a while," I said. "Where else can I get underage booze?"


    She let out a snorting laugh. "Very well, though I suspect you could find ways to acquire some liquor without me if you wanted to develop a habit. You are welcome at the Palanquin anytime, Creed."


    "Was that all? I assumed you''d have something to say about yesterday''s events."


    She took a moment to gather her thoughts. "You were too flashy, intentionally drawing attention to yourself. It''s not my preference, but I don''t doubt that you accomplished what you set out to do. Personal preferences aside, you conducted yourself adequately."


    "Thanks," I said honestly. "Any advice from a veteran to a rookie?"


    "I hope you''re not calling me old," she said with a jocular edge.


    "You? Never. I''m sure you''re the vision of youthful vigor."


    "Hah, smooth. I noticed that your ranged options are limited. Do you have any other ranged attacks besides your electricity and telekinesis? They seem to be fine against normal opponents, but I don''t think they''ll be much good against some of the more durable threats in this city.


    I stood and wiped myself off with a towel. "I will in a few days. I''m working on something I can best describe as ''rated for Lung.''"


    "That is¡­ worrying. Good, but worrying."


    "Heh, praise me more, Faultline-senpai~"


    "Please don''t ever say that again," she deadpanned.


    "Yeah, that made me cringe too. Anything else?"


    "Krieg." That one name made me wince.


    "Yeah, I know I''m terrible at boxing. I''m getting better."


    "You''re hardly the worst I''ve ever seen," she hummed. "I''m not talking about your performance. I''m talking about why you felt it was appropriate to engage him at close range if you could have choked him out in the first place."


    I paused. "For¡­ my image?"


    "You sound unsure."


    "You''re right. I could have strangled him immediately, but acted impulsively anyway. I want to say it''s because I wanted to make myself look more impressive later by building up hype, but that''s not true. I wasn''t thinking about that at all. I think I lost track of all the tools I had at my disposal. I have a lot of options that I''m spoiled for choice sometimes."


    "It''s good that you know that. Do you think removing Krieg immediately would have harmed your objectives?"


    "No, Othala would have been around to command the Empire grunts intro retreat regardless of when I sent him to la-la land."


    "It worked out this time, but impulsive actions can compromise your objectives, Creed. It''s one thing to cultivate a flair for dramatics, another matter to lose yourself to the mask. Try to plan out your decisions, the steps you need to take to reach your objectives. You have the luxury of cloaking to escape when things get rough. There''s nothing wrong with disengaging and scoping out the battlefield before reengaging with a better plan in mind. I suspect you did so in that battle, am I wrong?"


    "No, you''re right. I hid up on a rooftop and took a breather to figure out how I wanted to end the battle," I said. It felt weird to get lectured like this by a woman who was technically younger than me, but she was the expert and it was sound advice.


    "Then you have the luxury of adjusting your plans on the fly where most capes are forced to simply go with their gut instinct. Try not to sacrifice efficiency for impulsivity or showmanship; you may come to regret it."


    "Noted, thank you, Faultline."


    "No problem."


    I changed the subject. "How''re you all liking your bags?"


    "They work as promised." I could hear her smile behind the call. "We''ve taken to carrying first-aid kits, survival gear, and rations along with heavier weapons to augment our standard powers."


    I nodded. "If you don''t have to worry about weight, there''s no reason to not have them."


    "Precisely. Labyrinth has yet to have need of the shield, but judging by yesterday''s footage, she''s in good hands. She would like to express her gratitude. I now better understand its worth, and I think you do as well. She has used the invisibility function several times; it made our last mission go smoothly."


    "Excellent, always good to hear you''re happy with my products. As great as my shield is, if she never needs it, that alone is cause for celebration."


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    "Indeed. When should I expect you?"


    "Tonight at ten."


    "That''s fine. We''ll see you then."


    X


    2010, October 18: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    School was abuzz with talks about Saturday''s battle. Even in math class, kids whispered about different details or even things they''d read on PHO, to Mr. Kalil''s increasing annoyance. The most popular subject of discussion was of course, me.


    Or rather, whether what I''d done was right. The heroes had every cape in the Merchant roster dead to rights. They had Kaiser''s right hand, his most skilled all-rounder, and the only villainous healer in the Bay ready to arrest. Had Creed, had I not intervened, Brockton Bay could have been down one of its three major gangs and at least three capes of the Empire. It wasn''t surprising then that so many condemned my actions. That was in fact the exact tone taken by the PRT public statement.


    The PHO thread discussing the battle had to be muted four times over the weekend until Alathea, the original Brockton Bay moderator, finally threw her hands up in the air and permanently locked down the thread. My own introductory thread was undergoing the same thing from the spillover, with what started as mostly lighthearted joking becoming a giant flame war between those who supported my actions and those who called me a villain.


    Some were saying that the Empire had more resources to throw at the battle and that it was a good thing for me to stop the whole affair, even if it meant letting the capes go. They drew on my original argument, that a gang war would erupt between the ABB and E88. Most of this crowd seemed to be older; they were the ones who remembered the rampant violence of the Teeth way back when the Butcher was the dominant cape in the city. Things could get far, far uglier than the status quo, they said, and it was a good thing that I acted as a mediator.


    Others claimed, not incorrectly, that those were hypotheticals. They said that I forced the heroes to release tangible gains in the fight against the gangs because I was too afraid of what might happen. They called me a coward. Most of this crowd were younger, those who were passionate and ready for a change, even if it meant inciting more violence in the short term.


    Still others didn''t care, pointing out that I was an independent mercenary and had no obligation to help the heroes shut down the gangs. They were largely uninterested in the fight itself and focused their speculations on my tech and just who The GOAT could be. The general consensus seemed to be that I was too advanced to be a new cape, just new to the town, and that I had out of town contacts.


    Unsurprisingly, my friend circle in particular was not spared from this discussion.


    "Creed could do so much in the Wards," Dean pointed out. "He said the Wards would limit him, but those limitations exist for people''s safety, not just PR. Imagine if PRT troopers had access to his shielding technology. Or what if the troopers had those hover boots? What would response rates look like then?"


    "Maybe," Vicky said, "my aunt''s pretty conflicted about him. Crystal says he seemed nice enough."


    "He''s got a point though," Amy spoke up. It was atypical of the normally quiet girl, enough so that she drew attention from even the tables surrounding us. I wasn''t sure if she spoke up because she wanted to side with her sister, disagreed with Dean simply because he was Dean, or felt invested in the cape persona she''d helped create, but her support was appreciated. "He wouldn''t have been able to intervene to save lives in that battle if he''d been a Ward. You make it sound like the restrictions placed on Wards are all benign, but they seriously hamper the impact capes can have. If I joined the Wards, I wouldn''t be able to donate as much of my time to the hospital because as a Ward, I''d be bound by laws governing underage employment."


    "Aren''t you underage anyway?" Stephane sounded confused. "It''s not like you''re magically older because you''re New Wave and not a Ward, right?"


    "Yes, but that''s not what I mean," she explained. "As a Ward, I''d be employed by the state, the government. Wards receive wages and stipends, insurance, training, et cetera. Those are all nice, but they come with strings attached. Because I''d be an employee of the state in a parahuman capacity, any volunteer hours I put in wouldn''t be volunteer hours; they would be a part of my cape activity as a Ward, my job in other words. Right now, I can sleep at the hospital and heal all night if I want to." She gamely ignored Vicky''s concerned frown. "I don''t do it often, but I could. As a Ward, my hours would be much more restricted."


    "We''re not talking about that though," Dean argued. "We''re talking about Creed as a tinker. If he had enough control to force the gangs apart, he had enough control to make the arrests stick. If he supported the heroes completely, they could have put them all under arrest."


    "Again, if he were a Ward, he wouldn''t have even been allowed into that fight in the first place."


    "Amy''s right, Dean," Carlos said. As the leader of the Wards, I was mildly surprised to hear him support that argument. Then again, perhaps he was just playing devil''s advocate. They probably didn''t want to be seen to be too in support of the Wards. "Wards are kept out of the fighting. Still, even if he doesn''t join the Wards, I hope he transitions more into being an indie hero like New Wave instead of whatever he is. He could do a lot for the heroes."


    "Isn''t he selling his tech online?" Dennis said. "Man, I want those hover boots."


    "Yeah, I saw the catalogs," Chelsea chirped. "I didn''t see the boots though."


    "Aww man, he''s not selling the boots?"


    "He is," Vicky said. "They''re in the heroic version of the catalog. See?" She held out a saved PDF file of the catalog. "I got to see the full thing."


    The two made noises of appreciation as they leaned over Vicky''s phone. I didn''t know if Dennis had already seen the heroic catalog as Clockblocker but if he had, he was a great actor. He winced. "Oof, damn. The starting price for the boots is thirty thousand dollars? Who can afford that?"


    "The shield-cape thingy starts at forty-five grand," Vicky said dryly. "He''s definitely not going to be hurting for money."


    "I think he might be looking to sell to heroic teams, not individuals," Steph pointed out. "Unless they''re corporate or the PRT, I don''t think anyone can just casually afford that much."


    "See? Which is why he belongs in the Wards," Dean insisted. "He could distribute his tech to the heroes and troopers who can best use them."


    "How would he get compensated then? I mean, if this is what prices look like for tinkertech, I can''t imagine anyone being happy with just a basic stipend."


    "He''d get mentorship from Armsmaster. Besides, doing the right thing shouldn''t be about money."


    I didn''t want that to stand, not with Amy reluctantly nodding. "That''s a nice sentiment, Dean. I really wish we lived in a world where that was possible, but it''s also pure wishful thinking."


    He frowned. "It''s only wishful thinking until we put words to action."


    "Then should doctors not get compensated?" I asked rhetorically. "Or if you think using doctors as an example is unfair, what about Uppercrust? He''s a tinker from New York who leads the Elite cell there. He''s legally a villain."


    "Yes, he should join the Protectorate where he can do more good."


    "Really? I disagree. I think he does more good as a villain than he could as a hero. Now, bear in mind that Uppercrust as a hero is a scenario that never happened so we''re just arguing hypotheticals, but hear me out. Uppercrust has heroic clients. Hell, he built the shield system that defends the Rig. It''s not as though he doesn''t support heroes despite being legally defined as a villain."


    "He could do more as a hero though. Why does he need to be a villain?"


    "Here''s a different question for you then. In a city with Legend, the fastest flyer and one of the most offensively powerful capes in the world, why is someone so high-value still free? His criminal record isn''t up for debate after all. Legend could arrest him any time. He might have to break a few buildings, but if you''re right and he could do more good for the world as a hero, a broken building or two is nothing, right? Why is he free? Legend isn''t an idiot. The New York PRT director isn''t an idiot. So¡­ why?"


    He was silent so I answered my own question. "Because he does what I think Creed wanted to do here: He stabilizes New York''s criminal underworld. I did a lot of research on this for a project last year," I lied through my teeth. "See? New York isn''t one of the safest cities in the country because of Legend, at least not completely. New York is safe because the heroes and villains have an understanding. Think about it. New York has the Teeth, a literally unkillable A-class threat in the Butcher, the Adepts, Lost Garden, the Elite, and independent villains like March. On paper, it sounds like Brockton, but somehow with more villains. And New York is mostly fine.


    "New York is mostly fine because Uppercrust and Epoch, the leader of the Adepts, work together with the Protectorate to suppress the Teeth and any other murderous psychos that crop up. Villain doesn''t mean psychopath; it means someone who doesn''t'' obey the law. Conflating the two only pressures the milder villains into more and more dangerous crimes."


    "And you think they can''t do that as part of the Protectorate?" By this point, I''d grabbed the attention of nearby tables. Unfortunate, but I was in too deep to pull out now.


    "They can''t," I confirmed. "The Protectorate answers to laws and the public. Yes, technically, Legend is the biggest gun there is, but deterrence isn''t about having the biggest gun; it''s about making the most credible threat. Legend isn''t going to kill you for being a serial rapist or mass murderer. Uppercrust? He would, because people like that destabilize the city and keep him from making money. He would, because ultimately, he doesn''t feel the obligation to obey the law."


    "You''re advocating for murder, Bryce! How is that a good thing?"


    "Okay, I admit that''s an extreme example, but softer threats are the same. The Protectorate need PRT approval for a major raid on a gang. They need to operate on set patrol schedules and routes. They are predictable. The Elite are not. Uppercrust, as far as anyone can tell, hasn''t killed anyone in years, if ever. But everyone in New York understands that he''s a major player in the underworld. No villain wants to push too hard in his territory and because he''s focused on making money, his section of New York is largely peaceful with one of the lowest crime rates in the country."


    "So you think that''s what Creed''s going for? A villainous lawbringer?" Victoria said, skeptical. "Why hasn''t he taken territory then?"


    "I think he wants to preserve the status quo because, rightly or wrongly, he really believes that arresting the Merchants would cause a gang war between the two biggest gangs in the city."


    "You''re making him out to be some mastermind," Dean said sullenly.


    I laughed. "Sorry, Dean, I don''t mean to rag on you. I don''t think he''s a mastermind either. I mean, have you seen PHO? A bunch of people are saying that taking out the Merchants would be no different than inviting the Teeth back into the city. It doesn''t take some kind of genius to worry about that."


    "Point. You saw the fight too?"


    "Yeah," I decided to regurgitate Faultline''s main criticism of me so I didn''t seem to favor him too much. "And he got his ass beat by Krieg."


    "His form could be better," Carlos commented. "I don''t think he''s been boxing for long."


    "Right. And at the end of the battle, he basically Force-chokes Krieg. Why didn''t he do it earlier? I don''t think he was thinking. Or, maybe he was arrogant enough to think he could fight Krieg in hand to hand. Or he trusts too much in his shield. My point is, he could have removed Krieg from the battle immediately, but didn''t."


    Charlotte grinned as she stole one of my tater tots and popped it into her mouth. "Huh, you''re a pretty big cape nerd, huh, Bryce?"


    I shrugged. "What can I say? I find them fascinating."


    The rest of lunch passed without any real resolution to our debate.


    Dean seemed frustrated with me because I disagreed with him, though he was gentlemanly enough to not truly pick a fight over the matter. Amy seemed thoughtful. Truthfully, so was I: I''d always liked to imagine that I was a person unmoved by public opinion, but seeing so many people disagree with my actions, I wasn''t entirely unaffected.


    I started to question my actions. Would it have been better to let the Merchants get arrested? That would have left me free to loot Squealer''s garage. Shouldn''t the gang war be handled as quickly as possible, like a band aid being ripped off? Was it wishful thinking on my part to think I could avoid the gang war if I wanted to make Brockton Bay a better place? I''d initially done so because I wanted to wait until I was stronger, until I was the biggest damn gorilla in the room, but how long would that take? When would I feel comfortable kicking the hornet''s nest if not now?


    I didn''t know. All I knew was that I had to remain resolute. It was too late to go back and undo my actions.


    X


    I snuck into my lab after dinner and made two of Accord''s bags. As Faultline said, they were exquisite in craftsmanship. Even a fashion-blind idiot like me could appreciate their artistry. They would not have gone amiss on walkways in Paris but still held the element of functionality so critical for a cape.


    Each bag was uniquely designed. Even without the portraits provided, I would have had no trouble matching each bag to their future owners.


    Citrine''s was a handbag with a shoulder strap in the lightest tan leather. A line of orange jewels, her namesake citrines, decorated the outer face of the bag, dripping like dewdrops and catching the light in a way that would no doubt highlight her stunning dress and curves.


    By contrast, Othello''s were a series of six small pouches meant to be hidden inside his suit jacket. They blended perfectly with the black fabric, perfect for concealing weapons or a day planner.


    I wondered what Sabah would make of their designs and took pictures to show her. Not immediately, but one day.


    Author''s Note


    Nothing to say so have a random animal fact: Pandas are not "wildlife rescue" or "conservationist" missions. They physically cannot be released back into the wild because they will all starve to death. Why? Well¡­


    So, you know that bamboo is grass, right? Well, grass kind of¡­ clone themselves. It''s why one blade of grass is linked to lots of other blades of grass by an underground network of roots. This isn''t a big issue for your lawn, actually makes mowing much easier since they all grow at the same rate, but it''s got huge implications for bamboo forests as an ecological system.


    Basically, when a bamboo patch (''cause they''re all one plant) lives out its life cycle, it withers and dies. But, the entire fucking forest will die. And this is cyclical, as predictable as the New Year.


    That means that pandas, creatures that for some ungodly reason only eat bamboo, will very quickly run out of things to eat. In the days of yore, it wasn''t a big issue because China had massive tracts of land dominated by bamboo forests. When one patch died, pandas just migrated to another. This is much harder now.


    So no, pandas will never be released into the wild in any real numbers. No, they''ll never be sustainable. China''s just milking millions off them for the cuteness factor, all the while actual keystone species die out because they''re not as fluffy.


    Fuck. Pandas.


    You know what the real kicker is? THEY CAN DIGEST OTHER FOODS. They don''t need to eat exclusively bamboo, but they do because they''re fucking retards. Seriously, if God let me push the Alt-F4 on one species, it''d be pandas.


    Rant over.


    This has been Fabled Webs'' animal facts. Have a pleasant morning.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 2.12 Wave

    2.12 Wave


    2010, October 19: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    It wasn''t until we were headed for the lockers after PE that I got the chance to chat with Eric. I jogged up to him and tapped him on the shoulder.


    "Yo."


    "Oh, hey, Bryce. How''s it going?"


    "Pretty good. You know how you said you wanted to hang out sometime? You have some free time to go to the arcade today?"


    He looked surprised at that but smiled. "You know what? Yeah, sure. I could use the break. Mind if Grace comes too?"


    "Sure, why not?"


    X


    "Hey Dean," I called to him between classes. He walked over, curious. I wasn''t the type to call people out outside of lunch. "Hey man, I wanted to apologize for being a bit harsh on you yesterday. I still don''t think Creed was wrong, but I didn''t mean to start a debate over it at lunch."


    He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "Don''t apologize. There''s nothing wrong with disagreeing and you''re right, we''re just talking about hypotheticals. We don''t know what Creed could do so it''s all just a bunch of what-ifs." We started walking in the same direction, him to AP US government and me to generic world issues. That was a fascinating little shift from my past life. At my age, I''d taken world history but that was almost entirely gone now in favor of more contemporary affairs. "I talked to my dad, you know."


    "Hmm?"


    "About Creed and Uppercrust. He''s big in the real estate business and has some properties in New York," he mentioned casually, as if being the son of a real estate mogul was nothing. To him, it was; it was what I both liked and hated about him. On one hand, he genuinely didn''t care about his affluence and so didn''t feel he was entitled to anything. On the other hand, he lacked self-awareness; since he didn''t care, he assumed his views weren''t influenced by his background and that they were entirely logical, thus should be shared by any rational person.


    I quirked an eyebrow. "Yeah? What''d he say?"


    "You were right about Uppercrust being a stabilizing influence on the gangs." He held out a hand before I could say "I told you so." "But! That''s a very small part of the picture, Bryce. Uppercrust is only one part of the Elite. People like Bastard Son are his peers and they''re nowhere near as benign."


    "Point. Counterpoint: Creed works alone as far as we know and so he should be treated as an individual. The organizational problems of the Elite aren''t applicable to him. The only one whose career he parallels is Uppercrust. In fact, the only associate Creed has that we know of is The GOAT, who seems far more heroically inclined than Creed himself."


    "Maybe that''s true, but even Uppercrust isn''t bloodless. You were right; data says he''s a stabilizing influence now, but how about when he was starting out like Creed is now? He had to do something to prove he could keep the peace. People don''t mess with him now because they''ve already seen what he can do. What will Creed have to do to get that kind of credibility?''


    I paused. That¡­ was an uncomfortably salient argument. My actions, hopefully, proved I could look at the bigger picture. At the very least, it showed I could analyze a battlefield, discern relationships and vulnerabilities, and manipulate others into working with me. But while those were all well and good, I hadn''t shown my willingness to follow through on a threat. I hadn''t made a threat at all.


    Would Kaiser test me next? Would Lung? Could I expect a response from Coil? I didn''t know and truthfully, the possibility that I might have to kill someone to make my point scared me a little. There would come a day when I became too powerful to oppose, but until then¡­?


    "I don''t know," I finally answered Dean. "You have some good points. Maybe he''ll just become a merchant kingpin by selling his tinkertech. Maybe he''ll make his point by hunting down Hookwolf and making sure he actually makes it to the Birdcage this time. I don''t know, Dean, I''m still not sure how it''ll work out for Creed, but I can only hope he succeeds."


    He sighed and offered me a wan smile. "You and me both, Bryce."


    Thinking about it, Dean likely saw me as a particularly insightful freshman, with perhaps a bit too much interest in capes, who was a bit too invested in Creed. I wanted to appear reconciliatory, not just because he was a genuinely nice guy and I could see the points he made as valid, but because I was afraid he suspected me, if not of being Creed, then of being related to him.


    We soon split off to class, though nothing of note happened during the school day.


    I spent the rest of school designing my long-ranged options, the Walker pistols used by the Big Mom pirates. I planned to convert the pistols looted from the Merchant lab into their far deadlier variants. These, I swore, would never go into circulation, for heroes or otherwise.


    They were a special type of pistol designed by the Charlotte family specifically to pierce through the hardened dermal armor of the Vinsmoke family. In other words, despite being only .36 calibers, they were fully armor piercing, enough to make Reiju bleed and she was no pushover. Add in Buggy''s explosives expertise miniaturized into bullets and I had something truly impressive.


    That was an interesting quirk of my powers. Rather than make bullets out of Buggy''s explosives, I had been forced to make bombs and cannonballs. It was only after having made the finished products that I could attempt to modify them. It was the same with Labyrinth''s shawl and my suit.


    X


    I had to say, I had a lot more fun hanging out with Eric and Grace than I''d expected. I asked him out to fulfill a social obligation, but he was good company. They were energetic in that way only kids could be; had I gone out with any couple in my twenties, I would have felt rightly like a third wheel. We went to the same arcade that I visited with the Wards before the homecoming game.


    "Dude, why are you so good at whack-a-mole?" Eric complained as I racked up the high score.


    ''Because I''m cheating with Psychic.'' Instead, I grinned genially. "Who knows? Maybe I''m the avatar of a god the mole-people offended in a past life."


    "He''s a cape," Grace chimed in. I froze, missing a mole. "His power is being good at games."


    "I''ve lost every other game."


    "That''s your cover. You''re trying to throw us off your trail."


    "Your logic is flawless and I find myself in awe," I said dryly.


    "As you should be." She puffed out her chest with faux arrogance. My turn came to an end and I handed the mallet to Eric. "Come on, boyfriend, show him how it''s done!"


    "I don''t think I can top double nines, Grace."


    "Fine, I expect you to win me a plushy though. Some traditions must be respected after all."


    "Is this a date? Should I leave?" I said, wagging my eyebrows.


    "Hmm, nah, maybe if he''s lucky," she said coyly.


    I could see a faint blush on Eric''s face. "Come on guys, Do you need to do this?"


    "Yes," we replied in unison.


    "I''m a guy. As the only guy friend here, I find it my solemn, divinely ordained duty to make fun of your love life."


    "No duty here," Grace sang. "I just think you''re cute when you blush."


    That just made him flush harder. Despite what he said, he did drop by the claw machine on our way out. He failed a few times but stuck to it with the dogged determination of a boy trying to impress a girl. I eventually took pity on him and held the flimsy claws closed with Magnet Rise. Grace squealed happily over some plush watermelon with googly eyes and I counted my wingmanship a success.


    After that, they ended up dragging me to their favorite comic book shop, something Eric seemed a tad nervous about sharing at first until I told him about the manga and anime I used to enjoy in my past life. I even found some of them on the shelves, though they were either Earth-Aleph imports or had weird plot twists that made them a little different from what I remembered.


    X


    2010, October 22: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    Between school, tutoring Matt, hanging out with Eric and Grace, committing the science of lineage factors to memory, and working on Accord''s expanded bags, I had a pretty busy week. It wasn''t until Friday after school that I finally got around to making a Walker pistol of my own. I had the design ready for days, but I just hadn''t been able to find the free time.


    I tried to stick to the old-timey feel of the original used by Charlotte Pudding. Like hers, it had a varnished walnut grip that attached to a closed revolving chamber. Six shots to be classic, and because I couldn''t make the chamber any bigger without making it look ridiculous in my hands. All metal components from the frame to the firing pin were made either of seastone or durable wapometal, whichever was more appropriate for the function. The trigger guard and the underside of the pistol were coated in gleaming brass for decoration, with golden flames trailing the frame.


    All told, it looked like something an actor would use as a prop if he were to play the role of a marauding pirate from the eighteen hundreds. It wasn''t period-accurate by any means, but it had the same general aesthetic. I thought it''d go well with the admiral-esque motif of my GES.


    The tinkertech portion was a unique combination of metallurgy and mechanical engineering that made up the firing pin, trigger, spring, and barrel. It granted extreme penetrating power to whatever projectile was fired from it.


    Normally, a barrel as short as this Walker would never be rifled. Even if it were, it''d never be able to put enough torque on the bullet to matter. My power decided physics could go die in a fire. Not only did the Walker pistol fire rounds equivalent to sniper bullets, it also compensated for the recoil damn near perfectly, so much so that the kickback was comparable to a regular .22 caliber handgun.


    I emerged from my fugue and examined the finished pistol, twelve muggy ball .36 caliber bullets, and speed loader. I''d have to arrange for some regular bullets if I didn''t want to blow up a small building with every shot, but I felt having a speed loader filled with the flashy clown specials was a smart idea.


    I didn''t just make the gun look like a period-drama prop out of some misplaced sense of homage to Charlotte Pudding. She was a bitch.


    Simply put, the gun needed to look harmless. No gun would ever truly "look harmless," but barring that, I needed it to look like I''d only picked it up to fit my weird sentai-admiral-biker aesthetic, not because I truly intended to use it. I doubted the appearance would fool most veteran capes or gang members, but like with everything else about cape life, it was the optics presented to the general public that mattered.


    ''I keep telling Amy I don''t want to deal with the PRT''s PR guys, but I''ve basically become my own image consultant, huh?'' I thought with a chuckle.


    I''d agonized over whether or not I should keep it in a hammerspace pouch on my thigh or design an external holster to keep it on display. Ultimately, I was a craftsman and wanted my art on display so that was the last thing I made during the One Piece specialization: a holster for my left hip.


    Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    All things considered, I was reasonably happy with the way I''d spent my specialization. Could I have done more? Definitely. But in the end, I lacked the resources and supply network to truly upscale my designs.


    Even without an industrial manufacturing capacity, I''d set the foundations for future works by learning about lineage factors, forging wapometal, and crafting pyrobloin and seastone. I also learned to weave the special Germa fibers, reinvented alternative fuel engines, created highly volatile munitions, and fashioned hover boots, shield modules, and stealth suits. Most of all, I''d made for myself a scale model of the Thousand Sunny that now sat in its pride of place at the center of my lab.


    I went to sleep that night with a satisfied smile, eager to see what the next specialization would entail.


    X


    2010, October 23: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    I was a little better prepared for the onslaught of ideas that came with a shifting specialization this time.


    I saw skates, skates of every design and type. Four wheelers, two wheelers, ones with wheels like tank treads, and even some with wheels that looked more like saw teeth. I even found one with wheels made of.. coiled, thornlike whips¡­ that could unfurl for lashing kicks¡­?


    They were motorized inline skates, with speed proportional to the leg strength of the wearer. They could reach speeds that broke the sound barrier, manipulate vibrations and friction to generate heat shimmers, and even run on the cloud trails of fighter jets. I didn''t know roller blades could be so versatile¡­


    Of all the variant designs running through my head, it was the regalia, the proof of kingship, that stood out to me. I only knew of one fictional series about sci-fi skates: Air Gear.


    These skates, called air-trecks, or ATs in the series, took valid scientific principles and amplified them to the extreme for feats that were honestly hilariously unrealistic. In other words, par for the course as far as manga went.


    They differed a great deal in appearance, some weren''t even skates, but they all had three components in common: motorized wheels, a hydraulic cushioning system to help the wearer survive such ridiculous impacts, and a unique power injection system that relied on momentum to generate stupid amounts of energy. Some had braking systems, but most wearers, called storm riders, braked by spinning in place to bleed momentum.


    As before, I decided to take SAINT with me and go on a jog to think about the possibilities.


    Unlike One Piece, Air Gear took place in modern Japan so much of its tech base was familiar. Fantastical ideas such as tele-snails were replaced with standard phones and pagers. It made the scope of Air Gear''s tech base much narrower than that of One Piece. That wasn''t good, but it wasn''t bad either. If the Pok¨¦mon and One Piece tech trees were massive, sprawling oaks with countless branches and possibilities, the Air Gear tree was significantly more focused, a sky-high sequoia rather than a branching oak.


    The fiction setting being modern Japan also meant that I could repair any mundane tech to superlative, if mundane, quality. I remembered enjoying the manga. There was that time Kururu, the Pledge Queen, took over the systems of an entire aircraft carrier with some pseudo-scientific bullshit that amounted to "vibration control, but fuck logic."


    And¡­ There it was. Modern shipbuilding. I knew how to tear apart a fucking aircraft carrier screw by screw. It was honestly a fascinating subject, one I set aside so I could compare it with the shipbuilding principles pioneered by Iceburg and Franky. I''d blend the best of both worlds later.


    Like before, I decided to divide my tech tree into things I needed, things I wanted, and things I wouldn''t be touching with a ten foot pole. The first thing I absolutely had to have from this tree wasn''t a basic AT. While my hover boots were slower in every way, I could do without them for the moment. No, what I wanted was the Rumble Regalia: Ramjet. To be specific, I didn''t need the regalia itself to skate on, as hilarious as it would be to show up to the next cape fight with two jet engines strapped to my feet; I wanted it to empower my Franky model soda engine to new heights.


    The Ramjet was named after jet turbines because it worked according to the same basic principle. It sucked in air, compressed it to high temperature and pressure, and converted it into a supercritical fluid to use as fuel. The soda engine used the carbonation and sugar content of cola to achieve a comparable effect, but with more fantasy bullshit because One Piece. I felt giddy just thinking about trying to fuel it with supercritical cola.


    The second must-have was a biotinkering project.


    The mad scientists of Air Gear tried to make genetically engineered children capable of using ATs to their full potential. Because the goal was to create a human body designed for movement in zero gravity conditions, these children were called gravity children. The project was, as far as I could recall, perhaps the tamest and most user-friendly illegal genetic experimentation program in any fictional setting.


    Gravity children looked largely the same as normal humans, discounting the wacky hair colors of your generic manga world, and weren''t too strong compared to other bioengineered experiments in fiction such as Marvel''s Captain America, Halo''s Master Chief, or Prototype''s Blacklight.


    They weren''t tailor-made for combat, but movement. They had an in-built biomass gyroscope, vastly improved and reconfigured eyes, enhanced proprioception, and resistance to inertia and air pressure. In other words, they looked mostly normal but were more agile than dragonflies.


    As appealing as it was to dedicate my entire specialization to the creation of the Sky Regalia, I didn''t want to rely entirely on my raid suit so the genetic modifications came first. Frankly, without a way to process all the information that came with owning a regalia, I''d never be able to use one of those to its fullest potential. Thankfully, with the lineage factor research I retained from Dr. Vegapunk, it would be a simple if tedious matter to make myself a serum.


    Last on my wish list was the Pledge Regalia used by Kururu Sumeragi. It was one of the few regalia that wasn''t a pair of inline skates, instead taking the form of multiple cross-like structures one might find on headstones.


    It granted masterful control of sonic vibrations bordering on telekinesis. She able to install the Wind Regalia core mid-battle. In under three seconds. While falling. She was also able to completely shut down AT based mechanical armor during an assault on an aircraft carrier, literally disassembling it down to the screws and bolts via precise manipulation of subsonic vibrations in a single pass. The girl wielded her screwdriver like Mihawk wielded a sword and I wanted that ability so, so badly.


    In other words, the Pledge Regalia was technopathy thinly disguised as sonic manipulation. I wanted it. Yes, I''d need it if I wanted to tune my own regalias in the future, but the truth was that its use as a tuner paled in comparison to its ability to repair and deconstruct mechanical objects at will. It would more than triple my working speed, not that I was slow compared to other tinkers before.


    As for the things I wanted but didn''t absolutely need, that was obvious: the other regalias. There were twenty-eight originals, but several characters combined and mixed them like Legos. And while they were most often used in skates, they didn''t need to be. I could think of several ways to incorporate something like Ramjet into my costume without sticking turbines to my feet. If I remembered right, the original Rumble King used his in a giant boombox he carried over his shoulder like a bazooka. I''d likely still upgrade my hover boots a great deal, but they wouldn''t be my priority.


    The last thing I wanted stemmed from something called the "Inorganic Net."


    In Air Gear, the memory sticks incorporated into ATs recorded the tricks of the storm rider. This recording was stored in a giant database called "Skylink." Some riders, specifically the owner of the Flame Regalia, could download the tricks of others and copy them perfectly. I didn''t know how exactly, it''d take some doing, but I felt that I could use this process of digitalizing memory to teach myself the skills I was lacking. I was already doing something similar with the TM Downloader so this should be well within my abilities.


    Surprisingly, there was nothing I''d consider forbidden. I was aware that a month ago, I''d been hesitant to perform any sort of biotinkering, but it wasn''t as though I was going to turn myself into a grotesque mutant or create self-replicating monsters.


    Yes, Air Gear didn''t have characters who could cleave tsunamis or punch mountains, but that weakness and relative moderation was honestly rather appealing.


    X


    After my run, I received a call from Marshall Brown, the father of Matthew Brown, the kid I''d been tutoring. He told me that his son''s grades were now caught up and he was happy with his new interest in math. Thanking me, he canceled our tutoring sessions and told me that he''d keep me in mind if a friend needed my services. It being Saturday, most of the parents were home so it didn''t take me long to set up another client, an eighth grade girl named Hannah Chong.


    I spent the rest of the morning with SAINT, drafting designs for the Ramjet-inspired engine. The regalia itself came to me easily. Of all the regalia, it was the one used most often throughout the canonical timeline, by no less than four "kings." I had plenty of examples to draw from. Hell, one was even a cyborg who''d had his lungs replaced with the special turbines. And of course, the soda engine of One Piece was one I''d perfected weeks ago.


    The trouble came with fusing the two together. The principle of Ramjet was designed for gaseous input, namely air, but there was no real reason that it couldn''t be adjusted for liquid. Still, my power didn''t want to cooperate. That wasn''t to say that it was impossible, the science of both specializations were clear to me, but my power had stopped feeding me blueprints, stopped holding my hand.


    The sad truth among tinkers was that we weren''t special, not really. It was our powers that held our hands, guiding us through one physics-melting discovery after another. I still had no idea if I had a traditional shard or if the Tinker of Fiction merely aped at it, but I did know that it at least functioned in a comparable manner to the tinkers of this world.


    I had my own Manton limit of sorts. The Manton limit colloquially referred to the self-others divide or the inorganic-organic divide among capes, but it could technically refer to any arbitrary limitations enforced by powers. Mine seemed to be that for whatever reason, my power would stop assisting me if I tried to fuse two pieces of tech from two separate fictions together.


    It wasn''t directly opposing me, merely removing the guide rails. It could be done. I felt it. I knew it, but I wouldn''t have the tinker fugue to draw upon. A part of me wanted to look into a different project, but I stubbornly stuck to this one. Was it wise? Probably not, but I felt the stirrings of pride. I was a maker. I felt that I wouldn''t'' be able to call myself a craftsman if I couldn''t expand beyond my own power.


    It took me the full morning to even come up with a prototype. It would break. It was guaranteed to be a failure. A mundane ramjet worked the way it did because the jet plane it was part of was flying forward at high speed, compressing the air by virtue of enormous forward momentum. I was trying that with a stationary engine using a feedback loop made of cola of all things.


    Impossible.


    And yet, I attempted it. Unlike with the designs derived from my powers, this was entirely original. I would not be spared from the grueling process of trial and error that defined the production process of any revolutionary technology. It would fail, but I would learn something new and be pushed one step further along the development process.


    I joined my mom and sister for lunch, meatloaf sandwiches made from last night''s leftovers. I grabbed a ciabatta roll and toasted it before fixing myself a quick slaw of mayo, mustard, vinaigrette, cabbage, and onions. I held the slaw mix out to my sister.


    "Want some?"


    She dipped a finger into the bowl and gave it a lick. "Yeah, that''s pretty good. Mom, try it."


    "I will, go ahead and help yourselves," my mom said, looking over a letter she''d received at the office.


    I took my plate to the living room and turned on the TV, some sort of Saturday cartoon about a heroic team called the Trinity. It depicted a black-clad woman who was super strong, a blue man with super speed and lasers, and a green man whose power was to make wishes come true. The battled the Calamities, three giants of tremendous power who could only be opposed by the might, friendship, and chivalry of the Trinity. Subtle, the PRT was not.


    "You haven''t watched this stuff in years," mom said.


    "Mmhm." I watched not-Alexandria unravel not-Simurgh''s convoluted plan to blow up the moon before punching her through a mountain. "It''s definitely got its entertainment value. Besides, I still remember Sierra deciding she was going to marry Legacy. Then she found out Legacy was just off-brand Legend and swore she''d marry Legend."


    My sister''s cheeks flushed red to match her dreads. "I was twelve!"


    "And you were adorable dear."


    "Seriously cute," I nodded with a shit-eating grin.


    She shoved me. "Shut up, Bryce. Why don''t you have any embarrassing stories?" she complained.


    "Because shame is for lesser minds, sister dearest."


    "Oh, I don''t know," mom said with a coy smile, "I remember your postmodern macaroni portrait of me you did for Mother''s Day."


    "Oh yeah," Sierra crowed, "you were supposed to bring it home but tripped in front of the school and it scattered all over the sidewalk. You stood up with a straight face, looked mom square in the eyes, and swore it was supposed to be postmodern art."


    "Hey, you gotta own your mistakes. Sometimes, that means apologizing. Other times, it means sticking to your guns and working with the hand you''re dealt. Mom liked it, right?"


    She leaned over and gave me a hug. "I loved it, sweetie."


    My phone vibrated with a text. I opened it to find a message from Faultline asking me if I was finished with the eight bags for Accord. She intended to drive over to Boston tomorrow and wanted to deliver them while she had business there.


    Creed: Yeah, I''m done with them. I can drop them off in an hour or two.


    Faultline: Great, the club doesn''t open until five so feel free to let yourself in.


    Creed: Will do.


    "Who''s that," my sister tried to lean over my shoulder.


    I pulled my phone out of her reach and locked it. "None of your business, sis."


    "Was it Amy?" she asked, her eyes twinkling with mischief.


    "Oh right, how''s that going, Bryce?" mom asked. It was the duty and privilege of mothers to be nosy about their sons'' love lives, real or imagined. I understood. I still swore vengeance upon Sierra.


    "That doesn''t exist because we''re not going out," I repeated for the thousandth time. "Amy and I went to homecoming together because she can''t stand the random blind dates her sister tries to set her up with. I could at least hold a conversation with her without asking for a bigger dick or something equally idiotic."


    "Don''t be crude."


    "Sorry, mom."


    "So if it wasn''t Amy, who was it?"


    "A friend. I promised to meet up with them after lunch." I intentionally left "them" vague. Mom and Sierra assumed I meant people from school and I wanted to keep it that way. I stood as the episode of the over the top cartoon ended. "Speaking of which, I''m going to head out."


    "Want a ride, bro?"


    "Nah, I''m good."


    "Mmk, later."


    "Don''t be out too late, Bryce," mom called as I walked through the door.


    Author''s Note


    A supercritical fluid is one which exceeds the common temperature/pressure curve. It is a fluid which acts both as a gas and liquid simultaneously: too hot to be liquid, too pressured to be gas. It''s an actual physical material and one of the reasons I used to love Air Gear. The other? I was a horny teenager and boobs.


    End of arc 2.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 3.1 Surge

    Surge 3.1


    2010, October 23: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    I hopped first to the workshop beneath Harvey''s to collect the last of my seastone and wapometal ingots. I''d need more raw materials to make more. Every time I looked at the little refinery I had under Harvey''s I told myself I''d build a DSS port there. I''d finally managed it a few days ago during a materials run so all I needed to do was digitize the materials and pick them up at the Gullrest. After depositing the ingots in the DSS, I picked up the eight expanded bags.


    I changed into my costume and made myself invisible before running directly to the Palanquin. Sneaking inside, I reappeared in the hallway outside Faultline''s main office and knocked.


    "Come in, Creed."


    I entered to find Faultline and Gregor going over some papers. Faultline had foregone her traditional welder''s mask and settled for a domino mask. "How''d you know it was me?"


    "Newter doesn''t knock and Labyrinth in her room busy with something," she said. I took it to mean she wasn''t having a good day. I felt for the waifish blonde. Maybe once I got the right specialization, I could help her out.


    "Indeed. Is he still using the dance floor to work out?" Gregor asked in that melodic, Jazz-smooth voice of his. I still had no idea where that accent came from.


    I shrugged. "I didn''t see him when I came in. I just snuck in through the back while cloaked."


    She narrowed her eyes. "That is a dangerous ability to have."


    "It is, which is why it''s not in the catalog." I reached into a large duffel bag and pulled out Accord''s commissions. "Here they are."


    "So I see. I''m sure he''ll be happy to receive a prompt delivery."


    "I hope so; I didn''t get to make much else this week."


    Gregor nodded exaggeratedly in my direction. "I take it that pistol is ''not much else?''" he said humorously. His voice then took on a warning tone. "I hope you are aware of what kind of message that sends."


    I presented it to the gentle giant grip first. "Here, take a look. I tried to keep the old-timey aesthetic because I thought that would look less threatening. I also purposely kept the caliber small. Do you think this is still too much?" I asked seriously. I wanted their honest opinion. Had I shown this to Amy, she would have vetoed it immediately simply because it was "unheroic," never mind that Kid Win had a laser pistol of his own and Miss Militia''s power was "all the guns."


    Faultline and Gregor would not be so biased.


    "I take it that this is the ''anti-Lung'' weapon you were talking about?" Faultline asked rhetorically.


    I nodded. "You remembered?"


    "Yes. I can only assume that the caliber means little. Is it a tranquilizer meant for brutes? Or maybe something that can depower capes?"


    "You think too highly of me if you think I can reverse Lung''s transformation."


    "At this point, I''m just grasping at straws. I don''t know what your specialization is so I wouldn''t rule it out as impossible."


    "Well, it''s definitely not that."


    "Fine, keep your secrets. To answer your question, it fits well with your aesthetic, but remember that some capes may use your possession of a gun to immediately resort to lethal force."


    "That''s ridiculous. I could dropkick them from four stories high and it''d be far more lethal than any bullet. You''re saying I''d get treated with kid gloves if I stick to that but I can expect duels at high noon if I wear an antique pistol?"


    "I didn''t say capes made sense," she said wryly, "and no one is going to be treating you with kid gloves, not after your stunt with the Empire and Merchants. That said, the gun does represent a willingness to kill. Whether you mean it that way or not, that''s how it will be interpreted. I take it that that''s the message you''re trying to send?"


    "Yeah, I want people to know that I''ll happily play by the rules so long as they do. And well, I want them to know that I can escalate a lot higher than most realize."


    "Are you ready to invite the same escalation then?" Gregor asked.


    "My suit can handle it."


    "That wasn''t what I asked, my friend. I have no doubt that your costume can keep you alive. I asked if you are ready," he said gently. "There will be capes who use your possession of a gun as an excuse. There will be capes who try to force your hand by targeting civilians or other such means."


    My mind immediately went to Coil. This was exactly the sort of thing he''d use to paint me as an irredeemable villain, all in an effort to isolate then forcibly recruit me. "I''m not responsible for the actions of others," I said finally, "but that doesn''t mean I want to give them an excuse to resort to that kind of response either."


    "The Protectorate has a bit more leeway than an independent such as yourself. They can carry lethal weapons because they are recognized law enforcement officers. If someone goads Miss Militia into using lethal ammunition, she is still likely to be seen as being in the right, whether that is true or not. Or at least, she will have a far easier time avoiding reprisal. I recommend keeping it in your hammerspace bag until you need it."


    "Agreed," Faultline said. "If you don''t need it, don''t flaunt it so you don''t invite trouble on yourself. If you do need it, well, the situation will be long past the point where you should care about measured responses."


    I nodded slowly. "I guess a part of me wanted to show off the cool pistol. I made it and it looks cool so¡­ Is this the pride of a craftsman? I''m being an idiot."


    "Teenagers usually are," she said with a gentle smile to take the sting from her words.


    I took the pistol back and removed the visible holster before putting them both in a thigh pouch. "Thanks for the advice," I said sincerely. "I appreciate it."


    "I''m glad to have met a reasonable cape; there are few enough of us around. There is one more thing I wanted to talk about regarding your commissions: banking."


    I groaned. Between the excitement of getting my catalogs off the ground and tinkering, the more mundane aspects of cape life had escaped me. Faultline, Gregor, and I spent another half hour hashing out the details. She agreed to set up an anonymous bank account for me through several proxies. As I understood it, the Number Man happily managed criminal accounts in exchange for a small cut of all transactions. Hell, the man even had a website for online banking.


    If I needed hard cash, I was strongly advised to use an ATM.


    In exchange, I agreed to provide the Crew with Germa fiber. No tech, just the fabric. I showed them some of my most basic AT designs, mostly ones I''d doodled into the margins of a notebook, but they chose durability over maneuverability.


    I knew I was getting ripped off from a business standpoint, but I meant it when I called her a friend. Her organization remaining healthy and hale was worth more to me than a few thousand dollars. The payment for her help wouldn''t even take much effort on my part. SAINT knew how to make the chemical solution needed to make the fibers and it would be the work of a few minutes to set the sewing machine to weave a bolt of cloth.


    I also had her acquire more volcanic dust, even paying her with almost half of my cut from Accord, a whopping forty-five thousand dollars. With it, she assured me she could hire Strider for a bulk purchase and delivery.


    "Tell Strider that I''ll sweeten the pot. If he accepts the deal right away and agrees to be my courier in the future, I''ll tinker him up an expanded bag to help him carry it all. He can keep the bag as a bonus."


    "Are you sure? A suitcase with your expansion capability would be worth two or three times what the backpacks are worth based on storage capacity, right?"


    "Yup. Accord paid seventeen grand per bag. An expanded suitcase should be in the ballpark of thirty-four grand or better."


    "Can I ask why? That''s a lot of money, not to mention the exclusivity of tinkertech."


    I gestured to the studs on my knuckles. "These are made of a substance called seastone. They''ve got the durability of diamond, but without the crystalline structure that causes it to fracture. They can be molded into whatever shape I want. I plan to make my main lab a fortress." ''And maybe get the rest of the ship working too,'' I thought. It was a matter of time until I could build something that would help with large scale construction and when I did, I was going to turn my lab into an actual ship, something to evade Leviathan when he showed.


    "That seems like a challenging undertaking."


    "I need to upscale, and that means I need the best courier in the business on my side. Thirty grand is nothing if I can have Strider on retainer."


    Faultline nodded slowly. "I wish you the best of luck."


    "Thanks," I stood. "Was there anything else?"


    "There is. The Palanquin will be hosting a Halloween party in a week''s time. You''re free to show up, in costume of course."


    I thanked her for the invitation and faded from sight with a lazy salute.


    X


    2010, October 24: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    Sunday found me at the lab bright and early. I''d told mom I was going to be at the library for a school project and to not expect me until dinner. There was much to do. Design after design, failure after failure, I tried to build a working model of the hybrid soda engine. The theory was sound, at least as sound as any tinkertech could be, even if I''d yet to build a working model. In the span of a single day, I''d worked through four different prototypes, most of them turned to scrap.


    "Trial log: Hybrid soda engine test run five," I spoke into my Pok¨¦Nav. SAINT floated by my side, dutifully observing the creation process. "Start."


    The engine, an unholy fusion of a fridge, ramjet, and miscellaneous car parts, whirred to life with a smooth hum. It''d taken me four tries just to get the noise down to this hum rather than the loud drone of spinning motors. The single coke bottle was drained, its contents being funneled into a chamber for pressurization.


    The key, I found through multiple rounds of testing, was to combine the air intake chamber with the pressurization chamber for the cola. By putting the turbine so close to the fluid, I could use the natural suction of the engine to help compress the fluid, accelerating the process. Now, it was just a matter of streamlining the process and making sure the body was durable enough to handle that kind of heat and pressure.


    Then, with a sputtering cough, the engine came to a stop. "Well, at least it didn''t explode this time." A bit of cola had flowed back up the pipe to leak onto the fridge compartment. "We''re going to need some kind of one-way valve along the pipes."


    "Reee."


    "Yeah, bud. Me too." I stood and walked back to the table littered with a dozen different design ideas. "Well, back to the drawing board¡­"


    X


    "Trial log: Hybrid soda engine test run seven." I figured out the valves between runs five and six after I returned from my self-imposed break. I was so frustrated that I had to focus on something else less intellectually demanding for a time.


    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    I ended up creating a pair of AT skates to distract myself. They were bog-standard, a set of two motorized wheels set into each boot, but they could be used to perform almost every trick in the world. Not well, but doable.


    I put them on and raced around the interior of the oil tanker for a half hour at the speed of a freeway car, more or less sixty miles per hour. It was this that really elevated becoming a gravity child as a priority for me. I''d like to claim that I was a natural and that I learned to ride like I was born on with wings, but SAINT had the video to prove me a liar. More than once, he had to activate the Germa suit''s shield before I scattered my teeth all over the cargo hold.


    Towards the end, I got curious and tried to run up a wall. Because, yes, that was a thing storm riders did on the regular. I failed the first time and caught myself with Magnet Rise. The second time, I pumped my legs with Agility and learned to fly without the cloud-stepping boots from Germa.


    "SAINT?" I called as I lay there atop a metal walkway, exhausted with only a half hour''s exercise.


    "Pory?"


    "I take it back. I need a set of ATs for myself."


    "Porygon. Por."


    "Yeah, I''m going to have to incorporate it into my hover boots. Shouldn''t be too difficult."


    "Gon?"


    "Lower priority, but damn if this wasn''t a ton of fun."


    "Porygon. Pory-gon. Reee."


    "Yup. Hybrid engine. Gravity child project. Pledge Regalia. Maybe Key Mother? I don''t know. Spitfire was pretty badass¡­"


    The specifics could come later though. In the immediate, I had to return to the hybrid engine prototype. With fresh eyes, I started to pore over the blueprints. Several minutes later, with my mind on regalia, I had my answer: The best way to make sure that all the pressurized fluid was contained in the chamber long enough to go supercritical was to rely on yet another regalia, the Water Regalia.


    It was a specialized weapon used by ¨­m, a king-level rider and member of the legendary team, Sleeping Forest. Her ATs were designed specifically to draw in water vapor and pressurize them into explosive bubbles. It took some finagling, but the same tech that let her bubbles retain their shape and pressure despite the constant vibrations from within could also be used to keep all the fluid in the chamber. Now, it was just a matter of making sure everything was durable enough to last.


    The hybrid engine hummed to life with the satisfying noise of jet turbines gearing up for explosive output. I held my breath, ready to interpose my cape in front of me at the slightest sign of danger. It hadn''t exploded since the third test, but I''d rather be safe than concussed. Trying to focus enough to use Recover with a concussion was a bitch and a half. For several minutes, SAINT and I watched the engine as it whirred along like we were looking after an armed bomb.


    "Did we¡­ do it?" I asked him.


    "Pory?" he replied, questionably optimistic.


    "Huh, that wasn''t as bad as I thought it''d be. I assumed I''d be working on this for a week if not more. Let''s save the cores. They''ll come in handy when I want to strap them to my feet later."


    X


    That night, I laid in bed and allowed my thoughts to wander before I realized something important: The engine still wouldn''t work. Or rather, it was incomplete. The engine converted cola into a supercritical fluid then used that for energy in the form of electricity, but it ultimately produced too much electricity. Without a place to store and safely release all that power, it''d mostly go to waste. The transformer I had currently couldn''t put up with the strain.


    In normal electrical grids, power plants generated a consistent current of electricity at high voltage then transmitted it down to each individual household, where the current was transformed into a lower voltage for use. A transformer used in this manner could last from anywhere between thirty to fifty years, assuming the amperage of the current didn''t fluctuate drastically for some reason.


    That was for standard flows, not tinkertech ramjets that somehow used fizzy sugar water more efficiently than actual jet fuel.


    "Shit," I muttered. "Is this what it''s like to be crippled by my own success?"


    X


    2010, October 25: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    Now that I had a working version of the hybrid engine, albeit an incomplete one, I decided to switch my focus to the gravity child project. I wanted to try for the Pledge Regalia, but without the genetic enhancements, I just wouldn''t be able to use it with any competence. Kururu, the Pledge Queen, wasn''t a gravity child as far as I knew, but she was also something of a once in a generation genius, a freak of nature wrapped in an adorable pink-haired anime girl package.


    Whatever I was, I wasn''t that.


    After Monday classes, I met Hannah Chong in Mrs. Young''s office at the Lafayette Middle School. She was a pretty, half-Asian, half-white girl with light brown hair. She wore a baby-blue shirt with fashionably ripped jeans and a large flower hairpin that stylishly framed her face. I''d pegged Matt as the stereotypical cape-geek. Hannah was a bit harder to pin down. Had I met her on the street, I would have glossed over her completely as part of the background scenery, just another middle school girl in a city of thousands.


    She was punctual and attentive. When we left for the library, she shot Mrs. Young a sweet smile that the old lady couldn''t help but return. My impression of her was good, a generally unremarkable but likable girl.


    I couldn''t be more wrong.


    Within a minute of us sitting down, she''d pulled out her phone to text a friend. It took a minute of pointed looks and faux coughing to get her to put down the phone. She rolled her eyes.


    "Let''s just do my homework and get out of here," she drawled.


    "We''re here for more than your homework, Hannah. Your mother asked me to go over last week''s test with you as well. Sixty percent, was it?"


    "What the hell? Mrs. Nakawa has it out for me."


    "I take it that''s your math teacher?" She nodded petulantly. "For now, give me your test so I can see where you lost points. While I do that, you are going to do your homework."


    "Why do I need tutoring?"


    "Because you got a D on your math test." I was starting to get the impression that this would be a long two hours.


    She let out an angry huff but finally got to work. It became painfully obvious as the session wore on that she was the sort of girl who smiled for authority figures but acted out to anyone that wasn''t an adult. Unfortunately, despite my mental age, I definitely didn''t look like an adult. To her, I was that nerd who was only a year older than her. After a less than productive session, I packed up and headed home for dinner.


    ''The shit I put up with for tinkering time¡­''


    X


    I sent Amy a text that evening, telling her that I intended to remain out of the spotlight for a few days. To my surprise, she called back at around nine.


    "Bryce?"


    "Hey, Ames, what''s up?"


    "Nothing, I just got back from the hospital."


    "Ooh, that sucks. You eat yet?"


    "What are you, my mother?" I could just about hear her rolling her eyes. Ironic, since I didn''t think Carol was the type to make sure her unwanted daughter kept up with her meals. "Yes, I ate. The nurses sent an intern to buy us dinner."


    "You get the royal treatment, huh?"


    "Damn straight. I deserved that meatball sub, damnit."


    "Of course, your majesty. Why the call?"


    "So, you''re going to lay low?"


    "At least for a bit," I said. "I have a lot of things I want to work on."


    "What sort of things? You''re not building a doom-laser, are you?"


    "Your faith in me stirs my soul," I said dryly. "No, actually. You''re alone, right?"


    "Yes, or I wouldn''t ask if you planned to build a doom-laser."


    "Just checking. I love that you don''t question that I can build a doom-laser, only whether I''m planning on it. I have a few projects I want to work on, but not everything I want to do is tinkering."


    "That''s surprising coming from you."


    "I know, but I learned from last Saturday that I was lacking a lot."


    "Like what?"


    "For one, Carlos was right. I do suck at boxing. I could stand to learn a few more moves before I make a fool of myself. I''ve been cruising by against mooks purely because my suit''s so great."


    "So what? You''re going to get swole?"


    "Yup. That''s me, Bryce the uber-Chad chick magnet." Not going to lie, the snort of laughter that followed hurt, just a bit.


    "Right, that''s what you are. I''ll just watch in awestruck wonder while girls throw their panties at you."


    "Again, your faith in me is a delight to behold."


    "Cool, good luck getting shredded or whatever. What''s your plan after that?"


    "I''m going to go around pranking the city''s capes to showcase my tech, maybe commit some petty crimes so people can shut up about calling me a hero."


    "Bryce," she said warningly.


    "Nothing over five hundred dollars," I promised. "Anything more than that and it''s officially a felony."


    "I still don''t like this."


    "Of course you don''t. You''re a hero," I encouraged. This was one of the major reasons behind involving Amy in my cape life. I wanted her to see that her morals weren''t screwed up, she wasn''t a single step away from "going villain," nor were "villain" and "evil" synonyms.


    "And what''s that make you?"


    "Someone who''s willing to inconvenience others to improve his brand." I offered her an olive branch. "If it makes you feel better, I promise I''ll stop any violent crimes I come upon during my outings."


    "Swear?"


    "Pinkie swear," I said solemnly.


    "You better be serious about this."


    "Like a heart attack."


    She sighed, dissatisfied but unwilling to argue. "Fine, go ahead."


    "Thank you, oh mighty GOAT."


    "¡­" I could hear the uncomfortable silence. "Fuck you, Bryce. Seriously? You even made a PHO handle for me!"


    "Uh oh, so I take it you''re not happy?"


    "No, what gave you that idea?" she growled.


    "Would it make you feel better if I gave you the account password so you can weigh in on your own?" She mulled it over for a minute. "You could use it to vent your frustrations and troll everyone while pretending to be an out-of-town cape. I mean, right now, everyone thinks The GOAT is someone who has my contract. You could spend all day shitposting and it wouldn''t matter so long as you''re seen curbing my more ''villainous'' impulses."


    "Fine¡­ but stop doing stupid shit like this without telling me!"


    "No promises. It''s not like I told everyone Panacea was my sponsor."


    She grumbled some more but didn''t try to talk me out of my plans so I considered that a victory. There was still my biotinkering to explain, but I''d cross that bridge when I got to it. I needed to slowly mold her morals into a healthier perspective before I even considered broaching that question. Eventually, I wanted her as a partner, not just because Shaper was one of the best possible assistants I could have, but because the act of exploring her powers represented a fundamental shift in Amy''s character.


    In the meantime, I''d just settle for being grateful that Amy wasn''t much of a hugger. We talked a bit more, mostly her venting about one entitled idiot at the hospital or another.


    "Okay, so there was this woman who received a false positive for breast cancer, right?" she started.


    "Meaning she thought she had cancer?"


    "Yeah, one of the new residents made a mistake during the initial testing. A more experienced doctor went over his work and found out that she''s clear. You''d think that''d be great news."


    I hummed and checked through PHO headlines. "No cancer sounds like a good reason to be happy. Leave the hospital, buy a prime rib, pig out with family and friends, that sort of thing. At least, that''s what I''d do."


    "That''s what a reasonable person would do," she grumbled. "She didn''t believe the doctors and forced them to test her two more times, all negatives. She''d gotten it into her head that she''s going to die so she kept making herself sick."


    Hypochondria, or illness anxiety. It was something I''d encountered a few times as a PA in my past life, but I couldn''t exactly tell her that. Besides, she needed to get this off her chest so I let out an appropriate gasp of interest. "You can do that?"


    "Ehh, kind of, you can trick your body into a lot. Placebo at its finest, except she''s convinced herself into thinking she''s ill instead of thinking she''s well."


    "Okay, so they eventually got fed up with her and kicked her out, right?"


    "You''d think so, but her husband''s some executive at Medhall so they couldn''t. She threw such a fucking fit that the head nurse begged me to drop by. For fuck''s sake, Bryce, whose fucking idea was it to make hospitals political?"


    "I thought you didn''t do requests."


    "I don''t," she stressed emphatically. "Bitches like her are exactly why I don''t. She legitimately threw a tantrum in the lobby. I mean full on kicking legs, screaming she''s going to die and that we won''t treat her. I grabbed her and told her she didn''t have cancer just to get her to shut up."


    "Huh, you didn''t just put her to sleep?"


    "No, we have enough people who need the beds, thank you."


    "Fair point. You have it rough, huh," I said sympathetically.


    "Tell me about it. She was stopping the doctors from treating other patients because she''s a paranoid, selfish bitch!" I heard knocking and muffled voices. "I''m fine, Vicky," she called back. "Sorry, I got a bit loud, didn''t I?"


    "A little, but completely understandable. Don''t let them get to you, Amy."


    "I''m trying," she huffed. "Bryce?"


    "Yes?"


    "It''s supposed to feel good, right?"


    "Sorry, I don''t follow."


    "Doing good. Being good. It''s supposed to give me the warm and fuzzies, right? Helping people?"


    "It can."


    "Visiting the hospital just makes me annoyed," she confessed. I could hear the shakiness in her voice. I doubted she''d ever admitted as much to anyone, maybe not even Vicky. "I should be happy I''m making a difference, but¡­"


    "But they get on your nerves," I finished for her.


    "Yeah¡­ Bryce?"


    "Yes, Amy?"


    "Am I a bad person?"


    "You''re a better person than me," I told her honestly. "You know what I think?"


    "What?"


    "You''re burning out. It''s normal, natural even. Even doctors and police get time off."


    "You sound like Vicky."


    "Because she''s pretty smart. You know, for a blonde."


    "Fuck you. I''m offended for my sister."


    "More importantly, she cares about you. I care about you. And if we''re both telling you to cut back on your hours a bit, maybe you should."


    "Maybe¡­"


    "Ames, your sister and I aren''t conspiring together to get you to be an awful person. I mean, I''m a villain so I might, but your sister?"


    "It''s like having a shoulder devil and a shoulder angel."


    "And we''re both telling you the same thing, hmm? What does that mean?"


    "Maybe¡­ I''ll think about it."


    "Okay, you do that. And if you get too annoyed with someone, give them a giant zit, right in their asscrack next to their anus."


    "Bryce!" she shouted. "You''re fucking awful."


    "Heh, you''d be more convincing if I couldn''t tell you''re laughing."


    "Whatever."


    I let the conversation drop into a comfortable silence. What was the best way to get her to play with her power? Maybe I could get her a small succulent for her window? Or introduce her to my funky fruits? Not bad ideas, but now wasn''t the time.


    Instead, I said, "I''m going to head to bed, Ames."


    "Yeah, alright. Bryce?"


    "Hmm?"


    "Thanks for listening."


    "You''re not a chore, Ames. I''m happy to listen."


    "Night¡­ Creed."


    "Night, The GOAT."


    Author''s Note


    Have an animal fact.


    Koalas have the smallest brain to body ratio among mammals. They''re also smooth-brained, which means they''re about as dumb as your two year old nephew. Most of them, a massive eighty-five percent, have chlamydia.


    Yeah, ain''t fucking cute now, huh?


    Energy ranges differ obviously, but it isn''t unusual for a jet engine to produce 230 megawatts of power at takeoff. That''s 230,000 kilowatts. The average American home used 10,649 kilowatt hours (kWh) of electricity in 2019 according to the US Energy Information Administration (EIA). Bryce''s miniature engine, despite its size, is comparable to a jet turbine.


    Yes, I''m intentionally glossing over the gravity child project. Not just because I know little about biology or genetic engineering, but because canon does not go into just what the projects entailed. We know the gravity children were products of a genetic engineering project designed to create the optimal storm rider, but not any specific details. We have no idea if there was animal testing, dead children deemed failures, or some other crime against nature. For all we know, Dr. Minami, the chief scientist, came up with some bullshit serum a la Captain America.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 3.2 Surge

    Surge 3.2


    2010, October 26: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    Tuesday afternoon found me at the workshop, trying to work out a way to handle all that generated power in a safe, consistent manner. As it was, any transformer I stuck to it to try and change the voltage wouldn''t last long. Power stations produced electricity at roughly fourteen thousand volts. The average transformer found in the home handled electricity in the hundreds of volts range, certainly not the millions.


    "Trial log: Hybrid soda engine test run eight," I spoke into my Pok¨¦Nav.


    My current solution was simplistic: If one couldn''t handle the charge, use more. I stacked two transformers together and flipped the switch. The engine whirred to life. SAINT and I stared with bated breath. Then, with the sound of tortured metal, one of the transformers gave out and burst in a shower of sparks.


    "Fuck!" I shouted, blocking a flying piece of scrap with a hasty Protect. "That was stupid."


    It turned out that stacking transformers did not make the voltage go down meaningfully. Instead, the heat generated by the magnetic induction process mounted higher and higher, ruining both. I kicked the scrap aimlessly until SAINT nudged my hand encouragingly.


    "Yeah, you''re right." Picking up the distorted cube of iron and wires, I frowned. "I''m going to have to make a transformer from scratch, aren''t I? A steel core isn''t good enough. I need something with better heat tolerance¡­"


    It turned out that the task wasn''t as hard as I feared it would be.


    With the understanding of modern technology that came with the Air Gear specialization, I had several ideas to control this kind of energy output. Ultimately, I decided to work on a tungsten-based magnetic core to be the focus of the induction process. Tungsten wasn''t just used for industrial or military purposes. It was a metal commonly found in heating elements, light bulbs, and high-speed steel (HSS), a specific type of steel alloy used in cutting tools like power saws. I had plenty of those to draw from.


    I figured I''d also have to replace the wires to avoid them burning out. I settled on silver, the most conductive metal on earth, and got to work. I''d grabbed several silver tableware sets during the Hillside Heist, along with jewelry and a mirror for this specific purpose.


    By the time I finished up testing for the day, I''d received a message from Strider on PHO telling me that he was interested in my offer.


    Creed_Official: Strider?


    Strider_Transport: That''s me. What do you want with all that volcanic ash?


    Creed_Official: Cement.


    Strider_Transport: You''re kidding.


    Creed_Official: Yup. Need it for tinkering. I''d explain, but it''d just bore you. It''s a whole lot of technobabble. Anyway, you interested in the job?


    Strider_Transport: I''m not cheap, you know.


    Creed_Official: I do. I also know Faultline''s already told you my terms. Don''t try to negotiate higher. I already gave you my best offer.


    Strider_Transport: Fine, fine. Forty-five grand worth of volcanic ash from Hawaii. It is an impressive offer¡­ I accept.


    Creed_Official: Excellent. Do you mind showing up at the Palanquin with your favorite suitcase? Leave it with me for a day and I''ll make it fit way more than it should.


    Strider_Transport: Deal, kid. And hey, for what it''s worth? I heard about the mess on Saturday and I think you did the right thing. Things are more complicated than keyboard warriors like to pretend. I get a lot of grief about why I''m a rogue instead of a hero too.


    Creed_Official: Thanks, that means a lot coming from a veteran.


    Strider_Transport: Yeah, I''ll be in Brockton tonight. Do you mind?


    Creed_Official: That''s fine.


    I wasn''t sure how I felt about some random cape trying to make me feel better. Or, for that matter, that hearing I hadn''t royally fucked the pooch somehow did make me feel better. Strider was a hero. Sure, he didn''t punch villains, but he made a real difference as the world''s best teleporter. Endbringer and disaster response just wouldn''t be the same without him.


    A part of me wished I didn''t care about his opinion. Another not insignificant part of me appreciated the gesture. I swallowed my feelings down and pushed them to the back of my mind. Instead, I started to design gene editing procedures for the gravity child project.


    X


    2010, October 29: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    I picked up Strider''s suitcase on Tuesday and returned it Wednesday evening. It was one of those giant ones used on long-distance flights and had ended up with an impressive eighteen hundred pounds of carrying capacity. Clearly, Strider intended to get his time''s worth out of our deal. I wasn''t too upset however. In exchange for making his life easier, he agreed to be my courier for any (quasi)legal materials I might need, assuming I paid a discounted fee of course. Really, by raising his carrying capacity, I was also making him more useful to me.


    On Thursday, I visited an optician in costume. I was textured as a punk kid with purple hair and muddy-brown eyes looking for non-prescription contacts for "drip." He was more than a little irritated with the kid who seemingly made light of his work, but I waved enough money at him to quell his annoyance. Money talked, and Accord certainly spoke the language. An hour later and some of the thinker''s pay lighter, I walked out of there with several pairs of colored hydrogel contacts, all a pale aqua-blue like my original eyes. I''d need these once I became a gravity child.


    Beyond that, the rest of the week passed with little in the way of excitement. Carlos finally got the nerve to ask out Stephanie. She said yes, apparently having given up on starting a definitely-against-PRT-regulations romance with Aegis. If Amy''s eyes rolled in her head any faster, they''d look like a laundromat spin cycle.


    Vicky and Dean had a fight about something or other. From the bare bones of what I could understand, she thought he wasn''t spending enough time with her. He apparently had to shadow his dad at work as the Stansfield scion and hadn''t told her he''d be busy. Teen drama, solved with thirty seconds of conversation¡­ As much as I liked my friends, sitting with them forced me to be privy to this nonsense.


    As for tutoring Hannah, she continued to be a brat. I did find out one thing about her though: She was a massive Glory Girl fangirl. I wasn''t sure how I could leverage that into making her do her damn homework, but I''d think on the matter. Worst case scenario, I could have Vicky snitch to her mom for me. Having heroic friends had to be good for something.


    Admittedly, that was mostly wistful thinking. I wasn''t that petty, nor was I so invested in someone else''s education. Worse comes to worst, I''d just return the money and find a new student.


    Then, as if to prove that Friday was indeed the best day of the week, I had my breakthrough. The gravity child project was coming along nicely, with my blood sample reacting well to the changes I''d made. I based the process on the work of Dr. Minami, the main scientist of the project in canon and father figure of the Hurricane King.


    Where I could, I also bolstered my understanding of genetic engineering with that of Dr. Vegapunk''s lineage factor manipulation. Soon, I''d have a serum that could edit my DNA on a fundamental level.


    Even better, my quasi-devil fruit radish was also growing well. Rather than clumps of bulbous roots, the radishes had fused into a single large orb. It bore the faint spiral markings of a devil fruit, but I knew that it would do nothing but make me allergic to the ocean. There were no powers attached to it, no lineage factor that could grant them. For that, I''d have to grab some DNA sample. Perhaps an animal, but I was partial towards a changer.


    Or, could I cure a Case-53 using this? I would need Newter''s blood to start with. If, if I could get a genetic map of Newter''s genome, could I isolate the part that made him human and ignore the influence of his Shard? If that was possible, then I could theoretically make the Hito-Hito no Mi, Model: Newter. If he ate it, it should allow him to revert to his pre-experiment state and use his Case-53 form as a changer state, sort of like a standard zoan¡­


    That was a lot of ifs. It was a possibility, but to tag on another if, if I could acquire Amy''s help, could I remove a devil fruit''s weakness to the ocean?


    Perhaps¡­


    As fascinating as it all was, I forced myself to table the project for one reason: Cauldron. Contessa really didn''t like it when people started mucking about with their experiments and I didn''t want a visit from the boogeyman. If it got out that I could actively cure Case-53s, I would be drafted by Cauldron within the week and as much as it loathed me to admit, I wasn''t ready.


    I could tell Piggot to shove off. Kaiser? Lung? Coil? All manageable. Cauldron? I couldn''t tell them no, not as I was now.


    I apologized to my friends in my mind and resolved to not make the attempt. Success really was more dangerous than failure here.


    I could of course eat a fruit on my own without any attempt to heal a Case-53, but that too came with its problems. Or rather, one big problem that I knew was coming next April: Leviathan. Being allergic to the ocean in a city where Levi was all but guaranteed to strike sounded absolutely disastrous. No, there were less ruinous paths to personal power.


    I also finished the hybrid engine. Making the transformers out of tungsten was a costly decision, but one I couldn''t bring myself to regret. Now, I quite literally had enough energy to power the entire city by myself. I''d initially planned to keep the reserves of precious metals like gold and silver set apart just in case I stumbled on a specialization with a more mystic bent, but this was probably fine. I could get more silver if ever I ended up with the power to make an alchemical blade with lunar magic properties or something.


    X


    2010, October 30: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    Saturday found me back at my lab, fully dedicated to turning myself into an affront unto human evolution.


    Last night, I''d set the serum to develop in a vial set under optimal temperature and pressure. The conditions were regulated through a modified pressure cooker, something else from the Hillside Heist. It was as ready as I could make it, with only one potential hurdle left.


    Theoretically, it should turn anyone into a gravity child, but that was assuming it could bypass the body''s immune system. Rather than inject it directly into myself like an idiot, I spent the morning extracting samples of my white blood cells. I mixed the serum with my white blood cells and left them under a set of monitoring devices.


    While I was waiting on those results, I decided to make the hybrid soda engine smaller. As it was, this more powerful variant was too big for use in the workshop beneath Harvey''s or in any kind of power armor I might make in the future. By lunchtime, I developed a blueprint for an engine the size of a small trash can, the kind shoved under office desks all over the country. It was a far cry from Tony Stark''s arc reactor that could fit into a single hand, but I was happy with it nonetheless.


    By the time I''d finished scribbling down the blueprints and returned from lunch, the serum was ready. It showed no adverse interactions with my white blood cells so I felt reasonably confident that it wouldn''t kill me or give me some kind of super-cancer.


    ''What does it say about me that I''m more scared of having to ask Amy to purge my systems than I am of actually getting super-cancer?'' I mused.


    I wanted to inject it immediately, but decided against it. I had no idea how long it''d knock me out for, so I wanted to have a full night of sleep to get over it.


    X


    Being the day before Halloween, I decided to make an appearance at the Palanquin. I was invited after all and it''d help promote the idea of Creed as a whimsical, devil may care personality.


    It was half past ten and the party was in full swing already. The club had been decked out in appropriate d¨¦cor. Faux spider webs lined the walls and draped down to form a curtain over the entrance. A large jack-o-lantern had been placed out front, with a sign declaring the night''s specials: four-dollar jello shots, rail drinks, and beers until midnight. Every drink had some appropriately spooky theme: boo-weiser, witch''s brew, bloody mary and the like.


    The crowd was an eclectic mix. I saw the generic mummies, vampires, fairies, and whatnot, but I also saw a fair mix of people dressed up as capes. "Sexy Mouse" seemed to be an oddly popular choice for whatever reason. I thanked all the gods in the multiverse that I wasn''t famous enough for anyone to want to be me¡­ this year.


    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    The crowd of young adults, and more than a few faking teens, reacted in a way only Brockton Bay natives could: Most of them looked at me, gave me a once-over, came to the conclusion that I wasn''t about to start a fight, then went straight back to what they were doing. A few frat boys in the crowd heckled me to try and get my attention, but I ignored them in favor of the bouncer.


    The bouncer must have been expecting me because he greeted me with a nod and a single raised brow. "Evening, Creed. Faultline is upstairs," he said.


    "Thanks, Xavier, I appreciate it," I said as I visibly slipped a hundred in his pocket. I gave him an affable pat on the arm and strutted inside like I owned the place, cape billowing in the background.


    ''Am I trying too hard?'' I had to ask myself. I mulled it over for a moment then mentally shrugged before making a beeline to the bar. ''Ehh, my persona''s supposed to be over the top anyway.''


    I wish I could say the crowd parted for me like Moses parted the Red Sea, but that wasn''t what happened. I was, even with my boots and helmet, barely five-five, if that. In a darkened club full of costumes, mine barely drew attention. I tried to pry my way to the bar but failed. I could either muscle my way through like a douche or squirm and shake with the beat until I found an opening to squeeze between the pulsing bodies.


    I took option three. I leapt straight into the air and kicked off the wall before seemingly coming to land above people''s heads. That got their attention.


    "Holy shit, it''s a cape," some guy in a George Clooney mask called.


    I swirled it around myself and took a bow. "Yeah, nice, right? Made it myself." I ignored the questions and catcalls in favor of a leisurely stroll to the bar, still above their heads.


    "Hector!" I shouted above the pulsing beats. "Mi amigo! How''s it going?" I greeted the Ecuadorian barkeep I''d gotten to know. He was one of the few people Faultline employed that I knew by name, mostly because he served me drinks sometimes and ignored my obvious lack of vertical stature.


    "Hey, Creed, good to see you. I didn''t know if you''d show," he said. He was sharing the bar with three other bartenders, one young man and two women. Hector and his male coworker were dressed in crisp, frilled shirts with sleeveless jackets and plastic "fangs" while the women wore devil horns and short cocktail dresses that flashed plenty of skin. Faultline knew her audience. Either that, or Newter won a bet and got to pick out the night''s uniform.


    I hopped down onto a stool and settled into a comfortable squat. "Ehh, loud club music isn''t really my scene but hey, once in a while is alright."


    Hector polished off a glass before mixing someone a screwdriver. I rolled my eyes. It seemed that even across different worlds, drink choices were basically the same among college students. It wasn''t like I could complain much; I drank practically nothing but gin and tonic my entire past life. It was fizzy, cheap, and simple so I never had to wait long. That, and I didn''t know much about alcohol. I was a social drinker who grabbed the occasional glass to fit in.


    Truthfully, I''d tried more drinks in the past month hanging with Faultline than ever. Tonight, he pushed a copper mug before me. "Want to try something new, man?"


    "Why not?" I shrugged and released the chin-guard of my helmet. It folded down and inward to circle my throat with a pneumatic hiss. I raised the cup to my lips and admired the golden-yellow liquid before taking a sip. It was cool and sweet, with a refreshing aftertaste. "What is this?"


    "Mint julep," he replied. "It''s bourbon, sugar, water, and fresh mint. Like it?"


    "Yeah, I think I just found my new favorite drink. Thanks, man."


    "Aren''t you a little young to drink?" came a snide voice next to me. She was a tall girl with heavy curls dressed up as some sort of dryad. There was a large, plastic sunflower nestled behind her ear.


    "Villain," I grinned. "If I cared, I''d be a hero."


    "Right," she snorted. "Is underage drinking the worst of your crimes, Creed?"


    "Only when I''m sober."


    Before we could continue, someone else butted in. Like me, she flew above the people''s heads. Crystal Pelham was quite literally radiant, with strobing lights bouncing on her glitter-specked hair. "Creed," she said with a disapproving frown. "I thought it was you."


    "Know anyone else who can run on thin air?" I slowly looked her up and down before letting out a low whistle. She was dressed in a full-on disco doll outfit, with enough glitter to make my eyes hurt. "A tad too much glitter even for you, don''t''cha think, Sparkles?"


    "Shut it. I can only get away with drenching my hair in glitter one night out of the year. Let me have this. And actually, yes. Cloudwalker, Skyline, Osprey," she ticked off a finger with every name. "There are a lot of capes who can walk on air."


    I deflated exaggeratedly, slumping to lean my helmeted head against the countertop. "Way to make a guy feel like one in a crowd."


    "Sorry," she spoke in a tone that said anything but. She then turned to the dryad. "You with him?"


    "Umm¡­"


    "Just someone lecturing me about the merits of the legal drinking age."


    "She''s right. I could take you in for this," she smirked.


    "Really? You''re picking a fight over a mint Julie?"


    "Julep," Hector corrected helpfully.


    "That."


    Crystal glared at me sternly for a moment before breaking out into giggles. "Nah, does it look like I''m dressed for a fight?" She waved at herself, doing a little midair twirl. "Besides, you wouldn''t fight me. You''d just run away. Weenie."


    "I would. I''m just your cowardly tinker. Don''t mind me. No plans to conquer the world here, no siree."


    "That''s got to be the single sketchiest denial ever."


    "Probably. How''d you end up here anyway?"


    "Guess you wouldn''t know since you''re Wards-age but the Palanquin''s been advertising at the college for the past two weeks. Figured I''d see what''s what. I even brought my cousins."


    Seeing that she wouldn''t be getting Laserdream to back her, the dryad left in a huff for someone else to bother. Crystal sat down in the now empty stool and ordered some super-hoppy IPA. She took a sip and visibly tried not to wince.


    "How''s your drink?" I asked snidely.


    "Delicious. Can really taste the hops. I didn''t take you for the fruity cocktail type."


    "I didn''t either, but Hector made me a drink and I can''t say no to my friend, you know? This is really good though. Didn''t take you for the beer type either."


    "It''s¡­ okay¡­ It''s really bitter."


    I rolled my eyes. Sometime in the mid-2000s, hops became associated with artisan, craft beer in my past life too. Maybe I just had shit taste, but IPAs all just tasted like breweries were competing to make the most bitter beer possible. I slid my mug over. "Try this. Tastes a lot better than your swill, promise."


    She raised it gingerly to her lips. I saw her eyes light up as the sugary drink hit her tongue. "Woah, yeah, this is better."


    "See? Hector knows what he''s about."


    "So he does. Hi! Excuse me, can I get one of these instead?" she called to a bartender.


    She was served in a few minutes and we had a surprisingly civil conversation, as civil as a hero and a villain could have in Brockton. Taking a long sip of my drink, I asked, "So, Amy Dallon, Panacea, is here?"


    "Sorry, she doesn''t take requests." The tired way Crystal said that, like a telemarketer repeating a script for the millionth time, made me pity them. How often did people come to Crystal to maybe get a meeting with her cousin?


    I tried not to let it show on my face and instead laughed. "Hah, no, I don''t want her to treat me or anyone I know. I''m just surprised is all. Your cousin and Halbeard are running neck and neck to see who''s the biggest workaholic in the city. How''d you manage to get her out here, Sparkles?"


    "I didn''t. Vicky did," she said as though that explained everything. To be fair, it did. "Speaking of which¡­"


    "Crys!" my blonde friend called. Like me and Crystal before her, Victoria didn''t bother wading through the crowd and simply landed from on high. She was dressed as an angel, fluffy halo and all. Amy, dressed as a red devil with curling, plastic ram horns and a little barbed tail, scrambled down from the bridal carry. She must have seen me trying to stifle a laugh because she shot me a heated glare.


    I gave her a shit-eating grin and tapped the orange bindi-like gem set between my brows. She got my meaning; that thing was a camera, usually meant for SAINT to look through. Tonight was prime blackmail material. Amy in a "devilish" cocktail dress? Yes, please. No matter how the rest of the night went, I was already glad I came. I fully planned to hold this over her for years.


    "Ah, Collateral Damage Barbie, Panacea," I nodded and sipped my julep. "Fancy meeting you here."


    "Hey!"


    "Pft, ''Collateral Damage Barbie?''"


    "It''s not funny, Crystal," Vicky pouted. Her aura flared and I felt an ominous chill crawl up my back.


    "Vicky, aura," Amy reminded.


    Just that brief display had managed to clear several feet of room for us. "Shit, sorry, Ames."


    "How come Amy doesn''t get a nickname?" Crystal asked.


    "Because she''ll probably pull out my spine through my dick. Or I respect her. One of the two."


    "Oww, what are we then?"


    "My entertainment." Out of the corner of my eye, I saw several people lining up for the bar but too hesitant to approach the four capes. I gestured behind the girls. "Perhaps we should find someplace else to talk?"


    "Yeah, let''s. We''re in the booth by the stairs," she said before flying off with her cousins.


    I ordered several more mint juleps and balanced the copper mugs with Magnet Rise before walking off to their booth. "I bring booze!" I shouted with a cheery grin, arms splayed and five copper mugs floating circles around my head in a shitty imitation of Victoria''s halo.


    "Seriously? Are you always so¡­ extra?" Crystal asked.


    "Of course!" I thrust a single fist into the air. "If something is worth enjoying, it''s worth enjoying boisterously. Exuberantly. Go beyond! Pus Ultra! Youth!"


    "You realize that none of us are old enough to drink?"


    "It''s Halloween."


    "Yes," Amy drawled, "your argument is flawless."


    "Of course it is. I''m flawless."


    Crystal grabbed one of the mugs and took a sip. "Well my cousins aren''t going to drink. Unlike you, they have reputations to keep and teen heroes underage drinking isn''t the kind of message we want to send."


    "You''re underage too, right?"


    She shrugged and shot me a sly smirk. "I''m in college I look less obviously underage."


    "Hypocrite."


    "Take it up with mom. So long as I''m responsible about it, we''ve got an understanding. Either way, my cousins aren''t drinking."


    "Suit yourselves, but what do you mean I have no rep to keep? Why do you think I''m drinking?"


    "Because you''re trying to develop a habit?" Vicky chimed in. She''d taken off her halo and started to twirl it on a finger.


    "Funny, but no. I wouldn''t want to poison myself then make more work for your sister, especially not tonight."


    "Gee, how thoughtful of you," the resident healer drawled.


    I gamely ignored her. "I''m trying to be that carefree indie, someone who straddles the line between hero and villain."


    "Aren''t you trying too hard?"


    "Bombastic and over the top is better than meek and reserved. Besides, underage drinking is one of the few ways I can break the law without wrecking the place. That, and randomly pickpocketing people. Just look around, all these drunk idiots who''d blame a misplaced wallet on the alcohol come morning." I could see Amy glaring at me in warning. I laughed and pulled someone''s wallet out of his back pocket using Psychic before putting it back with a cheeky wave.


    "Ah, yes, your mysterious heroic sponsor. Care to tell us about the Goat?" Crystal probed.


    "The GOAT," I corrected. "All caps. It''s necessary."


    "Sure, The GOAT," she humored me.


    "The GOAT is the Greatest Of All Time. They are unassuming, like the humble goat. They are ever climbing, like the brave goat. They are true to themselves, like the resolute goat. The GOAT exemplifies all the virtues embodied in the noble goat, and so is called The GOAT," I waxed poeticaly. I felt Amy kick me under the table so I smiled at her like butter wouldn''t melt in my mouth. "They''re also very ill-tempered, also much like the goat."


    "Wow¡­ I genuinely don''t know what to say to that."


    "Say nothing, my dear. You need only bask in the glory of the truth."


    "Okay, how much are you getting paid to say that?"


    I raised my hands to the air and threw my voice like a reverend before his congregation. "I get paid in only one currency, the only one that will not depreciate: the Truth!"


    The look on Amy''s face, of a woman slowly losing her sanity, was like mana from heaven to my cold, black heart. Vicky tried to stifle a giggle. She''d waved down a waitress for a bottle of coke for herself and was nibbling from a plate of salted peanuts. "Seriously, what the hell? Did they really pick that name for themselves?"


    "The GOAT is a title conferred upon the noblest of souls. It is not a name chosen, but a crown bestowed," I said solemnly.


    "Sure¡­ So who are they?"


    "The GOAT is The GOAT. The GOAT is here and everywhere. All things are The GOAT, for all creation strives endlessly towards one peak."


    "Cous, I don''t think he''s going to tell us anything," Crystal said with a tired laugh.


    "Are you?" Vicky tried batting her lashes and I felt the sudden urge to cave. "Pretty please?"


    I shook my head and zapped myself with a weak Thunder Wave. "Aura," Amy, Crystal, and I chimed together.


    "I''d appreciate it if you didn''t do that again," I said firmly.


    "So, Creed, what''s with the name?" Crystal changed the subject, she clearly didn''t want a confrontation here either. "Is it supposed to mean you have a code of honor?"


    I nodded. "I chose the name because I wanted people to know that just because I''m a villain doesn''t mean I have no standards. That, and it tells people absolutely nothing about my personal skillset."


    "Clever. So what''s your creed then?"


    I held out a hand and began ticking them off on my fingers. "First, minimize civilian harm if reasonably possible. Second, do not target medical personnel or institutions dedicated to medicine. Third, do not target children or institutions dedicated to children. Fourth, all of the above goes out the window in the name of reciprocity. I will abide by these rules of engagement until these laws are compromised by my opponent. If you break the rules, you do not deserve their protection. Finally? The most important rule of all?"


    I leaned forward conspirationally. Then, in an exaggerated whisper, "Do nothing for free."


    The last one made the girls roll their eyes. "Of course. How dare we assume you have a charitable bone in your body."


    "Precisely. Charity is for whenever I need to cover up a scandal."


    "Creed¡­"


    "What? It''s a valuable life lesson: If something sounds too good to be true, that''s ''cause it is."


    Victoria frowned. "And your money-grubbing ways are better?"


    I shrugged as I polished off a mug of julep. "I don''t know about better. I never claimed to be. But I do think I''m more honest and there is value in that."


    We fell into an uneasy silence, three heroines and a single villain sipping their drinks. I grabbed another cup most of the girls couldn''t drink and savored the minty aftertaste as I scanned the room. A shock of ginger dreads almost made me choke. I hopped up three feet into the air and sure enough, I spotted my sister and her friends. She''d told mom and me that she''d go out with some friends and expected to sleep over at Sabah''s.


    ''Guess it makes sense. If Crystal heard about the party, then she must have as well.''


    "Something wrong, Creed?" Vicky asked.


    "No, I thought I saw some people I recognized. I''m sure they''ll be fine."


    Eventually, I tired of the miniature interrogation session and started balancing the copper mugs using Magnet Rise. I pulled on the leftover julep and ice cubes to create a dazzling circle around the mugs. Crystal spread out a swarm of weak lasers from her fingers, reflecting them against the spinning mugs to create a miniature lightshow. The lasers bounced on the shiny copper to form a pentagram star.


    I was impressed; I''d known she had lasers powerful enough to stagger Leviathan, but I didn''t know she could be so precise with them. We amused ourselves and a gathering crowd before I decided I''d had enough to drink.


    I settled the mugs down and stacked them neatly on the tray of a passing waitress. Standing, I took a flourishing bow. "Thank you, thank you. A round of applause for the wonderful Sparkles!"


    "Are you done already?" someone in the crowd asked.


    "Yes, I''m afraid I''m a bit of a lightweight."


    "Three mint juleps makes you a lightweight?" Amy drawled. "Methinks someone''s developing a habit."


    I shot her a shameless grin. "What can I say? Hector is wonderful and it would be rude to refuse his kindness. Speaking of, any of you fine folks in the crowd want a free drink?" I snagged the leftover mugs and passed them out.


    "Of course. You drink to be polite. What else could it be?"


    "In any case, I think it''s about time for me to go greet the hosts, and maybe pass out on their couch." With that, I took three hops into the air, then vanished with a swirl of my cape.


    Author''s Note


    Party scenes are hard. I''ve never been much for clubbing and I can count the number of times I''ve been in a club in the past ten years on one hand with fingers to spare. I tried to keep the scene closer to what I''d do, more about relationships and smaller group conversations than dancing.


    Fabled''s Animal Fact: There are twenty species of armadillos in the world we know about and their name means "little armored one." Disappointingly, most do not actually use Defense Curl in real life. Only one species, the three-banded armadillo, can ball itself.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 3.3 Surge

    Surge 3.3


    2010, October 30: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    I appeared in the Palanquin''s upstairs lounge, startling several of the patrons.


    The upstairs lounge, reserved for VIPs, was likewise decorated with festive spirit. Rather than spider webs, the walls had been covered in a scale pattern starting from one corner that faded smoothly into fractals and mazes. Looking closer, I could see pictures of jack-o-lanterns and bats embossed in a tasteful gold that tied the orange scales and green mazes together nicely.


    Faultline sat with Gregor and Labyrinth at end closest to the balcony, where she could overlook her domain in full. Rather than their usual masks, Faultline and Labyrinth wore simple domino masks that left their lower jaws bare so they could eat and drink.


    The ceiling was a bit lower there, casting them in shadow and providing some hint of privacy. The acoustics of the building had also been arranged so that the music wasn''t quite as loud here. I spied Newter in another corner close to the bar, a gaggle of inebriated girls surrounding him.


    Choosing to leave Newter to his fun for the night, I made my way over to Faultline, arms spread and a wide smile on my face. "Faultline, Gregor, Labyrinth! Thank you for the invitation, my friends," I called, louder than strictly necessary.


    "Good evening, Creed," the owner of the club said, standing. She extended a hand and I laid a soft kiss on the knuckle. Unlike the guests, she didn''t bat an eye at my sudden appearance. "A bit late for pageantry, don''t you think?"


    I took a seat next to Gregor and leaned back into the plush cushion. "What can I say? Tonight is a night for masks."


    "So it is. I take it you were enjoying the festivities?"


    "Indeed, Sparkles is one of the funny drunks."


    I spied a ghost of a smile. "I have it on good authority that she did not drink enough to get drunk tonight. Will you make nicknames for every hero you meet?"


    "Not Panacea. I respect her too much to mock the name. Why? Jealous?"


    "Hardly. I''m quite happy with my name, thank you."


    "As am I," Gregor said in his smooth baritone. "Would you care for a drink, my friend?"


    I looked around the table. Faultline nursed a glass of whiskey on the rocks with a single orange peel curled around the ice. Gregor had a margarita glass full of some fragrant liquid that was green on top and pink on the bottom. Labyrinth wore her shawl like a quilt and nursed a cup of coke.


    "Sorry, I actually came up here because I didn''t think I could drink more and be in a crowd without doing something stupid. Mind if I grab some water?"


    "Of course, it''s good for a man to know his limits." He waved and a waitress hurried over. Like the bartenders downstairs, she wore a cocktail dress, but unlike theirs, hers was a tasteful black and didn''t show nearly as much skin. The dress was accented in orange and gold, much like the rest of the room. A short, orange feather boa completed the outfit.


    "Gregor, what is it exactly that you''re drinking? It smells great."


    "It is a custom cocktail that Ethan made for me. Since opening the Palanquin, I''ve had many chances to try different drinks and I have discovered that I have a bit of a sweet tooth."


    "It tastes like watermelon," Labyrinth said. "Coke is better."


    "Of course," the Case 53 said indulgently before turning back to me. "How has business been going?"


    "I''m swamped, or I would be if I accepted the requests I got on PHO. Some of those are just plain ridiculous though."


    "Oh?"


    "About twenty percent of my inbox are death threats from Empire or Merchant accounts. Another twenty percent are just questions about my intentions for the city. There was that request from Velocity to come report to the PRT, too. Of the actual questions about my products, more than half of them were jokes. I mean, seriously, some asshat wanted me to make him fetish gear for his sex dungeon using Germa fibers so the ropes won''t break."


    "That sounds¡­ suspicious."


    "I know, right? I reported that account to Smaug Mama and moved on. I did receive an introductory message from Uppercrust and Big Rig though, so that was nice."


    "Are you interested in the Elite and Toybox?"


    "More Uppercrust and Big Rig in particular," I said. "I have no interest in any other Elite cell but the New York branch. Bastard Son needs to be put down like the dog he is. As for Toybox¡­ How upset would you be if I replied to Big Rig?"


    Faultline shrugged. "Not very, so long as you keep our current arrangement. I am a professional, Creed. We understand that yesterday''s enemies can become today''s allies and we conduct our business with that in mind. No sentimentality, no grudges, even if the other side feels differently."


    "Excellent, and I told you, we''re friends. I''m not going to leave you hanging because Toybox offered me a deal. Besides, like I said, I''m mostly interested in Big Rig. He''s got several designs for construction drones that I want."


    Labyrinth perked up at that. "Are you building a house?"


    "Kind of," I said with a smile. "I''m thinking about turning my lab into a mobile fortress."


    "I want to help." A marble pillar rose between us. Atop that pillar was a flawless sculpture depicting a castle on a hill. It shifted as I watched into the very recognizable Taj Mahal, and then some kind of Chinese pagoda taller than I thought was realistically possible had it been made of wood. "I know lots of castles."


    "Thanks, Labs, but it''s not that kind of fortress. I want to make a fortress that can move, to be where I need it no matter when or why."


    The pagoda grew a rounded dome at the very top with a needle. At its sides, three wings sprouted to form a rocket, or her best approximation of one. It was honestly really cute. "Like this?"


    "Not quite."


    The pagoda flattened down like some angry god smooshed it into the earth. A western medieval castle grew from its remains, as did a mountain that almost-but-not-quite pinched itself at the base in a rough diamond shape. It looked like something out of Howl''s Moving Castle. "How about now?"


    "No, I''m thinking more like a ship. I don''t think it''ll be a building in the normal sense, sorry."


    "Aww¡­" She looked dejected for a moment, then perked up again. "Can I help decorate?"


    ''Am I ready to share the lab with someone else?'' I thought about the question. Amy knew where it was, but she was as loyal as they came. As manipulative as it was, her neuroses would keep her from just leading the heroes to my doorstep unless I crossed some major lines. Nor could she even get there on her own for that matter.


    But Faultline''s Crew¡­ They had no interest in the city, but I knew that they could be convinced to intervene here if given enough incentive. I wanted to think that they were friends, and that the feeling was mutual, but money talked, and Faultline certainly spoke the language. I was saved from having to answer by Faultline.


    "Labyrinth, I don''t think Creed wants anyone to know where his lab is."


    "I don''t," I agreed, shooting her a grateful nod, "but she wouldn''t be the first to visit. Tell you what, Labs, I''ll give you your own room and you can decorate it as you please when I finish building the whole thing, okay? Then it''ll be mobile and a far lesser security risk to show it off."


    "Promise?"


    "Promise," I said. It was one promise I''d make easily. By the time I was proud enough of my ship to allow someone else on board, I''d also be strong enough to dissuade all but the strongest threats in the world.


    Labyrinth nodded and went back to scanning the dance floor aimlessly. I wasn''t sure what she found so interesting about the sea of pulsing bodies and strobing lights, but she seemed amused so I left her to it.


    "So your lab is big enough that you can assign rooms to guests, huh?" Faultline said with a smirk.


    I coughed awkwardly. "You know what we need? A change of topic. Say, Gregor, how''d you end up joining the Crew?"


    He laughed but went along with me. "There is not much to tell, my friend. I will caution you however that not all Case 53s are as comfortable with our origins, or lack thereof, as I am."


    "Shit, sorry," I apologized. It came to me that asking a Case 53 about their earliest memories could be seen in much the same way as asking a cape about their trigger. "That was insensitive, wasn''t it?"


    "Do not mind it. You asked how I came to join Faultline, though my origins are tied to it. My earliest memories, like most like me, are not pleasant. I woke up in the sewers, with not a scrap of clothing to my name. When I emerged, people fled from my appearance. The Detroit Protectorate even thought I was a biotinker''s creation for a time. It was a cape from one of the many gangs there that stopped to speak with me first, someone by the name of Cabaret. She ran a club similar to the Palanquin and employed me as a bouncer. It was during the off hours that I taught myself to read, write, and use modern technology."


    "That''s impressive. I don''t know if I could do that." I was reminded again that despite appearances, Gregor was anything but a brute. His bulky frame bellied a self-reflective and philosophical mind that thought deeply.


    "Thank you. I spent two years with Cabaret until one of her rivals, Volcanic, set fire to her club. Cabaret passed away." He sounded genuinely morose as he remembered his first employer and likely friend. "The event made me seek my prospects elsewhere and over the course of several weeks, I made my way to Philadelphia, where I met Faultline."


    Here, Faultline took over. "I offered him a deal: He would join me as my partner and I would do whatever it took to help him find the truth behind Case 53s."


    "And¡­ Have you?"


    "No, we''ve found little. Due to recent events in Philadelphia, we were forced to relocate to Brockton Bay. We do not intend to give up."


    Gregor placed the remains of his cocktail on the coaster. "Indeed. While Newter and I are both comfortable with our bodies, we wish to know who we were, if only to put it behind us."


    I nodded. "Makes sense. It''s a worthwhile goal."


    I couldn''t do it now, but there were plenty of fictions out there where growing an entire body in a vat was feasible. It was very possible that one day, I would have the means to move someone''s consciousness into a new vessel. In that event, would the Shard remain? Would it go berserk like with Noelle? Or in the worst scenario, without a human mind, would I inadvertently create a titan? I wanted so badly to offer Gregor hope, to say that one day, I could fix him, but those words died in my throat. He didn''t even know I could biotinker and I wanted it to stay that way, for now.


    "Ah¡­ Faultline..." Before either of us could say more, Labyrinth drew our attention to the dance floor. We looked where she pointed and saw three men surrounding my sister and friends.


    This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    We couldn''t hear them from here, but Sierra and Michelle were standing with Sabah between and behind them, arms crossed defensively. One of the three men leaned forward aggressively. Whatever was said, it made the girls shrink back even further. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Labyrinth sink into the couch, hands wrapping around her elbows.


    Faultline looked them over for a bare two seconds before sighing. "Empire wannabes," she growled, out of irritation more than any actual concern, like someone who just found out they forgot to do laundry. "There''s always a few."


    "How can you tell?"


    "Most of their aggression seems to be on the Indian girl."


    "I don''t like them," the waifish blonde whispered.


    One of them reached out to grab Sierra''s arm and I saw red.


    "Arabic," I corrected her without thinking. I stood, sparks dancing from my fists. "I know this is your club, Faultline, but if you don''t kick them out, I will."


    "You know them?"


    "Friends of mine out of costume."


    She looked at me, then at Labyrinth, and nodded before waving to a waitress. "Sit down, Creed. Let me handle this. As you said, it''s my club."


    I took a deep breath and reluctantly took my seat. "Thank you, Faultline. And thank you, Labyrinth, for finding them," I said. I didn''t think the blonde heard me. "The redhead''s name is Sierra. The brunette is Michelle and the Arabic girl is Sabah. Sierra and Sabah aren''t the clubbing type, but I can guess why they''re here. I don''t want this to be the highlight of their night so¡­"


    "Say no more." The waitress hurried over and Faultline whispered angrily in her ear. She wasn''t the one she was mad at, but she paled anyway. "I''ll have them brought up as an apology. Food and drinks on me tonight. I take it you can pretend to be a stranger for an evening?"


    "Yes," I said, relieved. They shouldn''t have to end their night this way. "Or I''ll just make myself scarce. Either way, I owe you one."


    "Don''t mention it. You are not the only one who finds such men¡­ vexing."


    "Gang members will sometimes visit the club," Gregor said in his smooth, jazz band accent. "Most of them are here for recreational purposes and we leave them be, but there have been several who have intentionally sought to cause trouble."


    "Why do you let them in at all?"


    "Like those three, they don''t always wear their colors on their sleeves. It is not until they act that we can see their true allegiance."


    "I also cannot ban gang members so long as they do not start fighting," Faultline added. She met my disgruntled glare coolly. "Think calmly, Creed. I am neutral, and that means treating all equally, even if I don''t like it."


    Beside her, Labyrinth brought her cup to her lips with shaking hands. "Please don''t fight."


    "We''re not fighting, Labs. I''m sorry for worrying you." I let out a frustrated sigh. "I hate politics sometimes."


    "Politics is a tool, one you''ve used well enough so far, but it can just as easily inconvenience you."


    "So I''m learning."


    "Faultline," Gregor said firmly. He gestured not to Labyrinth, but to her feet.


    I looked and couldn''t quite suppress a gasp. The warm, hardwood floor of the Palanquin had been replaced by cold, white porcelain. The sofa she sat on became a cot on rickety metal. It was like watching the world be rolled up like a scroll, the wallpaper of reality being peeled back to reveal the ugly truth beneath. Labyrinth had fully retreated into herself and pulled her knees to her chest, making the already slim girl look positively diminutive.


    "Shit," she swore. She glanced down and saw Sabah, Sierra, and Michelle make their way upstairs, led by a smiling waitress. "Gregor, take her too her room."


    The large man swept Labyrinth up in his arms and began to lumber away. I stood to follow. I didn''t know what I could do, but I felt that I had to see this. Maybe it was because she was the first to receive a full costume from me, but in the short time I''d known her, the quiet girl had grown on me.


    Faultline grabbed me by the shoulder. "I''m sorry, Creed, but we''ll handle things from here."


    "I want to help."


    "We''re just going to put her to sleep. It''s fine. Keep your friends company."


    I saw that she wouldn''t budge so I collapsed back into my seat.


    I sighed and considered looking for the door. The night started fun, a lovely chat with three pretty girls, a nice buzz courtesy of my favorite barkeep, and even some bonding time with my closest allies. Now though, Sabah, Michelle, and Sierra were coming up and Faultline and co. were obviously busy. I could feel the buzz of alcohol starting to wear off so I gave the bouncer a respectful nod and dipped out into the night.


    X


    2010, October 31: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    It was almost one in the morning when I arrived back in my room. I was tired, more emotionally than physically, but there was one more thing I wanted to do before I hit the hay. The gravity child serum was complete, had been complete for a day or so now, and it was time for me to inject it into myself. I didn''t know how long it''d take for my body to undergo the changes catalyzed by the serum, so I had to do it tonight or wait a full week. Sunday was free, Monday was not.


    I held the vial in my hand and held it to the light. The serum was a nearly uniform cobalt with some hints of silver sheen. It had a milky tint to it and to the untrained eye, it could have passed for mercury.


    I pulled out a pack of non-prescription contacts I''d bought in textured disguise just for this purpose and set them under my pillow. SAINT popped out of my Pok¨¦Nav as I settled into bed.


    "SAINT, the serum should knock me out for several hours, six at minimum but more likely eight to ten. Could you put the syringe out of sight? I don''t want mom coming in to wake me in the morning and freak out thinking I overdosed or something."


    "Porygon," he nodded.


    I reached out and gave him a scritch beneath the bill. "Thanks, bud, you''re the best. Salted almonds are in the third drawer. Don''t be seen."


    Instructions given, I found the vein on the crook of my elbow and pressed the injector. A hypodermic needle popped out with a muted sting. I pressed the plunger and watched the liquid silver sink into my veins.


    Then the world became a little fuzzy and inky blackness crawled up the sides of my vision.


    X


    I woke up to the sun glaring down on me from my window. I closed my eyes against the harsh light and instinctively reached for a pillow to cover my face. The sudden ache stopped my hand cold, forcing a groan from my lips.


    I learned a valuable truth that day: Alcohol and superpower granting serums did not mix. Sure, there were no permanent negative effects, but hangovers weren''t exactly fun to deal with, especially when just moving made my muscles ache something fierce.


    "Wow, what the hell happened to you, bro?" My sister''s voice came from beside me. "You''re not usually this lazy. What happened to your morning run?"


    "Get out," I managed a pathetic mumble. I couldn''t even muster the anger at her being in my room.


    She did not leave. Instead, she slapped a palm down hard on my stomach, squeezing out a loud whoomph from my lungs. "Oh, come on, Bryce. Mom''s already back from church and making lunch. Get up!"


    "Gahh!" I shouted. Just for a moment, I felt my aura respond and almost hurl my sister through the wall. I thankfully managed to leash it in time. Instead of the retaliation she so rightly deserved, I turned on my side and curled into a ball. "Sis, seriously, fuck off."


    "Bryce, you alright?" she asked, concerned now. "I didn''t hit you that hard, did I?"


    "You didn''t. I think I pulled something while I was jogging yesterday," I lied. "Can you please leave?"


    "Alright, little bro, but come down for lunch in fifteen minutes, ''kay?"


    I muttered something vaguely resembling assent and waited for her to leave before drawing the curtains shut using Psychic. Now in blissful shade, I opened my eyes.


    I saw more. No, not metaphorically, I literally saw more. Colors were more vivid, details more distinct. Pooky, the stuffed bear my sister gifted me as a joke when I was seven, sat atop my desk as he always did. Except now, I could count every last fraying hair if I wanted to. More, I could track the movement of a fleck of dust that floated onto the bear''s nose. It was a remarkable amount of detail. I now had eyes that could compare favorably with a bird of prey''s.


    "Right, the twinkle eye," I muttered, "that''s a thing gravity children have."


    The twinkle eye was called that because the pupils of gravity children could contract into crosses, giving the illusion of "twinkles." The cross shapes formed large horizontal and vertical apertures, allowing for accurate gauging of distance. Because they were cross-shaped instead of larger circles, they blocked excess light, minimizing loss of detail.


    My retinas now also boasted two intersecting linear foveae, sections of retinas that contained cone cells to best use the new pupil shape. The twinkle eye granted no powers, I could neither warp time and space nor see through miles of solid rock like something out of Naruto, but it was in itself a marvel of biology.


    I crawled out of bed and did my best to ignore the massive migraine pounding nails into my skull. I felt through the bond more than saw SAINT come out of the small nest I''d built for him in the closet. He nudged my hand with the contacts I''d hidden beneath my pillow.


    "Thanks, bud," I spoke softly, but even that sent a twinge of pain through my skull. Then, I got the bright idea to try and avoid the body-wide ache by lifting myself with Psychic. I immediately fell down, my head curled gingerly in my hands.


    "Rgghhh..." That was a terrible idea, the kind that made me sympathize with Lisa and Dinah.


    I lay there contemplating my own stupidity before slowly getting up, first on my hands and knees, then on my feet when the world stopped spinning. I palmed my contacts and went to the bathroom to put them on. My reflection stared back at me, cross-shaped pupils set in an otherwise unremarkable face. I allowed myself a moment to take in my new appearance before inserting the contacts.


    Or, trying. Poorly.


    Eventually, I stopped bruising my own eyeballs and managed to insert them properly.


    Already, the ache was fading, to be replaced by the increased coordination and proprioception that came with being a gravity child. I helped it along with generous use of Recover.


    Finally ready, I headed down to eat with my mom and sister. I took a seat at the table and my wonderful mother placed a bowl of linguine carbonara before me. I had to remind myself that I''d slept through breakfast.


    "Smells great, mom." I barely got the words out of my mouth before inhaling a forkful of eggy, bacon-y noodles.


    "Bryce, what kept you? You''re not usually the type to sleep ''til noon," mom said.


    I savored the buttery noodles and salty guanciale before answering. "I don''t know. I guess it was a combination of stuff. I think I pulled something when I was out jogging yesterday. Then I stayed up late researching the Canary trial for a world issues project. I''m not sure when I went to bed, but I guess I was more tired than I thought."


    "Do you want me to look at your back? I am a chiropractor, you know."


    "Nah, it''s fine, mom. It''s not that bad."


    "Okay, but come to me if it gets worse."


    "Wil do."


    We ate in companionable silence for several minutes before mom turned to Sierra. "So, honey, how was your night?"


    "Ah¡­ Slept at Sabah''s. You know, did some student things."


    Mom looked utterly unamused. "I was your age too, once. It''s not hard to tell you were at a Halloween party. I''m not mad."


    "You''re not?"


    "I just want you to tell me where you''re going, dear. Besides, I trust Sabah to be responsible."


    "Oh. Oww¡­ You trust Sabah over your own daughter."


    "I know you," she said like that explained everything. To be fair, between the three of us, it did. "So? How was it?"


    "Not too bad. I met Crystal, Victoria, and Amy from New Wave." She grinned teasingly at me. "I asked Amy what she thought of you, Bryce. Do you want to know what she said?"


    I rolled my eyes. She might have met them and asked after I''d left, otherwise she was full of it, but I couldn''t exactly call her out on it. "I''m sure she told you that I''m a pain in the ass."


    "She did, it was super cute."


    "What part of Amy Dallon is cute?"


    "Denial and puppy love. She cares about you, you know. For someone who calls you a pain in the ass, she had an awful lot of things to say about you."


    "I''m sure she can tell you more about testicular cancer than you''ll ever need to know. Knowledge doesn''t mean fondness. We''re friends, for the hundredth time."


    "Sure, Bryce, sure," she winked conspirationally.


    Sierra was my big sister. She''d never stop giving me shit over my "relationship" with Amy; it was what big sisters did. Rather than argue with her, I turned to mom with a change in topic. "Mom, I need some advice. I got my second tutoring client the other day named Hannah. I''m having a hard time getting her to study though. How do I motivate her?"


    "Hmm, I suppose you wouldn''t have been hired if she was the studious sort. You need to be firm with her."


    "I am, but I think the problem is that she''s in eighth grade. She thinks she can act out because I''m basically the same age as her." I wasn''t expecting much in the way of advice, more venting for the sake of venting. "I miss Matt¡­ or Mike¡­ Whatever his name was¡­"


    Sierra took a bite of her carbonara and slurped up a stray noodle. Now that we were talking about more serious topics, she was happy to drop the teasing. "Matt''s that cape geek you tutored last, right? How''d you get him to study?"


    "I phrased algebra as real-world problems involving cape fights and introduced him to physics equations. You know, speed, force, that sort of thing. Why?"


    "Well, maybe you can do that? What''s she interested in?"


    "As far as I can tell? She''s a pretty stereotypical popular girl. You know, glitter, ripped jeans, Glory Girl obsession, attached with a death grip to her phone, the works. I don''t think she''s going to be interested in real life applications of algebra. It''s only been a week and I want to hurt her."


    "Bryce¡­" mom trailed warningly.


    "I know, I know. No maiming people who give me money¡­ Don''t worry, I''m much nicer to her in person. She''s just¡­ she''s the type of person who''ll smile for the adults but do whatever she wants the moment she thinks she can get away with it."


    "Yeah, wish I could help, bro, but I don''t really have any advice for you. I mean, I''m supposed to be tutoring you but you''ve always been really studious so I never had to do that."


    Mom jabbed a fork in my direction. "Wait, honey, don''t you know Glory Girl?"


    "Yeah, mom. Victoria is a friend of mine. What about her?"


    "Well how about getting Victoria to meet with her?"


    I brightened and gave her a big, fake smile. "Thanks, mom, that''s a great idea. I can have Vicky shake her down a bit. Think she''d be willing to hang Hannah from the flagpole?"


    Sierra kicked me under the table while mom slapped my shoulder. "Bryce!" They said together.


    "Kidding, kidding. Mostly¡­"


    "I mean, what if you can have Victoria give her a talking to?"


    "What? Use my heroic friend''s reputation to get her to study? That seems¡­ juvenile."


    "Oh, I know!" Sierra exclaimed. "How about something more natural? Like, agree to go out for dinner with your friends after tutoring and have Glory Girl swoop down to meet you at the school parking lot so that Hannah girl can watch."


    A part of me wanted to reject that idea out of hand, but the more I thought about it, the better it sounded. Vicky was the polar opposite of Amy; she had no trouble flaunting her celebrity status in the name of helping others. "That¡­ that might work. It''s petty as fuck, but maybe¡­?"


    "Language," mom said reproachfully.


    "I''ll talk with her on Monday and see if she''d be willing to help me out. If not, well¡­ I might have to give back the money Mrs. Chong paid me and apologize."


    Author''s Note


    Nothing to say, so have an animal fact: Polar bears are black. Yes, they actually have black skin and blubber. As for their fur, the white color actually comes from the structure of their hair follicles. The follicles are translucent and reflect the nearest source of light, which in most cases tends to be snow.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 3.4 Surge

    Surge 3.4


    2010, October 31: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    I spent the rest of Sunday in my room, drawing up tinkertech blueprints for the Pledge Regalia. It was a large, cross-shaped piece of machinery that resembled a headstone at first glance. The cross itself was disjointed, with slanted lines intersecting its body to mark the points where it could be disassembled. It was not one cross, but eight thinner crosses stacked atop one another. When fully deployed, the crosses could separate and float around the Pledge Queen, synchronizing the abilities of her subordinates and allowing her to work on large-scale projects simultaneously.


    The crosses functioned as a set of giant megaphones, radio receivers, and amplifiers that processed and released sound waves as extremely precise vibrations that could not be heard by humans. Or, at least, that was the theory provided by Air Gear. How it expanded "vibrations" to include mechanical deconstruction of high-tech power armor was beyond me. Then again, I didn''t care about the how, only that it worked.


    I finished off my sketch by redesigning my helmet to include the specialized headset Kururu used in canon. Luckily, unlike the hybrid engine, this one went smoothly. The headset wasn''t truly tinkertech, just a highly advanced audio suite, and it fit in nicely to replace the one already in my helmet. With that done, I joined my family for a simple dinner of some shepherd''s pie


    When I returned, I decided to relax by strumming dad''s guitar. I felt as though I''d let it fall to the wayside a bit, too absorbed in cape life. Funnily enough, my skills had not rusted. Or rather, I was hyper-aware of every single movement of my fingers across the strings, every vibration. I belatedly realized that this was the result of what Dr. Minami had called the solid sense type, one of the two modifications to a gravity child''s cerebral cortex.


    It wasn''t expounded on much in canon, but as I understood it, this new section of my brain helped me make sense of vibrations. It, in an almost literal way, allowed me to paint a "solid picture" of sound waves, an instinctive understanding of a sense I''d never had before. It was echolocation, but tuned up with anime-logic. With it, I could feel each wavelength from peak to peak caused by the oscillating strings. I tweaked one tuning peg then another, marveling at my newfound perfect pitch.


    As much as I enjoyed playing the guitar for how it reminded me of dad, I''d never been particularly gifted. Sierra and mom said I was talented at the guitar because I was so young and seemingly picked up music chords quickly relative to my age, but they didn''t know I had an entire life of mediocre talent and experience to draw upon.


    Musical talent was always something I''d envied. I played through "All Along the Watchtower," dad''s favorite Hendrix song, and decided then and there that even without the twinkle eye or the versatile powers granted by the regalias, the gravity child serum was worth the trouble for this alone.


    I was so happy to discover my new affinity for music that I started to hunt down my favorite bands. Most of them were from my past life and had to be imported from Aleph like Guns N'' Roses, Bon Jovi, and Linkin Park, but I''d also developed a taste for Bad Canary''s punk-pop music while researching her sham trial. To this day, "It''s My Life" by Bon Jovi was my favorite song, and the only one I knew how to play both on the piano and guitar. I started strumming the introductory chords and to my surprise, I felt SAINT tug on my bond.


    "Pory," he trilled quietly. There was affection there, and curiosity too, but the most prevalent emotion was simple contentment. Somewhere along the line, it seemed as though SAINT had adopted my interest in music. Or, more likely, he could feel my own enjoyment and reflected that through aura. I smiled happily as he leaned into my side and twitched his blocky little feet in time with my strumming.


    ''That''s one more thing I need to explore. Just how far does my ability with aura extend?'' I wondered. Was our bond enough to let him gain "levels" even without direct combat experience? Could we one day coordinate without speaking aloud at all? How would I know when he is mature enough to handle evolution? Should I just give him the Upgrade and let him decide when he wants to use it?


    I didn''t know. Being a pseudo-parent was hard.


    I shelved the thought for later and instead started to sing.


    I listened to myself cover the first verse and visibly winced. Just because I had perfect pitch now did not mean I could sing well. Unlike guitar strings, there were no convenient tuning pegs for my vocal cords. I heard every imperfection, no matter how small. I eventually got better at ignoring them in favor of simply enjoying the music, just one more thing I''d have to get used to.


    It was almost ten when I finally put down my guitar. I checked my PHO account one last time and sent off three PMs. One was to Kid Win, reminding the young Ward to go buy a box of Legos. The other two were replies to Big Rig, the Toybox tinker specializing in large-scale construction, and Uppercrust, head of the New York branch of the Elite.


    Big Rig,


    Sorry for the late reply, Big Rig. While I''m sure Toybox has a lot to offer me, I''m not interested in joining a faction, even a neutral one like yours. Unfortunately, membership in Toybox would mean leaving Brockton Bay and I find that unacceptable at this time. That said, I would be more than happy to do business with you.


    To be clear: You. Not Toybox, you. If anyone else in the Toybox network desires my services, they will have to approach me of their own accord. As far as I am concerned, I will deal with each of you as an individual, not a collective.


    You expressed an interest in my soda engine. I am delighted to inform you that my engine has been upgraded. It is the size of an office desk trash can and has a power output comparable to a ramjet. [Here] are the exact specifications for your perusal. I would also be happy to include examples of my Germa fiber polymer weave, seastone, and wapometal with our first transaction so you can stress test the materials yourself.


    The precise quantity of those materials I''m willing to sell will depend on what you plan to make with them.


    Now, as for myself, I am interested in your engineering CAD software as well as any fabrication machines you may have designed for construction purposes. We can trade, one for one, or we can start a video call sometime this week to negotiate the specifics.


    A prospective business partner,


    Creed


    I figured that if I could get Big Rig to approve of my raw materials like the seastone, he might decide he wanted a stable supply. In that case, I would be able to argue that his fabricators should be provided to me at a discount seeing how he was partially helping to secure his own supply chain.


    I sent a similar missive to Uppercrust.


    Uppercrust,


    Sorry for the late reply, Uppercrust. While I''m sure the Elite has a lot to offer me, both locally and nationally, I''m not interested in joining a faction, even a neutral one like yours. As I said, I consider my freedom to be the first and highest virtue. I would decline membership even should you establish a cell in Brockton Bay and give me a position of authority. I''m sorry, but that just isn''t where I see myself at this time.


    That said, I would be more than happy to trade with you.


    As I understand it, and please correct me if I am mistaken, your specialization is defensive technology on a grand scale. I''m sorry to say that I am largely uninterested in your tinkertech at the time, though that will likely change as my own repertoire develops. However, I admire your work and would be happy to provide you with a newly upgraded soda engine. It is the size of an office desk trash can and has a power output comparable to a ramjet. [Here] are the exact specifications.


    If you find that you can use my engine to help power large-scale force fields, I would be happy to sell you additional models at a discount. All I ask in exchange is that you utilize the Elite''s network to assist in the acquisition of raw materials for my own projects. I would like to arrange a video call sometime this week to negotiate the specifics.


    Best,


    Creed


    I hadn''t lied to my friends. I sincerely respected Uppercrust, hence my willingness to part with the first hybrid soda engine for free. I also saw this as a smart investment. Uppercrust''s shields could not withstand the direct might of an endbringer, as Leviathan had shown, but they could protect a city''s major infrastructure against most natural disasters.


    He represented a vital part of the world''s infrastructure. For example, he was a big part of why Leviathan''s tsunamis did not completely sink neighboring cities. If he decided my engines were a highly efficient, cost-effective way to power them, I''d be looking at millions in revenue, even after cutting him a large discount.


    More than that, Uppercrust was old. By parahuman standards, he was an ancient elder. His injury, of some malady I either couldn''t remember or canon never identified, was likely something I''d be able to fix in time, assuming I had his trust and the right specialization. Or better yet, perhaps I could direct Amy to him when she didn''t quite have the same black and white mentality concerning her power as she had in canon.


    It''d take a while to convince her that helping a villain, even a man like Uppercrust, was the morally right thing to do, but I was wearing her down, slowly but surely.


    I went to bed with flying dollar signs swirling in my mind. Who said helping the world couldn''t be profitable?


    X


    2010, November 1: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    I set down my tray of popcorn chicken and fries with a clatter that grabbed the table''s attention. "Friends," I declared, "I am in need of assistance."


    Stephanie and Chelsea had gone off on some cheer competition and wouldn''t be back until Wednesday. Vicky and Amy had yet to arrive so it was just us guys.


    "Hey, Bryce, you''re oddly energetic," Carlos noted. "What''s going on?"


    "I''m having a hard time tutoring this girl named Hannah. How do I get her to study?"


    Dennis shrugged. "Dunno, my dude. That''s not really my thing. Try Dean, he''s the student council president."


    "I''m afraid I don''t have much for you either," the school''s heartthrob said. "Being the student council president doesn''t actually have much to do with motivating people to study. Have you tried genuinely asking her? Sometimes, a bit of empathy goes a long way."


    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    "I didn''t get the chance because she jumped on her phone within the first four minutes of the session."


    "Take away her phone." Carlos took a bite of his pizza. "You need to be firm with kids."


    "I tried, but she''s the type to throw a fit over it."


    "How old is she?"


    "Eighth grade."


    He winced. "Ouch. I feel you, Bryce. I have a little sister who''s six years younger than me. She doesn''t always listen even when I have so many years on her."


    "Yeah, I''m only a year older so she treats me like a nagging peer than a teacher."


    "Have you tried bribing her with something she likes? Juana, my sister, needs to be bribed with snacks or time outside to do her homework."


    "Yeah, that''s basically what I did. I threatened to tell her mother. It worked, but I just wish there''s something I could do that isn''t running to mom."


    "Hey guys, what''s going on?" Victoria and Amy had arrived. New Wave''s golden girl took a seat next to Dean, with Amy taking her other side. I had no idea how or why, but I could only assume that Dean and Victoria had gotten back together at some point over the weekend.


    "Bryce needs help with a girl," Dennis said with a grin.


    Victoria''s grin took on a distinct shark-like edge. "Oh? Do tell."


    My palm met my forehead. I picked up a popcorn chicken and chucked it at the ginger clown.


    Amy saw and barked out a laugh. "Out of context?"


    "Very." I ripped up a packet of black pepper and sprinkled it over my ketchup. "We''re talking about how I can get an eighth grade girl I''m tutoring to actually give a damn about studying. Carlos says I should bribe her with something, but the only thing I know for a fact she''s interested in is Glory Girl."


    "Peanuts," Amy said definitively. "Train her like Pavlov''s dog."


    "I''ll give you an autograph if it''ll help," Vicky chimed in. "I don''t mind meeting a fan."


    "Okay, thanks, Vicky. I''m going to use you as a bribe. She doesn''t get to meet you unless she does her damn homework."


    "Hey, on another note, I met Creed on Saturday," Vicky sang.


    Dean straightened at that. "What? When? Did he do something?"


    "No, it was at the Halloween party at the Palanquin that Crystal dragged us to. He was actually pretty tame."


    "What? No hostages? He didn''t try to burn the building down?" I snarked.


    "No."


    "Drug stash?"


    "Nope."


    "Stealing people''s wallets?"


    "Actually, no. He joked about it, but I''m ninety percent sure he didn''t take anything."


    "Huh¡­"


    "The worst thing I saw him do was underage drinking. He''s a bit of a character."


    "Why was he there in costume?" Dean asked. "Wasn''t he big on not being affiliated with any gang?"


    "To drink without an ID, didn''t you hear?" Dennis said.


    "I don''t actually know," Victoria shrugged. "We just talked about random stuff. Didn''t really get to grill him or anything, you know?"


    "Nice, hear anything juicy?"


    "Nah, he said some weird stuff about The GOAT then left."


    "You should be careful," Dean warned. "He might seem harmless, but he''s still a villain."


    Vicky laughed. "I think I can take him."


    "Maybe, but that''s no reason to underestimate the guy," Carlos spoke up. "We keep hearing that every criminal is dangerous, especially tinkers since they''re so unpredictable."


    "She probably could," I said as I nibbled on my last popcorn chicken. "She''s definitely stronger and can fly freely. Are you electric proof?"


    "Mostly? Uncle Neil can''t really shock me either."


    "Then we haven''t seen anything Creed can do that you can''t just bullrush your way through."


    "See? Bryce believes in me."


    "I believe in facts," I drawled. "I think he could probably avoid the fight with you by teleporting or whatever he did to leave last time, but I don''t think he can win a straight fight."


    I was being truthful. I had options, like shooting her with the Walker pistol before punching her throat using Psychic at the same time her barrier went down, but I didn''t think I could take her down without resorting to such lethal measures. She was that fast and strong. For a lot of reasons, not least of which was the potential Red Queen sitting five feet away from me, "lethal" wasn''t exactly a viable option. If I ever met Glory Girl in costume, I''d probably play tag with her before jobbing and running away.


    The rest of lunch was spent talking about what they thought Creed would do now that it seemed like there wouldn''t be a gang war erupting. The general consensus seemed to be that he''d likely lay low for a bit and make money off his catalog.


    X


    Tutoring went a little better, mostly because I threatened to call her mother then offered her the carrot that was meeting Vicky. Even so, Hannah just wasn''t a motivated kid and I decided to do the bare minimum to fulfill my obligations as a tutor, nothing else. After all, my original goal for tutoring wasn''t because I had any dreams of being an educator. I just wanted an excuse to vanish into my lab for a few hours during the day.


    If she wasn''t going to put in the effort, then fuck her.


    I finished up our session at five in the afternoon and stepped out of sight before changing into my costume.


    Several minutes later, I found myself at the Brockton Bay Central Bank.


    "Greetings, mortals!" I shouted as I flung the doors wide. The security guards immediately readied themselves. "Now, now, is this how you treat a client?"


    "Sir, you can''t be he-" one of the security guards, Tom, his tag read, tried to grab my shoulder.


    I let him, then kept walking, dragging him along like a sack of potatoes. "I am here, to WITHDRAW FUNDS FOR MY VILLAINOUS OPERATIONS!" Deafening silence followed my proclamation.


    ''This is fun; I can see why All Might behaved this way,'' I chuckled internally.


    Seeing how no one was moving, I stood behind an older gentleman, black with a salt and pepper beard that was immaculately cared for. "How is your day going, sir?" I asked politely.


    "Umm¡­ What''re you supposed to be?"


    Tom tugged at my arm again, more insistently this time. "Sir, we don''t serve villains," he said firmly.


    "Don''t mind me, good chap. I''m just here to withdraw some money." I turned back to the businessman. "And can I say, your beard is immaculate, sir."


    Tom got fed up with trying to coax me outside and decided that since I wasn''t actively fighting back, he could just pick me up and carry me out. I let him. The moment he placed me outside like a disposable mannequin, I strolled right back to my place in line. I could have gone about this in a dozen different ways, but just because Amy wouldn''t let me rob a bank didn''t mean I couldn''t troll them for shits and giggles.


    "Sir!" he shouted. He rushed over and tried to pick me up again. This time, I used Psychic to push down, effectively grounding myself.


    I nudged the comely businessman and sent him a mischievous wink. "You''ve got to admire Tom''s dedication, eh?"


    The bank manager, a man named Spielman, came over. He was a stereotypical fat cat: big beer belly, balding, white, and with a suit that was perfectly tailored to make him look important. "Sir, I''m going to have to ask you to leave," he said.


    Unlike Tom, I could see the beads of sweat running down his balding head. He managed to stand with his back straight, staring my comparatively diminutive form down with all the bureaucratic outrage he could muster.


    "I refuse," I chirped cheerily. ''Guess seeing me not hit Tom gave him a backbone.'' "And may I just say, your service is atrocious. I understand that I have a bit of¡­ gravitas to my presence, but that''s no reason to stop serving your clients."


    "We don''t serve villains!" he said, growing increasingly flustered.


    "Why of course you do, my rotund friend. You''re a bank, all your biggest clients are villains., most just don''t wear masks." He sputtered something that I ignored. "Well, the way I see it, you can either serve the clients, including me, or I, a notorious villain, will remain in your lobby and detract from this bank''s sterling reputation."


    "The Protectorate has been called, sir," the second security guard said.


    "Hah! They''ll come to remove you!"


    I tapped my chin guard with an index finger in an exaggerated show of contemplation. "But if they do that, I''ll have to fight them, which will certainly mean the bank will close for the next week due to collateral damage. And I''ll just be back next week for the same."


    That galvanized someone in line. "Just serve him already," a woman shouted.


    ''Typical of Brockton Bay,'' I thought. ''Capes are entertainment until they interfere with daily life. Then they should be appeased as soon as possible.'' I didn''t let my contempt show and instead clapped. "You see, Pugman? There is only one thing for you to do."


    He growled something unintelligible and stomped off. "Come here," he said resignedly.


    "I refuse!"


    "What?"


    "I will not cut in line, that''s just despicable, and even a villain like me has standards," I said with my nose turned up at the sky.


    Within minutes, like the true Brocktonites they were, both the bank and patrons went about their business. Stupid? Yes, but so stupid that it circled back to being impressive. That level of apathy had to count for something.


    The bank served every guest in record time and a few minutes later, I was standing before the teller when Velocity appeared next to me in a blur of red.


    "This has got to be the politest bank robbery I''ve ever seen," he drawled. "You''re not going to let me foam you, are you?"


    "Roadrunner! Good of you to make it. How''s it going?"


    "Roadrunner? Really? Couldn''t you have come up with something more creative?"


    "Don''t mind it. I''m sure that one day, you''ll be your own person."


    "Right¡­ So, what''re you up to, Creed?"


    "Oh, just making a withdrawal. I don''t see what the big deal is. Speaking of," I turned to the teller and handed her the debit card I knew was tied to the Number Man. "I''d like to withdraw five hundred from the account linked to that, please."


    The pretty young lady looked between me and the hero. Seeing Velocity shrug helplessly, she squeaked out, "I-I''m going to need a photo ID, sir."


    "You''re sure?"


    "Y-Yes?"


    "Are you asking me or telling me?"


    "Telling you?"


    "Curses! Foiled by rudimentary fraud protection!"


    "U-Umm¡­ You can go to an ATM¡­?"


    "Ah, see? What a wonderfully professional lass she is. I don''t see why everyone else at this establishment can''t be as great as her."


    "I wonder why," the red-clad hero snorted. "Creed, is that account number actually linked to an account?"


    "Of course it is, Red Rocket. It''s my main account that contains the bulk of my funds."


    "I thought I was Roadrunner?"


    "Hmm? Did you say something?"


    Velocity sighed. "You''re not actually robbing a bank?"


    "Of course not! It goes against my¡­ wait for it¡­ creed," I winked, not that he could see through my visor.


    "W-will that be all, sir?" the attendant stammered, clearly just trying to get me out of her hair. Couldn''t blame her.


    "Yes, you have been truly wonderful, young madam," I said. My fun had, I stepped out of line and made for the ATM. "If I were you, I''d demand a raise."


    I strolled out of the bank with five hundred dollars in my pocket, leaving behind a very confused Velocity. A part of me expected him to attack as soon as I reached the parking lot, but he didn''t for whatever reason. I shrugged. It was a good litmus test as far as seeing where I stood with he Protectorate. It seemed that so long as I didn''t actively commit crimes, I was still very much a small fry in their books.


    I stepped behind a STOP sign, then cloaked as I stepped past it, leaving Velocity with the impression that I''d teleported through a portal that wasn''t there.


    Ten minutes later, I was standing outside the biggest Toys "R" Us in town. In my original life, the chain had all but vanished due to the rise of Amazon and similar, but that wasn''t so in this world. The general downturn of the global economy and absence of giant online retailers meant that chain stores got to cling to their local markets for a while longer.


    Grinning like a loon under the mask, I shoved both doors aside before the automatic mechanism could trigger and shouted, "Hello, people!"


    "Kyaaah!" I heard someone scream. I turned her way to find an old lady I''d startled. Behind her was a boy of about eight, probably her grandson.


    I ignored the twinge of guilt at startling little old ladies and continued. "I am here¡­. TO BUY LEGOS."


    Compared to the bank, my time at the toy store was practically mundane. The manager fell over himself to give me what I wanted, mostly to get me out of the store as quickly as he could. I bought the biggest Lego set I could, a 2008 model Death Star consisting of almost four thousand pieces. He seemed genuinely surprised when I pulled out four hundred dollars to pay for it.


    X


    I was putting the final touches on the Pledge Regalia''s blueprints after dinner when I received a call from Strider. I quickly locked my door before putting on the helmet. Voice disguised, I picked up the call.


    "Hello, Strider," I greeted. "How goes the courier business?"


    "Good morning, Creed," he said. His voice was relaxed and mellow. "Well, morning for me. I''m in Australia for a bit. Is this a good time to chat?"


    "Sure, I wasn''t doing anything important. Did the suitcase I made for you get damaged already?"


    "No, that''s not it. The suitcase works as promised actually, thanks again for that. I was calling because I managed to work out a deal with a quarry about the volcanic ash. How much did you want again?"


    "As much as you can physically provide and then some," I said. "You can consider this an ongoing commission as I don''t foresee a situation in which I''ll stop needing ash anytime soon. If you can get it, I''ll buy it."


    "Huh, what are you building that needs this much of it?"


    "Who knows?"


    "Well, I can get twelve hundred pounds of it to you tomorrow night."


    "My time or yours?"


    "Yours," he confirmed. "I always stick to my clients'' time zones. It''s just easier that way. Do you have a dropoff location?"


    "Faultline''s Palanquin is fine. There is a small lot out back."


    "Yeah, I''m sure I can find the place. I''ll be there by midnight tomorrow."


    "Agreed."


    That night, I headed to the Gullrest to tinker myself another expanded bag, this time a large suitcase like Strider''s. It was too cumbersome to carry into battle, but I figured I''d need it to move things from the Palanquin to the ship.


    Author''s Note


    Is this how banking works? I have no fucking clue because I''m a terrible adult and haven''t stepped foot inside a bank in years.


    This is what COVID''s reduced me to¡­ I''d say that but let''s face it, I was a disgusting shut-in anyway.


    The scene is stupid, but Bryce is trying very hard to be stupid. Or at least, seen as such.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 3.5 Surge

    Surge 3.5


    2010, November 2: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    Being the first PE class of November, Coach Miller had us playing flag football. We wore belts over our shirts with little flags that could be snatched off easily. Because football teams were rather large, Coach Miller didn''t see the point in dividing us by gender and just had us play two games. It was the perfect chance to test my new genetic enhancements.


    From the outside, there were no noticeable changes in my actions, particularly since I went out of my way to appear unmotivated and mediocre. From my perspective, the difference was night and day.


    The solid state sense type allowed me to perceive vibrations like a sixth sense. The biomass gyroscope gave me perfect balance. I felt as though I''d never run until now, like everything I''d been doing was the fumbling of a drunken fool. I experienced a little of this during my morning run, but that couldn''t truly compare to a more dynamic exercise like flag football.


    As a gravity child, I could feel myself subtly change my footing with each step to perfectly balance myself regardless of my posture. Even the lightest breeze that brushed the sweat form my face sang to me, telling me of where it came from and where it was blowing. I felt as though I would be able to play this game just fine even if I closed my eyes and relied on my awareness of the air around me.


    I dodged out of Grace''s way and allowed some guy on her team to pull my flag for our team''s fourth down, dropping the ball where I stood. It wasn''t about speed because I wasn''t any faster than I was last week. It was purely awareness, the instinctive understanding of the location of every inch of my body and the way my body would interact with vibrations in the air.


    I felt like Spider-Man.


    "Shit," I groaned and gave my captor a high five. "Nice one, Nestor."


    "Thanks, Bryce. You get faster?"


    "Nah, I''m just good at running away."


    "Weenie," Grace called. She strolled over with an arm around Eric.


    I stuck my tongue out. Ever since I spent some time with Eric and Grace at the homecoming dance and arcade, the distance between me and my classmates seemed to shrink. I was still the quiet kid, but people came up to at least say hi.


    ''The wonders of being friends with the popular kids,'' I scoffed. Coach Miller blew his whistle again and we got into position.


    Their team''s quarterback began to shout. "Blue! Red! Four! Five! Nine! Hut! Hut! Hut!-"


    "Just start, you fuck!" Stephen heckled.


    "That''s a detention, Mr. Martin," Coach Martin called. "Mr. Keel, start in four seconds or else."


    "Yes sir," Brendan Keel, the quarterback, said sheepishly. His eyes immediately sharpened and I realized that this was his plan. "Hike!"


    The ball shot back from the center''s legs and Brendan caught it. Already, his teammates were fanning out to cover their quarterback and give him as much time to throw as possible. My own teammates were still trying to figure themselves out. I saw Eric run past the defenders, intent on playing the receiver.


    I ran after him. Even after two months of daily morning jogs, Eric was still much faster than me. He''d started from much further back but was already almost past me. He grinned, relishing the thrill of exercise. I groaned. I had no hope of catching him without Agility or my suit. I lunged and he sidestepped, juking around me with a flourishing spin. My fingers touched his flag, but could not get a grip on it before he was away.


    "Well, shit," I muttered from the ground. Being a gravity child made me nearly untouchable, but it didn''t help me chase down someone who was faster.


    "What the fuck was that, Kiley?" Stephen yelled just as the coach called touchdown.


    I rolled onto my back and smiled genially. "That, was me getting outplayed."


    "No shit. God damn, you suck."


    "Lay off, Steve," Eric called. "What''s your problem today?"


    "My problem is that this lazy fucker doesn''t try," he said, angrily pointing at me.


    "Relax, Stewie," I told him. Of course, telling a frustrated teenager he should relax was like pouring oil on a campfire to douse it. "It''s a game, enjoy it."


    "Fuck you, Kiley. What kind of pussy-ass name is Kiley?"


    "Well, it''s Gaelic for ''graceful one.'' My family used to be called O''Kiley a few hundred years back when they were in Ireland. That means ''descendent of the graceful one.'' They shortened it to just Kiley when they settled here."


    "No one asked, you fucking nerd," he snarled.


    "You just did," I replied from my place on the ground. The grass felt nice and cool on my skin.


    He could see people start to gather around, wondering what he was doing yelling at the ground, so he turned with an angry huff. "Whatever, you useless fuck."


    I laid there, enjoying the grass and morning dew that had yet to fully dry. "You going to get up, Bryce?" Eric asked. Grace joined us and gave her boyfriend a peck on the cheek.


    "Nah, class is almost over anyway. Wanna join me? It''s comfy."


    "Bryce," Grace said warningly.


    "Fine," I said grumpily. "How is it every girl says my name with that exact same tone? You, Amy, Vicky, Chelsea, Stephanie, Sierra, mom¡­"


    "It''s the ''you''re about to be in deep shit'' voice. All girls get instructions in the mail from the International Association of Kickass Women after we turn thirteen."


    "I knew it. It''s a conspiracy!"


    "How else would we keep you idiot men-folk in line?"


    "Eric, your girlfriend is bullying me."


    He gave me a smug grin. "I know, it''s great."


    "Ass."


    "His is pretty nice," Grace quipped, sending the blue-haired cape into a stammering spiral.


    Getting used to the abilities of a gravity child was much simpler than I''d expected. It hadn''t even been a week and I was already moving like I was born with the power. I figured that it was because the enhancements were so much tamer than those found in other fictions. Shorter ceiling, less growing to do to catch up.


    X


    I spent all of Tuesday''s lab session building the Pledge Regalia. It didn''t take too long because I had the entirety of the blueprints already designed.


    By the end of my four-hour fugue, I found myself standing before the tombstone-like cross. It was an impressive four feet tall and made of lightweight but sturdy alloys primarily consisting of titanium and wapometal. Even so, it weighed ninety-two pounds, heavy, but not unusable with my raid suit giving me the edge. It''d probably take some getting used to regardless.


    Luckily, I didn''t build it to use it in battle. I was sure there would be a time when perfect sonic manipulation over several city blocks would come in handy, but it wasn''t going to see regular use in a combat capacity.


    Compared to the finicky, delicate mechanisms of the Pledge Regalia, the headset that needed to be revamped in my helmet was barely a concern. I put on my full costume with the regalia strapped to my back and stared at the full-length mirror I''d stolen from Hillside. I looked¡­ There was no way around it. I looked edgy as fuck. As if it wasn''t bad enough that I already looked like a Sentai Elite superfan, I now had a metal, cross-shaped tombstone strapped to my back.


    "Yup, definitely not for public use," I told SAINT. "Still, I should turn it on and make sure everything works, right?"


    "Reee," he called. He floated off to the side, ready to protect me with Psychic should something go wrong.


    "Here goes¡­"


    Every regalia had a set of principles that they expanded upon to obscene degrees. Ramjet, well, worked like a ramjet. Key Mother, the Flame Regalia, amplified the heat generated by friction to create infernos that would make Burnscar weak at the knees. The unnamed Pledge Regalia? This one was unlike the rest. Not only was it not designed with combat in mind, its primary purpose was not to dominate and manipulate, but to understand, to process and improve.


    My oversized tombstone split into eight crosses, seven forming a ring around me even as the last clung to my person. The world expanded around me and sight became obsolete. The solid sense type took over as the most important sense available to me. Every cross was a node, a receiver and amplifier both. I felt each whisper of air, every minute current that caressed everything on this ship and more. Each of these vibrations could be considered sound, simply sound too soft for the human ear. The Pledge Regalia heard it all, painting a picture of the world around me in vivid detail.


    And with that, I understood. I understood how Kururu could disassemble an opponent''s power armor in seconds using this regalia. I wondered if this was at all like the kind of near omniscience Taylor saw in canon.


    I examined the model Black Rhino trike I''d made during the One Piece specialization using only the air around it. Subtle vibrations told me where I could find every joint and vulnerability. I pushed for lack of a better word, sending a stream of pure sound through one cross then another, amplifying the wavelengths until they struck the model. I managed to dent its aluminum frame a bit and spin the wheels, but little else.


    I understood how Kururu could use vibrations to disassemble something, but that did not mean I had the skill. Simply, I had the potential, and I would have to satisfy myself with that for now.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    X


    After dinner, I watched a home movie with my mom for a bit before retiring for the night. It was series finale of a sitcom turned into a movie starring Jennifer Aniston, Earth-Bet''s version of Friends, but with powers. Rachel was still a trainwreck and Joey was an idiot-savant. It was a weird mix of strange and familiar that left me wanting to go on a movie binge to compare Aleph and Bet shows. Honestly wasn''t awful, though the ending did seem rather rushed.


    Instead of going to sleep, I locked my doors and closed the blinds before pulling the Pledge Regalia from the DSS. Having cool shit wasn''t good enough, I realized that now. Being the jack of all trades wasn''t good enough.


    In that vein, it was time for training.


    I pulled out a toy robot. It was a limited-time edition of Hero''s power armor I received for my seventh birthday from dad. It worked off two AA batteries and came with "action-blasters!" or somesuch. Though I never really played with it, mentally far past the age when something like this would hold my interest, I could never bring myself to part with it. It seemed fair then that dad''s gift helped me build my own cape identity.


    I activated the Pledge Regalia again and set the toy down on the floor.


    Bit by bit, I trained myself to use the regalia to its full potential. There were two aspects of it. First, I had to fully understand the vibration feedback that was sent into my headset. What did a ball joint feel like? How about a hinge? What kinds of vibrations did electric currents below a set voltage make? What about stronger voltages? How does heat muddle vibrations? It was much like speaking a different language, one my brain was uniquely engineered to process.


    That was the crazy bit: Kururu Sumeragi wasn''t a gravity child. She was human as far as anyone knew and mastered this oversized tombstone like none before her. If she could do it, so could I; I had a literal subset of my brain genetically engineered for the use of AT tech.


    The second aspect of mastering the regalia was to manipulate the oscillating vibrations that filled the air, to turn them into my hands and feet. Using multiple wavelengths of sound at the same time, I could simulate detailed motions like twisting or latching. By bouncing each wavelength off a different set of crosses, I could designate different strengths for them to get the result I wanted.


    By midnight, I managed to twist off the arm of my Hero figurine without breaking it. It was slow, but it was progress. I swore that by the end of the week, I''d learn to construct something with just sound alone.


    "Pory," SAINT urged. The blocky duck pressed his nose into my side to pull me from my thoughts.


    "Thanks, SAINT. What would I do without you?" He trilled happily as if to say I wouldn''t want to find out before diving into my Pok¨¦Nav. I reassembled the Pledge Regalia back into its main configuration and digitized it into the DSS before double-timing to the Palanquin for my appointment with Strider, expanded suitcase in hand.


    "Hector!" I greeted as I uncloaked in the middle of the bar, arms out wide in a hug. "How''s it going?"


    Hector looked up with a friendly smile. Now that Halloween had passed, he was no longer wearing a suit. Instead, he had a simple black polo with the club''s name stitched over his left breast. "Pretty good, Creed. You here for the boss?"


    "Not this time. Just waiting on some mail."


    "Ah, I get it. You want the usual?"


    "Nah, can I try a Moscow mule?"


    "Branching out huh? I like that."


    "No," came Faultline''s voice. I looked up to find her eyeing me from the balcony. "He doesn''t get to drink before a deal."


    Hector shrugged helplessly. "You heard the boss, bud. Sorry."


    "Rats," I clicked my tongue. "You are the ruiner of all the fun in the world, Faultline."


    "I take it Strider has yet to arrive?"


    Before I could reply, my Pok¨¦Nav buzzed. "That''s probably him." I answered the call. "Strider, greetings."


    "Hey, I''m outside."


    "Come inside through the back. I''m sitting at the bar with Faultline."


    "Sure, give me a second." A moment later, the man who could only be Strider entered through a side door.


    The world''s foremost mailman was clad in blue and black, with a train conductor''s hat atop his head over a blue domino mask. He wore an overcoat of the same blue shade and carried the luggage I''d fashioned for him. He stopped in front of me and Faultline. "Creed. Faultline, it''s good to see you again."


    "Welcome," Faultline began. "Would you like a drink?"


    "Oh, so he gets to drink?" I grumbled goodnaturedly.


    "He''s a responsible adult," she shot back.


    "Water if you don''t mind."


    "See?"


    I gamely ignored her. She couldn''t prove her point if I wasn''t listening¡­ That was my stance and I was sticking to it¡­ Instead, I turned to my new favorite mailman. "How''re things? The suitcase work okay?"


    "Perfect," he said with a grin. "I have my entire life packed in here. You know, I stuffed it full of gym weights until I had eighteen hundred pounds? I wanted to know if your measure was exact. It was."


    "Glad to hear it. Do you mind if I take the bag for a few minutes? I was thinking you could relax here for a bit while I unload all of the ash."


    "Go ahead, I''m sure you know how to operate your own tech." He slid the suitcase over to me. "I managed to get 3,600 pounds of the stuff, but you''re going to have to let me hop back over to a quarry in Hawaii for a second trip."


    "Thanks, that works fine."


    It took a while because the suitcases weren''t themselves attached to the DSS. I had to unload everything from Strider''s suitcase out behind the Palanquin, hand the suitcase back to Strider so he could hop to Hawaii, then load everything into my own before doing it all over again. I made a mental note to figure out some kind of portable digitization process. It shouldn''t be too difficult¡­ probably¡­


    About thirty minutes later, I reentered the club signed the final receipt. "Here, delivery checks out."


    "Yeah, you let me know if you have another job for me, Creed. Nothing illegal, but if you want me to deliver your tech to a client, I''d be happy to do it."


    "For a price," I completed for him with a smirk. "Actually, I could always use more ash. If you don''t mind getting a few more loads."


    "Hmm¡­" he returned my grin with his own. "You know, I like money as much as the next guy, but I''d be willing do more of these deliveries in exchange for a new costume. Maybe with one of those fancy shield generators on it?"


    I nodded. He was a decent fellow. Rogue, technically, but I doubted even Amy could find fault with the man who shouldered endbringer response rates practically by his lonesome. A costume to keep him alive would be an easy way to get him on my side and do a bit of good for the world while I was at it. "That sounds like a wonderful idea. Let''s go upstairs and hash this out. I''ve got a few deals in the works with other tinkers so I''m happy to use your services even excluding any more ash deliveries."


    In the end, he agreed to make ten more deliveries of volcanic ash, all at max capacity of 1,800 pounds, as well as any deliveries between myself and tinker clients, with the sole caveat that I could not sell nor purchase narcotics nor firearms. In exchange, I agreed to give him a shield generator in the form of a shawl much like Labyrinth''s that he could drape around his current uniform. Of course, it also came with a maintenance guarantee of three years.


    In truth, though we did sign a paper contract with Faultline as witness, it was mostly pageantry. If Strider bailed, I couldn''t really hunt him down without a ridiculous waste of resources. If I bailed, he couldn''t really do much beyond wave that paper around. Like with most deals between capes, it relied heavily on the honor system. In that regard, Strider was taking a risk by trusting me; his reputation was set in stone, mine was not.


    Strider hung around with us for a bit longer before saying goodbye. I wanted to go back to my lab, but I got dragged into a dancing contest between Newter and some frat boys. I lost. Miserably. Super-proprioception did not in fact mean I had any natural talent at dancing, only that I wouldn''t trip like an idiot.


    I did discover something new however: aura. After my miserable attempt at dancing, I laid bonelessly on the sofa in the VIP lounge, looking over the club and letting the world brush against my mind. It was an interesting experience, fully opening up the psychic floodgates like that. I got a kick out of randomly tapping people on the shoulder, because yes, I was that juvenile.


    It was practice, okay?


    X


    2010, November 3: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    Amy finally remembered to chew me out for the bank "robbery," something a lot harder to take seriously due to her own chuckles. I hadn''t actually robbed a bank, simply withdrawn money from an account in a way that drew attention to myself, so she didn''t much care in truth. For all the shit she gave me, it was good having someone to talk to about all this cape business.


    Arcadia let out early on Wednesdays, perks of a vocational curriculum, so I had a half hour to myself before I had to go tutor Hannah. I took the chance to head to the lab and withdraw the undersuits I''d made for Newter and Faultline from the sewing machine. I''d promised them Germa fiber suits as thanks for putting me in contact with the Number Man and setting up my banking information. I needed to make a new batch of the coating for Gregor, he was a big dude, but I expected to be finished sometime Saturday.


    I arrived at the library and gave her the most basic of perfunctory greetings. We then settled in for another awkward two hours where I doodled designs and watched her try and fail at pretending to do her homework. I just didn''t give much of a damn about the tutoring session anymore. If Hannah wanted to put in the work, that was fine by me. If she didn''t, well, I tried. I just had her finish her homework, checked her answers once to make sure she was doing it right, then cut the session short. No skin off my nose.


    After bidding her an unenthusiastic goodbye, I zipped straight back to the Gullrest to train for two and a half hours until dinner.


    The Gullrest used to be a mid-sized oil tanker. Which was to say, it could easily house a small village, maybe several. Its cargo hold was several stories tall and as long as a city block or two. It was hard to conceptualize that kind of area as applied to a boat; every time I saw it, I had to take a moment to come to grips with its sheer size. It was far, far too large for any one person to use as a lab.


    Coincidentally, it was positively perfect for use as an impromptu racetrack.


    In Air Gear, teams were ranked from F to A-class, with each team advancing in rank depending on how well they performed in the Parts War, called so because teams often gambled their own ATs. The ranks weren''t just status symbols. In order to teach new storm riders the bare minimum required to not die, or at least decreases the chances, teams could only compete in specific game types according to their rank: Dash, Hurdle, Cube, Air, Disc, and Balloon.


    Dash was as it said on the tin; it taught F-class teams to run in a straight line. Hurdle taught E-class teams to avoid obstacles, or go through them if they had the power. Cube was somewhat unique in that unlike all other game types, it was played in an enclosed space, such as a single classroom. It was often a simple brawl between storm riders and was meant to teach D-class teams to ride across the walls and ceiling, 3D maneuverability and turning. Then, only when they mastered the basics, were teams allowed to compete with C-class teams in Air games.


    Those¡­ got insane¡­ Most matches were in buildings or spaces similar to the Gullrest''s cargo hold. Air was effectively a game of aerial musical chairs. Every team started on a platform. Teams tried to knock each other to the ground, with the added complexity of a random platform becoming unavailable after a set time. The worst of these matches were played on fighter jets by an A-class team appropriately named Sleipnir.


    Suffice to say, storm riders had a ridiculous skill gap between D and C-class and an even bigger gap between the average rider and the "kings."


    That was the gap I was trying to close in a mere two and a half weeks. No. That was the gap I had to close. I needed to become a king before my specialization changed. I needed to be someone who could defy all logic and tell physics to get bent, someone, had I been born in that world, who could have made a serious claim for the Gram Scale Tournament.


    Impossible. Fucking impossible. Or, it would have been had I been alone.


    But I wasn''t alone. I had SAINT. I had the Germa Expansion Suit. I had Pok¨¦mon-style aura, and with it Protect, Recover, Magnet Rise, and Psychic.


    I had everything needed to push myself to the absolute limit. I didn''t want to be a simple creator anymore. I didn''t want to be just a hoarder with dozens of inventions anymore. I wanted to master everything I made, because this world was cruel and it would allow for nothing less. Skidmark of all people taught me that.


    "Are you ready, SAINT?" I whispered into my mic.


    "Pory," he let out a digital chirp. Concern flared through our bond. "Porygon¡­"


    "That''s why you''re in here with me. If something goes wrong, if I can''t react in time, you can trigger the shields. And if I do get hurt, I have Recover to fall back on."


    "Pory-gon."


    "I know, trust me. I know."


    "Gon¡­"


    "Yup. We''re going to go up the Parts Wars match types. Dash first until I get used to the top speed of a basic AT. Then with Agility. Then Hurdles. And then¡­ I guess we can find the captain''s quarters for Cube, should be small enough without being oppressive. We''ll go from there, got it?"


    "Porygon. Pory."


    "Yeah. I still haven''t decided what regalia I want to strap to my feet, but that''s fine. This level of training will be necessary no matter what I do. And, we get to collect more data on just how quickly a gravity child can pick up on techniques like this. Ready?"


    "Gon."


    I eyeballed the far end of the ship. Slowly, I fell into a sprinter''s crouch. "Time me."


    "Gon," he chirped in the affirmative.


    Then, I was off.


    Author''s Note


    Not much to say. Strider¡­ is Strider. He''s a taxi shaped like a person. And now, he''s a U-Haul shaped like a person. Great, right? Marvel at my character development skills!


    SAINT is best duck. He''ll evolve. At some point.


    Have an animal fact:


    When a sushi chef feeds you "uni," or sea urchin, he''s really feeding you gonads, or testicles. They''re salty and creamy and you''ll never look at a sushi chef again.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 3.6 Surge

    Surge 3.6


    2010, November 3: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    It hurt. Not physically, I had minimal trouble adjusting to my sprint. Mentally. Emotionally. Kazu, as a fucking novice, was able to use the Flame Road with a basic set of ATs. He was able to, for just the briefest moment, smash the sound barrier. Sure, it was only in a straight line and he''d become the Flame King after Spitfire, but that was as a goddamn rookie in his first ever Parts War.


    I couldn''t do that.


    After an hour of sprinting back and forth, I couldn''t copy Kazu''s After Burner. I knew how to do it, at least theoretically. Kazu began the technique by falling until his body was almost parallel with the fence he was running on. Oh, yeah, because the ground was too easy apparently; he did this while running along the railings of a fence. Then, when his body was positioned to minimize air friction, he kicked off all at once with an explosive thrust.


    Supposedly, his skates were mimicking the afterburners of jet craft, hence the name of the technique, but that made zero goddamn sense! An afterburner was just an additional bit of fuel injected into a jet''s combustor located inside the pipe behind or "after" the turbine mid-flight for some extra thrust. There was nothing even remotely comparable between that and the way a basic AT worked!


    I dashed through the cargo hold at disappointing speeds and allowed myself to smash into the wall in frustration. Protect and my suit''s shield flared as I made like a starfish and left a Creed-shaped imprint into the metal. I shoved with my knees and allowed myself to peel away from the wall like a cartoon.


    Landing with a clanging flop, I groaned. "SAINT, how many attempts was that?"


    "Pory." The helmet''s UI flashed forty-three.


    Forty-three attempts in an hour and my top speed sans Agility was clocked at only five hundred sixty-eight miles per hour on the straightaway. It was enough to grant me a hefty mover rating according to the PRT standards, but it was a far cry from the potential I knew I could achieve. Sure, I''d broken this record when I airdropped onto Squealer''s truck, but adding Agility and gravity was cheating.


    I''d thought After Burner would be the simplest technique for me to learn. Just run fast in a straight line, right? How hard could it be?


    I was so, so wrong.


    ATs translated the raw kinetic energy of the storm rider''s kicks into motorized thrust. The stronger and faster the rider, the more effective the AT became by extension. What did it say about me then that even with the Germa raid suit boosting my strength, I still couldn''t crack the supersonic divide, the big seven-six-seven? Did that mean there was something wrong with me? Were anime characters just built different? Was Kazu just a freak of nature?


    I sighed and picked myself up again. I wasn''t being entirely fair to myself. Yes, Kazu could break the sound barrier in his first Dash, but almost no one else could.


    Even towards the end of the series, that kind of raw, straightaway sprinting speed was rare, the hallmark of a king-level rider. Most of the great riders didn''t get that kind of speed until their "roads" were much more developed. My bitching was the equivalent of a child picking up a slingshot and complaining he wasn''t as accurate as Usopp. Having the right gear wasn''t the same as having the right talent. Still, the failure left a bitter taste in my mouth.


    There were two plus sides to my repeated failure, beyond redecorating the wall, I mean. One, it showed me clearly that without Agility, some of the fastest tricks would be beyond my abilities. Disappointing, but it did give me an idea of how to improve so it wasn''t all bad.


    Two, it allowed me to better appreciate my newfound biology as a gravity child. Perception. Proprioception. Thanks to a perfect blend of echolocation and dramatically improved eyesight, I never once lost track of my position or tripped over my feet. I only crashed into the wall a handful of times on accident, and that was mostly me getting used to the braking mechanism in my skates than a failure of my reaction time.


    "After Burner''s a failure," I told SAINT, "at least, without Agility."


    "Pory," he trilled. I could feel him consoling me through the bond.


    "That''s okay. I''m over it. Instead, what if I used Agility like a jet afterburner? The principle is the same, right? A jet dumps extra fuel into the combustor mid-flight for extra thrust. Why can''t I do that mid-run? I wanted to be accomplish everything the main characters could, but maybe that''s my problem. I shouldn''t have tried to compare myself to them."


    "Porygon¡­ pory?"


    "Being a storm rider¡­ The biggest theme throughout the series, beyond sci-fi skates I mean, is freedom. Individuality. It''s stated multiple times that though there are eight major roads, there are countless offshoots, as many as there are riders. Hell, there''s one guy who achieved a Smell Road, whatever the fuck that is. Maybe I should stop trying to copy the kings and make my own road. I''m not just a storm rider after all. I''m a budding aura master, shipwright, geneticist, and inventor. Not using everything I have would clip my wings."


    "Porygon¡­ Ree-gon¡­"


    "Hehehe, yeah, I''m pretty easily distracted." I hopped in place and began to stretch my legs. It was amazing how natural that felt, even with wheels strapped to my feet. "SAINT?"


    "Ree?"


    "Thanks?"


    "Porygon?"


    "For being here. For being my sounding board. You make it easier to think, to reflect," I told him honestly.


    "Reee," he trilled, the bond pulsing with fondness.


    "Okay. We''re going to run laps for the next hour. The goal is to use Agility in lieu of After Burner and to preserve my control even mid-run. Then, if I can do that, we''ll call it a win and shift to Hurdles. Got it?"


    "Pory!"


    X


    Other than a short but exhausting training session against SAINT, the only thing of note to have happened on Wednesday was that I received a phone call from Uppercrust. He sounded as his name implied: cordial, professional, and with every syllable dripping with that high society drawl that made you want to ask if he was sipping a tumbler of whiskey and rolling a cigar.


    He thanked me for my interest in his work and agreed to examine my engine for compatibility with his tech. I sent Strider a text telling him about the situation so he''d know to deliver the engine to New York when the time came.


    I knocked out my homework in a laughable fifteen minutes, the perks of being a post-grad in high school. There was some more work to do researching Canary''s trial, but that could be put off for a while longer. While I fulfilled my obligations to the standard education system, I had SAINT compile every news article on Canary''s trial as well as any publicized court documents so I could review them all at once when I got around to writing my report.


    After that, I took a quick shower and nestled into bed. "SAINT?"


    "Reee?"


    "Wake me up at three."


    "Pory," he trilled reproachfully.


    "It''ll be fine," I said, waving him off. "It''s nine now. Six hours of sleep is plenty. I''ll tinker until six then come back here and wait for mom to wake up before heading to school."


    "Porygon¡­"


    "Thanks, bud. And yeah, just keep the volume down."


    "Reee," he nodded.


    I left him to his own devices. SAINT was developing as an individual, not just my glorified AI assistant. He''d taken to music with the same love I had, albeit in a different bend. I converted the original DAW, digital audio workstation, that I purchased into the TM Interface, but it was no trouble at all for SAINT to recreate and install the DAW software onto my computer for his personal use.


    I found it both funny and heartwarming to watch him play with electronic music. He didn''t really have any conception of earworms or preference for music in the normal sense, but he''d seen me play often enough that he associated certain musical styles and beats with certain emotions. Classic rock for example, because it reminded me of dad, was tied closely with a sense of fond nostalgia to him. Putting together a song wasn''t just about compiling a melody for him; it was about building something that could help him invoke and engage human emotions, a way for him to connect with humans.


    And, since he could work the computer while digitized, it was no trouble at all to shut off the monitor and turn off the volume. Sounds apparently sounded very different in digital space anyway.


    I smiled and nudged him towards the computer. "I can''t wait to see what you come up with, bud."


    X


    2010, November 4: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    The first hour in the Gullrest was spent tinkering. I promised Faultline''s Crew Germa fiber costumes as thanks for setting up my banking information but did not enough fibers on hand to make one for Gregor. I didn''t want to keep the big fellow waiting so SAINT was mixing chemicals and churning out coated Kevlar threads that were fed into a mechanical loom.


    While he was doing that, I was drafting designs to automate the process. If there was one thing post-modern societies had over fantastical settings like One Piece, it was the widespread use of automation in mundane manufacturing after all. I planned to sell this ultra-resistant cloth, and that meant I''d need way more than I could make with my personal attention. For that matter, automated manufacturing of other, relatively simple goods was something I''d need to add to my ever-growing to-do list.


    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    The rest of our time was spent practicing.


    I raced around the cargo hold with all my might. Five-seventy... Five-seventy-four¡­ Faster than my record yesterday but not enough.


    I approached the corner at speeds rivaling commercial aircraft. Flexing my legs, I stomped my left toe into the floor, ramming the AT''s toe-stop and causing a river of sparks and smoke to erupt from the friction. I allowed myself to skid on my toes, drifting while my right leg tensed in preparation.


    "Agility!" I shouted. A corona of psychic light shrouded my body like violet flames as I shot forward at a perfect right angle, turning the drift into a rocketing thrust without sacrificing any speed.


    I smiled smugly as a resounding bang echoed throughout the metal. Eight-ninety-two and climbing. Suck it, Kazu; I''ll find my own road.


    The next corner approached and I allowed the Agility to die out before doing it again.


    And again.


    And again.


    SAINT had long since vacated my suit after we''d established that I was at no risk of seriously injuring myself. Once I''d gotten a hang of racing around at speed, we decided to adopt a different approach to Hurdle; after all, SAINT needed practice too.


    I stood in the center of the hold as SAINT floated in the air. He bobbed like a rubber duck in a bathtub. "Pory. Reee-gon?"


    "Yeah, whenever you''re ready, SAINT."


    "Gon."


    With that, our match was on. Our take on Hurdles was simple: evasion practice. The game type was meant to teach budding storm riders to evade obstacles. What better way was there to learn that than by dodging SAINT''s projectiles?


    Arcs of electricity surrounded my favorite duck. Then, with a cry of his name, he launched a salvo of Thunder Waves at me. Thus began our game of tag.


    I ducked the first bolt of lightning and used that motion to lean forward. I fell until my body was almost parallel with the floor then kicked off, leaving thin skidmarks in my place. I was much faster with ATs, but I''d yet to integrate them with my pyrobloin-based hover boots so I couldn''t just condense water vapor to gain altitude. I''d effectively traded 3D mobility in exchange for additional speed because that was what I wanted to train at the moment.


    SAINT had no trouble drawing a bead on me despite my increased speed. A second Thunder Wave lanced out towards where I was going, but I stomped my toe-stop onto the floor, swerving into a sharp turn that narrowly dodged the electrical attack. A third blast was avoided by speeding up with Agility.


    "Pory!" he cried as he hovered at chest-level. Electricity crackled around him as he rocketed towards me. Spark, a simple enough move for him to improvise and the natural precursor of Wild Charge.


    I grinned beneath my helmet. I had no intention of dodging. Instead, I braced my muscles and sprinted forward with everything I had. "Agility," I whispered, my voice drowned out in the sonic boom left in my wake.


    I timed a boxer''s straight with my lunge. SAINT''s electrified head met my seastone knuckles in a shower of sparks. A deafening bang resounded through the cargo hold as our attacks met in the middle. It was an impact that should have smeared me across the walls. I felt my arm stiffen uncomfortably but that was the extent of any recoil, the wonders of Germa technology. As for SAINT, pok¨¦mon were made of sterner stuff. Add on the eviolite he wore around his neck, and there wasn''t much I could do that he couldn''t shrug off with a single Recover.


    Neither of us took any real damage from that exchange, but one thing was for certain: I weighed more. My partner was launched back like a bullet, carried on my fist due to his lighter weight.


    As I neared the steel wall, I jumped and thrust my feet forward. My ATs found traction and threw me up the vertical surface, leaving SAINT embedded behind me.


    "That one''s my win, SAINT," I called teasingly.


    "Porygon! Pory!" he yelled after me.


    I laughed as I skated along the wall. It was a brand new feeling. I knew I should feel dizzy, nauseous even, but I didn''t, not with the solid sense type preserving my sense of balance. Feeling daring, I pumped Agility again, transitioning to the underside of a walkway. There were several of these around the hold, as well as large pipes that had been used for ventilation or temperature control.


    I rode upside down and did not fall, my speed and friction preserving my run. But that didn''t last. SAINT learned much from me, and one of those was "pettiness."


    "Pory! Gon! Reee!" he trilled loudly, practically a battle cry for my diminutive friend. Then, the walkway I was skating on began to shiver and tremble.


    "Oh, you bitch!"


    "Gon!"


    I could hear the smugness in that single chirp as he floated closer towards me. The walkway beneath my feet began to undulate like an ornery snake. He''d taken control over it with Magnet Rise and had begun to tear it out of place.


    Thinking quickly, I hopped off and made for a nearby pipe. The pipe was as thick as my torso, making it one of the thinnest ones around. I landed with my legs somewhat spread apart, forming a large, "U" shape with my feet. The wheels of the ATs aligned with the curved surface of the pipe, spinning me around its surface in a corkscrew. Even then, never once did I lose my balance.


    I crouched down and skid my seastone-tipped fingertips along the pipe''s surface, creating a screeching noise somewhere between tortured metal and nails on chalkboard. It was enough to disrupt SAINT''s control briefly, and to orient myself towards him.


    I launched myself in a textbook "superhero" flying punch that decked the smug shit across the hold.


    "Ree!" he shouted, more from shock than actual pain.


    "Ha! Take that!" I got my feet beneath me and carried through the punch, turning it into a diving crouch that saw me land feet-first on an adjacent ledge, the second floor of the hold. That allowed me to carry right on running with minimal loss of thrust.


    Belatedly, I realized that this had evolved beyond Hurdle and even Cube. I was comfortably "flying" now. This, this was Air.


    "First person to touch the ground floor loses, got it?" I called in challenge.


    "Gon!"


    And so our game was on. When he tore away my road with Magnet Rise, I picked up a stray pipe or even a piece of sheet metal to act as floating steppingstones to the nearest wall. When he let loose a rapid-fire salvo of Thunder Waves, I countered with Protect before firing back with my own Thunder Wave. When he nearly cornered me, I made myself invisible for the slightest second while popping Agility, appearing behind him to hammerfist him towards the floor.


    Ours was a contest of skill and technique, strategy and terrain control. It was everything we knew about combat rolled into one, and we loved every second of it. SAINT especially, I could see the battlelust so common among pok¨¦mon start to rear its head, that impulsive, instinctive need to get stronger. I couldn''t allow him to fight capes, not because I didn''t think he was strong enough, but because I wasn''t strong enough: I feared that I wasn''t ready for the backlash of having a true AI as a subordinate.


    But I wouldn''t hold him back. I swore I''d let him grow to be the best he could be, whatever that might look like. If that meant I''d need to be strong enough to give him the experience he so desperately craved?


    Then so be it.


    X


    SAINT didn''t come with me to school today. Instead, he agreed to supervise the weaving of Gregor''s new outfit. With the last of my commitments to Faultline''s Crew entrusted to him, I could focus on what I wanted to build: automation¡­ kind of¡­


    It was true that this was a critical part of my development as a tinker, but I lacked the supply chain to make full use of such a thing even if I managed something large-scale. And, I couldn''t help but think that if I could get a contract with Big Rig, or maybe when my specialization changed to a more futuristic setting, I could have far more effective fabricators and automated manufacturing capabilities. I had only two weeks with Air Gear left.


    I decided to automate the creation of Germa fibers, but nothing else, for now. My thoughts drifted instead to improving myself as an individual, not strictly as a tinker. Truthfully, I''d already made much of what I wanted this specialization such as the gravity child serum, Pledge Regalia, hybrid soda engine, and both the cores for the Water and Rumble Regalias.


    To improve myself, I had two things that I truly wanted to build, as well as two things I truly wanted to master during my remaining specialization. The first was Key Mother, the Flame Regalia. While experimenting with After Burner told me that I''d never be the raw speed-type Kazu was without relying on aura to carry me through, its access to the Inorganic Net and Hole Nine Heaven''s Door, I shit you not I didn''t name this, was invaluable.


    The Inorganic Net recorded every "trick" used by storm riders and Heaven''s Door allowed the wielder of Key Mother to access and mimic all of them. Granted, I couldn''t learn any new tricks for myself considering there were no other storm riders to record in the first place, but if I could sneak the scanners and data sticks onto the equipment of other athletes, I could use Key Mother to teach myself those same movements. Boxing? Karate? Kendo? Jujitsu? Krav Maga? I could learn them all so long as I could get an ace athlete to wear the data sticks.


    Best of all, Amy couldn''t even scold me over it. It wasn''t like they''d lose their hard-earned skills after all.


    The second thing I needed to build was my personal regalia. This morning''s spar against SAINT convinced me: The Pledge Regalia''s construction capabilities wasn''t enough. I could become so much stronger, if only I could discover my "road."


    As it stood, Key Mother was my regalia of choice, if only because it was the one that had access to Heaven''s Door. But was that all I wanted to be? A copy of Spitfire, Kazu, and Aeon?


    I offered Mrs. Currie a lackluster presentation on the current ongoings of the Canary trial and an analysis of jury selection then headed back to my seat to ruminate.


    No, the more I thought about it, the more certain I became: I wanted a regalia that was uniquely my own. I had Water, Rumble, and Pledge in my hands at the moment. Of these, it was surprisingly the Water Regalia and its corresponding Lather Road that fit my Germa-style hover boots.


    The principle of the Lather Road was that it condensed water vapor for aerial movement. Hell, with that kind of synergy, it''d take barely any effort to combine the regalia with my existing boots. ¨­m, the original queen of this road, was so good at condensing vapor that she could pressurize air into rapidly spinning bubbles that both exploded on impact and could cut like a jet cutter. She called it "Bubblegum Crisis," not that I''d be caught dead saying that, but at least the theory was sound.


    ''Okay, that''s one regalia,'' I thought. I kept my eyes towards the front of the class as a pair of my classmates talked about something or other that the Vegas Protectorate was doing to combat white collar crime. ''What else? Can I combine that with Key Mother somehow?''


    I had a eureka moment. ¨­m released the pressurized water and air as bubbles, but there was no reason I needed to do the same. The Flame Regalia was best known for its blistering speed, but its most complex techniques could only be done by harnessing that monstrous friction and turning it into heat shimmers.


    The bubbles rotated. Ergo, they generated friction. Probably as much as, if not more, than simply skating in a straight line.


    I began to doodle a rough draft. ''Yeah¡­ Let''s keep the vapor condenser in the heels... Use the motors to compress water and rotate it¡­ The output should be enough to generate enough friction, but how do I keep it from wearing out my boots in a matter of weeks¡­ Oh, right, seastone. Shit can''t be scratched.''


    It was all coming together, a regalia born of Germa science, Water, and Flame. With it, I''d make the most of what I could already do, as well as gain access to the Heaven''s Door.


    First tings first, I''d make the data sticks. Then, I''d sneak them inside boxing gloves, belts of gi, kickboxers'' shoes, and whatever else I could find. I could then program the Inorganic Net to parse out useless data from perfected techniques, something I didn''t doubt SAINT could help with. After that, I''d build the Flame Regalia so I could access the Net.


    As for personal training, I fully planned to integrate those skills into my repertoire later, but until my custom regalia was built, I decided to stick to mastering the Pledge Regalia. Already, I could dismantle my toy robot and my new goal was to disassemble and reassemble a vacuum cleaner from the Heist.


    The bell rang and I packed my bag to head to lunch. Truly, there was too much to do.


    Author''s Note


    Not much going on this chapter, but training is good too.


    The speed of sound is roughly 767 mph. I love how casually it''s used in anime and comics, sometimes so much so that even regular punks and street-toughs have "supersonic" feats in battleboarding. Truth is, in a more grounded setting like Worm, even getting close to that barrier is obscene.


    Anyway, have an animal fact: Great frigatebirds, yeah, that''s a real name, can stay airborne for two whole months. How? By sleeping in 10 second bursts. Crazy part is, they''re not the record holders. The crown goes to the alpine swift, who can stay airborne for 200 days.


    r/birdsarentreal


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 3.7 Surge

    Surge 3.7


    2010, November 4: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    I arrived at the usual lunch table to find only Stephanie and Chelsea there before me. The two were already lost in a conversation about a new movie premier, the latest in the Maggie Holt series. I didn''t follow it much, but from what I could understand, it was the equivalent of Harry Potter back in my old world crossed with the Dresden Files. Darker, as though Grimlord Wildbow had a hand in writing that too. It was quite the thriller according to Sisi.


    I set my tray next to Chelsea and gave them a nod. "Hey, how''s it going?"


    "Hi, Bryce!" Chelsea chirped, as sunny as ever. "Guess what?"


    I glanced at Stephanie and back at her. "You''re really looking forward to the new Maggie Holt film?"


    "Nope," she said, popping the "p." "Well, yep, but not that."


    "You''re seeing that runningback guy again?"


    "No, and his name is Brian. You really should remember, Bryce. He''s a good guy, just not what I''m looking for. "


    "In my defense, I''ve met him once during Homecoming, Chels. I''m sure if he sat with us, I''d learn his name."


    Stephanie let out an unladylike snort. "Fat chance of that. She dumped him in two weeks."


    "Steph! We mutually agreed to walk away. We''re cool now."


    "Does he think that? Because I still see him pining your way."


    "Ugh¡­ Anyway, no, not Brian."


    I pat the blonde''s shoulder consolingly before unwrapping a brownie. It wasn''t as good as mom''s and had a processed, artificial flavor that reminded me a bit of plastic, but sugar was sugar. Sometimes, you just had to start with dessert first. I chewed and gave her a conceding bow. "Then you have me bamboozled, madam."


    Chelsea perked up as she thought about the original reason for this little game of twenty questions. "The cheer team is going to regionals!"


    I tried to give her my sincerest smile. It obviously didn''t fool Stephanie because she let out a soft snort. "Yeah, Chels, I don''t think Bryce cares about the cheer team."


    "Boo! He should. It''s about school spirit!"


    "I care," I defended, but quickly caved when even the sunny blonde looked skeptical. "Okay, not about the team per se, but I care that it matters to you. You''re my friend and I''m happy that it makes you happy. Go, Arcadia¡­"


    Stephanie shot me a shark-like grin. "You forgot our mascot, didn''t you?"


    "I didn''t! It''s the Arcadia¡­ Aardvarks?"


    "Not even close, Bryce."


    "Boo! You suck, Bryce," Chelsea lightly punched my shoulder.


    "Alligators?" I tried again.


    "Nope."


    "Nu-uh"


    "Third time''s the charm. Arcadia¡­ Armadillos. Sounds right."


    "Wrong again."


    "Third strike. You''re out!"


    I sighed and decided to just shut up and accept my shame. "Alright, oh great cheerful ones, what is our totem animal?"


    Stephanie chuckled as she popped a berry tomato in her mouth. "Totem animal? Really?"


    "Yeah, Bryce, you''re really bad at this, huh?" Chelsea added. She''d packed a turkey sandwich from home from the looks of it.


    "What''s Bryce bad at?" I heard behind me. Dennis, Dean, and Carlos had arrived to sit at my right. "Making fun of Bryce is always great."


    "Shut up, Dennis," I grumbled goodnaturedly.


    "Bryce doesn''t know what our mascot is~" Chelsea sang, in the exact same singsong tone Sierra used to use when tattling to mom.


    "Dean, what''s our mascot?"


    "Albatross," he said simply. "The birds are good omens for sailors, back when that was important to the town. It''s kind of a holdover like the Foghorn radio channel."


    "Wait, seriously?"


    "Yup. What''d you guess?"


    "Aardvarks. Then alligators. And armadillos."


    "Haha, you weren''t even close, huh?"


    "Whatever, I would''ve gotten to albatross eventually. Only so many animals that start with ''a.'' Point is," I stressed, turning back to the girls. "I''m happy that the Arcadia Albatrosses have made it to the regional cheer competition. Just because I don''t care about the team as a whole doesn''t mean I can''t be happy that you two are happy."


    "Fine," Chelsea said with a mouthful of turkey sandwich. "We forgive you, Bryce."


    Stephanie rolled her eyes. "We''re just giving the freshie a hard time. Don''t stress, shorty."


    "Oi! I''m not short," I complained. Five-two wasn''t short¡­ for my age¡­ probably¡­


    "You are. But we forgive you for that too," the sporty brunette shot back with a teasing grin.


    I sighed and turned my attention back to my lunch. It seemed I was destined to be the butt of the joke today. Eventually, Vicky and Amy arrived, earning me a knowing look from Amy as far as just why I knew so little about the school''s sports scene. I shook my head ruefully. I''d never cared even before powers, but I could hardly correct her assumptions currently.


    Still, all things must end and the conversation shifted to encompass the double date Victoria and Dean were planning with Stephanie and Carlos. I looked on in amusement as a mixture of relief and exasperation danced across Amy''s face. Relief because Stephanie and Carlos gave Vicky another couple to focus her attention on, sparing Amy from another date with some jock she could barely bother to learn the name of. Exasperation because¡­ because Amy was Amy and Dean existed.


    ''Nope,'' I thought with a snort. ''Not touching that with a ten foot pole.''


    X


    Thursdays were great. Thursdays were wonderful. I got out of school at two and wasn''t expected home until six for dinner. I also had no work-study obligations on Thursdays, which meant I had a whopping four hours to my own devices.


    That was how I found myself on the Gullrest. I hopped across the ocean on my hover boots while completely invisible before sneaking into the main lab. Uncloaking, I tossed my backpack onto a stolen loveseat and greeted SAINT.


    "Yo, how''s it going, little buddy?"


    "Pory-gon," he trilled a welcome. My favorite cyber-duck gestured to a rack where a Gregor-sized suit of Germa fibers was ready and waiting. Next to it were a few extra spools of the miracle thread, tightly wrapped in cable reels I''d stolen from the hardware store. Cable reels, those drum-shaped wooden things you used to wrap wires around, made for excellent spools after the wires had been removed.


    "You''ve done a lot of work haven''t you? Thank you for that," I nodded to him. I gave him a good scratch below the chin to show my appreciation as I looked over his work. The weaving process was mostly automatic, he was here to make sure no glitches popped up, and that left him enough time to get to work on other things, like the wires.


    The wires were precious commodities and actually some of the most important things I''d stolen from the Hillside Heist. Most were made of copper, steel, and aluminum, but I''d even managed to nick several reels of silver wire. They were excellent sources of raw metal and it wasn''t uncommon for people at construction sites to strip the casings off leftover wires to recycle for a sizable amount of cash.


    SAINT trilled happily as he showed off the crates full of naked metal, sorted by type. He then lifted the laptop I got for him and played something. It was a song with loud, heavy bass and a cello in the background. It was accompanied by a full orchestral blend of violins, flutes, and piano. It reminded me a bit of boss music in video games like Final Fantasy or God of War. Was electronic-orchestra a thing in this world? Because if not, SAINT might have just invented it.


    "Pory?"


    "It''s good," I told him. I wasn''t lying. I only knew guitar and a bit of piano so I couldn''t really judge, but SAINT had no preconceptions about the "right" instrument to play or the "best" style of music so he often pulled melodies from many different songs to use as he fancied. Not quite my jam, but if he liked it, he liked it. "Interesting blend of instruments. Electronic drums. Cello. Is that a sax? Huh, it works. Do you want to play that in the background while we work?"


    "Gon!"


    "Yeah, sounds good. Keep it on loop, maybe a bit quieter."


    SAINT nodded and the music subsided somewhat. He switched the tabs on screen to show me my to-do list. Well, it wasn''t a list of priorities as much as it was a list of things I wanted to build: a hybrid regalia I''d yet to name, data sticks for Key Mother, and hybrid soda engines to send over to Big Rig and Uppercrust.


    "First things first, the hybrid engines. SAINT, think you can build them?"


    "Reee," he chirped, stubby, blue feet waving erratically. It was one part affirmation and one part mock offense that I''d doubt him.


    "Of course, of course. You can build anything I can build," I chuckled. It was true, for the most part. There were some things he wasn''t good at, such assembling small, precise mechanical parts, but that was mostly because he hadn''t mastered Psychic quite yet and the little fella didn''t have opposable thumbs. SAINT was perfectly capable of following a blueprint left to him otherwise.


    "Porygon. Por," he huffed. I didn''t quite speak pok¨¦mon, but the "and don''t you forget it" couldn''t be taken any other way.


    My duck was developing sass and I couldn''t be prouder.


    "Alright, you work on the two hybrid engines. I''ll get started on Key Mother. Then the data sticks and the Inorganic Net. And then we can work on a custom regalia."


    "Gon."


    "Good, let''s see how much work we can get done in four hours."


    X


    Turned out, four hours was a lot of time. We worked quietly side by side while SAINT''s first pop orchestra track played in the background.


    SAINT wasn''t perfect. He didn''t have my power to keep him from making mistakes. But, he was an AI capable of constantly learning. He''d also observed the experimentation process I''d undergone to create the hybrid engine. All told, he made only a handful of mistakes with the first and even fewer with the second, saving me a lot of time. The two engines needed only minimal fine-tuning, mostly quality of life changes that didn''t occur to an AI.


    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    For example, SAINT lacked hands, and thumbs. He didn''t really have a grasp of ergonomics, or human factor engineering as it was often called. For him, so long as everything functioned, it was fine. It was up to me to place handlebars for easy transportation, make the cases more conveniently collapsible, and make handles with swells that fit the human palm more comfortably.


    There were other flaws too, mechanical ones that could impact the shelf life of these engines, but they were quickly fixed when I pointed them out.


    I loved my duck. SAINT was best duck.


    On my side of things, I''d built Key Mother as originally worn by Spitfire, the very first Flame King. It was a set of four roller blade wheels, each decorated with a crimson, nine-tailed fox that wrapped around the bearing. Every tail ended with little flames that caught the light and four pairs of eyes seemed to stare back at me, judging my worth.


    "Flame is the creator of all things," he''d said. That was the foundation of Heaven''s Door. As the rider who represented the origin of all creation, it was the prerogative of the Flame King to replicate every road and trick to perfection.


    Or at least, that was Kazu''s explanation before schooling Nike.


    Shonen logic¡­ shit was wild.


    And I couldn''t use it as it stood. The Inorganic Net didn''t exist yet, nor were there any storm riders to contribute their tricks to the database. But that didn''t mean it was worthless; it''d be one of the three components for my custom regalia after all.


    No, what I did have was a set of three data sticks, each the size of a USB thumb drive. They were built into the soles of ATs and contained a powerful scanner that could observe and record the full body motions of whoever wore the skates before uploading this information to the Inorganic Net.


    I tucked Gregor''s new suit, the two hybrid engines, and the data sticks into the DSS and smiled. I had a busy night ahead of me.


    X


    I arrived home at a bit past six to find a text from my mom telling me that an old friend visited the clinic and she got distracted catching up so she''d be a bit late. Sierra had yet to arrive either so I decided to get started on dinner on my own. I rummaged through the pantry for something simple to make, wishing that I''d dabbled more in the exotic cookery of the Pok¨¦mon and One Piece specializations.


    I shook my head. ''No, that''d probably be a bad thing. It''s not like I can suddenly explain how I became a five-star chef overnight. The honey was already pushing it¡­''


    To be fair, I didn''t think the Enchanted Honey itself would be much of an issue. I''d only realized that I''d given Sierra and her friends tinkertech after the catalog went up, but it was admittedly an extremely subtle piece of tinkertech. A focused sugar high, but without the inevitable crash of something like coffee. Noticeable, but not incriminating by itself.


    ''That was more than a month ago in September,'' I mused. ''I don''t think she''ll connect the dots, but Sisi''s always been a huge cape nerd¡­ I really need to be more careful.''


    I was an idiot; there was no denying that. I was so hyper-fixated on ensuring that my catalog wouldn''t be abused that I completely ignored the potential risk to my identity. It wasn''t something that''d damn me right off the bat, but it was one way Sisi could discover my secret.


    Then again, that raised another question: Did I care if Sierra knew?


    On the most basic level, Sierra was trustworthy. Not just because she was my sister either. She had been Skitter''s faithful lieutenant and I knew she very much had a flexible moral compass, albeit one pointing firmly north. When pushed into a corner, she followed three priorities: First, her brother, me. The other-me that was a spoiled, hedonistic shit-heel of a baby bro who sold himself to the Merchants of all people. Who, even now, I could feel looming over my shoulder, a shade of who I could have been. Second, the orphans she chose to shelter.


    So long as Skitter provided a means to help her help others, Sierra had been willing to work with a warlord. It was incredibly utilitarian of her, "greatest good for the greatest number," even if said "good" came from a villain.


    True, this was in an alternate universe where I wasn''t who I was, but I couldn''t help but feel that she''d proven herself to me a thousandfold. Sierra Kiley was as trustworthy as they came. I couldn''t ask for a more loyal, earnest lieutenant, even more so considering I was Bryce Kiley. There was no doubt in my mind that she would ensure my safety and well-being.


    Pragmatically speaking, there wasn''t any real reason to fear discovery by her. I was reasonably certain I could keep Sisi from outing me to the Wards or mom; I''d proven I could handle myself after all. If all else failed, I could even promise her the powers needed to stand by my side and protect me with her own hands.


    And yet, I hesitated. The thought of telling her filled me with dread. There was of course the question of Michelle and Sabah, but that wasn''t my main concern.


    The Sierra of canon-Worm had been a young woman hardened by myriad tragedies. Bakuda. The Unmasking of the Empire. Leviathan. Slaughterhouse. Echidna. Yes, she was a steadfast lieutenant and a force for good in the war-torn city, but she was also a young woman who clung to those morals like a lifeline, a young woman who''d lost almost everything and desperately tried to build herself up by building up others.


    I cracked open a few cans of tomato sauce and picked out a bag of frozen meatballs before tossing them all into a saucepan to heat through. Spaghetti it was.


    I feared for her, I realized. Not me, her.


    I worried that things would escalate, that it''d begin with covering for me to mom so I could tinker more and ramp up until she wasn''t the lovable, dorky sis I had now. I worried that being involved in Brockton''s cape scene would change her. Given Brockton Bay being Brockton Bay, I felt my concerns were valid.


    Even as I salted a pot of boiling water for the noodles, the hypocrisy wasn''t lost on me.


    I, Creed, was a cape who valued freedom above practically everything else. I declared for all to hear that I would respond with violence to any who tried to deprive me of my choices, hero or villain. And yet, here I was taking advice from Panacea and willfully denying that same choice to Sierra.


    My own cape name was starting to sound a little sarcastic.


    But in the end, I was the one who woke up with powers. I was the (mentally) older one. I was the one who knew what Amy could become and what it''d mean to bring Sisi into this world.


    No, I wouldn''t tell Sierra. If she discovered my identity, I''d cross that bridge when I got to it. But otherwise, I intended to keep her and mom in the dark.


    X


    Dinner had been a mostly quiet affair, my own thoughts putting me in an introspective mood.


    I went upstairs afterwards to rush through my homework. Reincarnated soul or not, there was plenty of busywork that I couldn''t just ignore, not if I wanted my mom to continue taking a loose stance on parenting.


    I was almost done with my AP biology homework when I received a call. Unexpectedly, it was from Victoria. I picked up with a curious frown. "Yello, what''s up?"


    "Bryce?"


    "Yeah, what can I do for you, V?"


    "Nothing. Did you know Dean''s birthday is in two weeks?"


    I glanced at the calendar: the eighteenth. "Isn''t that a week before Thanksgiving?"


    "Mhmm. Anyway, we''re having a party on the twentieth at his house. Got permission from his mom and everything."


    "Wait, why are you arranging it then?"


    "Because it''s a surprise party, duh. Keep up, Bryce," I heard her huff. "Well¡­ I mean, it''s supposed to be a surprise party but Dean always figures it out anyway and pretends to be surprised. It''s a whole thing we do."


    I rolled my eyes. To be fair to her, surprising an empath with a birthday party was probably a doomed cause. "Right. Fair enough. What do you need from me?"


    "Nothing, I''m just letting you know so you can come. I''ll text you his address. Party starts at four then we can hang out until dinner."


    "Thanks, Vicky. Any gift ideas? You know him best."


    "Well¡­ Don''t bring a gag gift. Dennis does that every year so we''ve got that taken care of already."


    "Okay. No gag gift¡­" I repeated. Then, I got a devious idea. It wasn''t a gag gift¡­ technically¡­ Schooling my voice, I asked innocently, "Say, Vicky, isn''t there a Wards thing this Saturday at the mall?"


    "Yeah¡­?"


    "Who''s his favorite Ward? Probably not Vista¡­ Clockblocker''s probably too clownish¡­ Shadow Stalker seems a bit moody for him¡­ Maybe Aegis? He''s the leader, like, Dean takes the whole student council president stuff seriously so he''d probably find Aegis relatable, right? Or Triumph because he was Wards Leader before Aegis?"


    "His favorite Ward? Gallant. Definitely Gallant," she said. I could hear the grin in her voice. She thought she was the one playing a prank on her boyfriend and it was adorable. "So, gonna get him Gallant merch?"


    "Yeah, if that''s his favorite Ward. I''m thinking if I show up early, I can get it signed by the man himself. Think he''d like that?"


    "Hehehehe, totally. He''ll love it."


    "Alright, cool. I have Saturday plans now. See you tomorrow, Vicky."


    "Yup! It''s going to be great, Bryce. You have a good night!" she chirped before the line went dead.


    I chuckled to myself as I returned to my homework. If I could help Vicky play a harmless prank, then why wouldn''t I?


    I finished up my homework and grabbed a quick shower before shooting Faultline and Strider texts to let them know that I''d be paying a visit to the Palanquin. I didn''t expect to pull another all-nighter, I did need my sleep, but I figured it''d be a good chance to knock out three birds with one stone. Deliver the hybrid engines to Uppercrust and Big Rig. Give Gregor his new suit. Then, when I had that sorted, I planned to visit a few gyms and dojos to insert my data sticks.


    X


    The handoff went well enough. With Strider and Faultline already in my corner, it was a simple matter of giving Gregor his suit and Strider the two hybrid engine samples. I even threw in a single nugget of wapometal and seastone each for Big Rig; I needed him to test the materials for himself before deciding he wanted them for his own projects after all.


    Following that, I hopped all over town while cloaked to visit every gym I''d made a note of. A grand total of fourteen. They ranged from traditional martial arts dojos like kendo and taekwondo to more modern krav maga and Brazilian jujutsu. I wanted them all. I wanted to be a master of every mundane style of combat, so that should I ever go toe to toe against Krieg, I wouldn''t be found wanting, so that I could demonstrate my inventions to their fullest potential. I was lacking, not my creations, and that stuck in my craw something fierce even now.


    Alas, I''d have to stick to three for now.


    I wandered from gym to gym, examining the equipment. Those, I felt, ought to be well-worn but cared for; I didn''t want the moves from any "master" who only ever used them for fancy tricks and demonstrations. I also looked for a gym with a well-stocked first-aid kit that looked like it''d been used recently. I had no way of telling just from the equipment which gym taught "practical" self-defense, but I could at least eliminate the biggest posers.


    Another qualification I had was that I ought to be able to use the martial art immediately. Unfortunately, that eliminated both the kendo and ninjutsu dojos. The anime nerd in me died a little inside, but I lacked a sword and could turn invisible at will. If I ever forged myself a zanpakuto or something, I''d definitely reconsider.


    Finally, I had to consider my inventions. The hover boots and regalia easily made me the most mobile cape in the city. I eliminated Brazilian jujutsu and traditional judo for this reason. Grappling was amazingly useful against a single opponent, but on a battlefield where I''d almost certainly be outnumbered? Staying still to wrestle someone to the ground seemed directly counter to my greatest strength.


    I settled on three schools at last: muay thai, aikido, and capoeira. Of these, muay thai was the only one useful for normal people in a typical street fight, but I wasn''t normal anymore. I wanted muay thai to be my foundation, as it was for so many of the best fighters in the world, but the other two were chosen specifically to round out skillsets I expected I''d need shortly.


    Aikido was taken for two reasons: First, its philosophy of "do no harm." It was what made aikido so ineffective in a street fight; that kind of ideal of not harming even the attacker was a lofty, hilariously arrogant mentality. And yet, it was one I arguably should have when dealing with normal people. Aikido taught restraining locks, throws, and takedowns that were far kinder on the attacker than anything in Brazilian jujutsu. Considering my suit''s strength augmentation and omnidirectional leverage from my boots, I didn''t doubt I could use even those to great effect.


    Second, aikido offered me familiarity with escaping grapples. Sure, I could out-muscle normal people, but someone like Glory Girl? If she ever caught me by surprise, I wanted to be familiar enough with grapples to escape without harming her. I figured a combination of Thunder Wave, Psychic, and aikido would be good enough to get me distance and let me choose my engagements.


    As for capoeira, it was between that and taekwondo. Both were seen as almost performative martial arts, but not because they lacked power. Kicking was incredibly risky in a fight because it gambled your own footing.


    As a gravity child, I literally couldn''t lose my footing. The ground beneath me could be launched at the speed of a fighter jet and it wouldn''t matter. Those kicks that were so risky for everyone else were practically made with storm riders in mind.


    Ultimately, I chose capoeira over taekwondo for one reason: the dance. The twisting motions that heavily relied on the core was exactly what I wanted. It had striking similarities with one of the primary roads in Air Gear, the Sonia Road.


    The Sonia Road belonged to the Thorn Queen, a woman who could spin so quickly that she created "thorns" made of sonic booms, sonic booms she could somehow direct to perform individual attacks against isolated targets without harming the surroundings. However, the technique was just as dangerous for the user as it was for the opponent, potentially crippling in fact, which explained why there were so few Sonia Road practitioners.


    That kind of torque generated by the core placed immense strain on the spine of the user, so much so that there had only ever been a single Thorn Queen who wasn''t a gravity child. Rika. Save for her, both Gazelle and Ringo were gravity children with unique adaptions that allowed them to take in extra nitrogen with their lungs. This nitrogen created bubble-like cushions along the spine to absorb some of the impact of their roads.


    I''d never be able to master the Sonia Road to that extent, but I didn''t need to. Lind, the Fang King, and son of Gazelle, was able to combine the Sonia Road with his Bloody Road. He used the flexibility and whiplike spins of the Sonia Road as a foundation to improve the "sharpness" of his own air blades.


    Capoeira wasn''t the Sonia Road, but seeing how I had no tutors nor a frame of reference I could study, it was the closest analog with its revolving kicks and emphasis on core strength. Out of all the martial arts I could find, it was the only one that had a comparable style to one of the roads so I hoped learning it could help me decode some of the tricks of the Thorn Queens before me. If not, then perhaps I could do as Lind did and use that increased flexibility as a foundation for my own road.


    Author''s Note


    Ergonomics is fascinating, both simple and a lot more complicated than you''d initially expect. For example, did you know that most doors which are meant to be pushed open have horizontal bars while doors that are meant to be pulled have vertical handles? It has to do with the way your muscles are structured in your arms. It sounds super simple in application, but thinking about it can be really difficult for an AI.


    Higher morality is easy until it suddenly isn''t, eh?


    Is Bryce fucking with the empath? Of course!


    Aikido? Capoeira? Useless. If you''re thinking about self-defense, just pick up BJJ and kickboxing. But if your goal is to have a "kind" martial art and a fantastic set of abs, they''re for you.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 3.8 Surge

    Surge 3.8


    2010, November 6: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    I finished up my Saturday morning jog before checking on the Inorganic Net. I wasn''t sure what I was expecting in just two days, of course there wasn''t much. The equipment I''d seeded with the data sticks did scan a few exercises, but nothing I''d consider combat-viable. Still, I dutifully followed along as the capoeira instructor went through her stretches and core exercises. It was good to have a routine I could follow beyond "jog for health." After all, having access to all these techniques wouldn''t mean shit if my body lacked the muscle definition needed to perform them adequately.


    After a few hours of exhausting physical conditioning, I took a shower and ate a small dollop of enchanted honey to give myself a quick pick-me-up before heading out to the Hillside Mall. I had to make good on my promise to Vicky.


    Besides, Dean was a pretty swell dude and I did have a nice fat wallet now thanks to Accord.


    I was glad I arrived early; I''d almost forgotten how crowded these meet-and-greet events could be, especially one where all the Wards were participating. Even twenty minutes early, the main plaza at the center of Hillside''s donut-shaped layout was filling up rapidly.


    I hadn''t been to one of these since Sierra was in high school and I was in middle school. It was a New Wave thing if I remembered right, one of the last they held as a group before Fleur was murdered and Lightstar moved out of state.


    Shortly following the Boston Games and New Wave''s strong showing there, they held a public town hall meeting so people could ask questions about the movement. Dad found out somehow that Sisi had an interest in Crystal and extrapolated the burgeoning crush to an interest in New Wave as a whole. Nothing came of it, but Sisi was mortified all the same.


    Smiling at the bittersweet memories of my second life''s father, I wandered the plaza, looking over a handful of booths that sprang up to take advantage of the event. The owners of the maw knew their audience; virtually everything on the ground floor had been converted to showcase the Wards. I saw a Vista-themed sundress, which I knew she''d hate, Aegis-print bike helmets, replicas of Kid Win''s hoverboard, with wheels obviously, and even Shadow Stalker-brand tacti-cool night vision goggles, which she probably threw a fit about.


    I giggled as I tried one on. Everything about it screamed edgy teenager obsessed with airsoft or middle-aged mall ninja going through a midlife crisis. I''d never met Sophia Hess in this life, but I could practically feel her seething.


    "Interested, young man?" the vendor asked, a balding, Hispanic man with a Dauntless-themed shirt.


    "No thank you, sir. Stalker''s fine and all, but I''m looking for something Gallant-related. My friend''s birthday''s coming up and he''s his favorite hero," I told him honestly.


    "Ohoho, the knightly tinker himself, eh? Well, I got just the thing for your buddy," he said as he leaned forward. He was in full salesman-mode now that I''d confirmed I planned to buy something. He brought out a heavily modified rifle used in laser tag. It was spray painted neon-blue and silver, Gallant''s colors. "How ''bout a nice gun?"


    "Gallant doesn''t use a gun," I told him flatly. "You just spray painted a rifle in his colors."


    "He does shoot energy blasts though."


    "Ehh, no thanks, mister."


    I left him grumbling as I walked away. There were a few ripoffs like that, but just as many with goods of surprising quality. Eventually, I settled on a scale model of Gallant''s helmet. It had some heft to it, which made me think the plastic encased a metal frame. It wasn''t protective by any measure, but any LARPer would have loved something like this in my past life. It even had LED lights built into the visor.


    At $150, it was probably overpriced, but I had to give it to the maker, it did look pretty cool.


    Gift shopping done, I grabbed myself a warm pretzel from a nearby snack stand before lining up. Not five minutes later, the Wards arrived with some PR rep who acted as the coordinator for the event. She said something about justice, being a pillar of the community, and something else that I tuned out before yielding the floor to Aegis.


    I knew Carlos. He was a kind, mature boy who acted like a big brother figure to a lot of younger kids in school. Even knowing who was under the mask, I almost didn''t recognize him. Just like at homecoming, the Aegis who stood in front of me stood with an almost domineering confidence that he lacked in his civilian life.


    Credit where it was due, the PRT''s public speaking coach knew what they were doing.


    "Thank you for that, Miss Teller," he began, looking every bit the capable hero, "and thank you all for joining us here this morning. I''m sure you have a lot else you could be doing so it means a lot to have you with us. I''d try for a joke to kick things off, but that''s more Clock''s thing, and let''s be honest, he''s not that funny anyway."


    That got a smattering of chuckles from the crowd along with good-natured grumbling from the resident clown.


    "So, getting right to it, we''re fortunate to be joined by the chief events officer of this mall. He has agreed to donate a portion of the proceeds of this weekend''s revenue to the Brockton Bay Youth Centers, a nonprofit dedicated to providing for children in light of the upcoming holiday season. Because being a hero isn''t about fighting; being a hero is about helping the community and giving back to the city we all love."


    ''I take it back, their PR guy needs to be fired immediately,'' I thought, cringing a little at how corny it all sounded. To be fair to Aegis, he did well enough, but there just weren''t many people who could make a speech like that sound genuine.


    Being one of the first in line, it didn''t take long for me to be shuffled in front of the Wards. The setup was such that each guest could meet a Ward for a minute or so, with them being lined up in order of seniority, much like a K-pop idol''s handshake event. I shook my head and put on a smile for Carlos.


    "Hey there, how''s it going?" he asked in a friendly voice. "What''s your name?"


    "Bryce Kily. Sorry, but I''m just here to have Gallant sign this," I told him, holding up my shiny helmet.


    I could feel him studying me with a gimlet eye. I''d portrayed myself as a cape nerd in school, but not the sort who collected merch. "Oh? Are you a fan?"


    "Nah, it''s for my friend, Dean Stansfield. His birthday''s coming up and someone told me Gallant was his favorite Ward, no offense."


    "Haha, no worries, Bryce, none taken. Gallant''s a really great guy. I''m sure this Dean fellow will love his gift."


    "I hope so! This bucket wasn''t cheap!" I chirped happily as one of the workers ushered me onward.


    Dean, Gallant, stood waiting. He looked every bit the knight and though I couldn''t see his eyes through his helmet, I knew he was surprised to see me here. Still, he nodded affably and held out his hand. "Hello, I''m Gallant, how are you today?"


    "I''m doing great, Gallant," I said with a fat smile, not even bothering to hide my amusement. I knew Dean saw emotions as colored aura around people, but he wasn''t always great at interpreting them or identifying their source. I figured he''d probably pass off my aura as someone excited to get a gift for a friend. I hefted my helmet, a mirror copy of the one worn by my friend, and held it out. "Mind signing this? Got this for a friend''s birthday coming up because his girlfriend said you were his favorite Ward."


    "Y-Yeah? What''s his name?"


    "Dean Stansfield. Could you write a little message? Maybe, ''For Dean, your favorite Ward, Gallant?'' Or something cheesy and appropriately heroic-sounding?"


    "Y-Yeah¡­ Give me a minute¡­" he replied woodenly. "Heard it from his girlfriend, huh?"


    "Yup! Vicky''s a great girl, being super considerate and all. I hope the two are happy together."


    "Right¡­ I hear she likes to play pranks sometimes."


    "Not this time. I haven''t known Dean long. Like, I didn''t even know you were his favorite. Good thing she told me, or my gift to him probably would''ve been a pencil case or something equally lame," I said with a smile that wouldn''t melt butter.


    "Great. Here you go. I''m sorry, but that''s all the time we have," he said, handing the helmet back. The text on it simply read, "Happy birthday, Dean. From Gallant." As I walked to Clockblocker, my enhanced hearing picked up his muttering under his breath. "Would''ve rather taken the pencil case¡­"


    I bowed out of line after that. As interesting as a meeting with the rest of the Wards could be, I wanted to get on with my day. I was tempted to let Dennis in on Vicky''s little prank, but Carlos would likely make Dean the butt of the joke as soon as they went back to PRT HQ anyway.


    X


    Social obligations met, I returned back home to put the model helmet away before skipping out again, this time to the Gullrest.


    Having a rotating specialization of some of the greatest technical marvels in the multiverse sounded phenomenal, until I realized I couldn''t master half the shit I made before being saddled with yet another tech tree that I felt obligated to explore because doing otherwise would be a massive waste of potential.


    Even now, just three months in, I was starting to feel a little overwhelmed with all the different branches available to me. I had to master riding ATs; practice my marksmanship with the walker pistol; make more Muggy Ball bullets so I could have an emergency stockpile; develop my burgeoning aura by practicing with Magnet Rise, Psychic, and Protect; cultivate a client base so I could have the funds needed to tinker; begin planning out my ship; think about what I wanted to do with my new artificial devil fruit that''d just begun to flower; and build new tech, including my hybrid regalia. That was of course on top of school, maintaining relationships, and picking up martial arts.


    Even for a (mostly) competent adult with a genetically enhanced physiology, that was a lot of things pulling me in different directions.


    Which was why I decided to dedicate the rest of the weekend to tinkering and training in the hopes of getting caught up with my extensive to-do list, or at least make some headway.


    After a morning of jogging, capoeira, and the Wards event, I didn''t feel like doing any more physical practice at the moment so I began the session by unfolding the Pledge Regalia and strumming my guitar. By tuning the regalia''s cross-shaped nodes to the sound waves produced by my guitar, I was able to use said waves like extensions of my own hands. I wasn''t quite confident enough to start properly tinkering with sonokinesis yet, the internal components could be especially tricky when building with no hands, but I had graduated from picking apart a vacuum cleaner and could now start putting together the frames for more hybrid engines, Black Rhino motorcycles, and rudimentary ATs.


    While I did that, I had SAINT mix more powders and distill the chemicals necessary for Buggy''s special brand of explosive. The powder formula was ingenious, Buggy likely could have had a successful career as a weapon maker for the Marines if he so felt inclined, but also simple. It could be crafted even in the resource-starved East Blue, on a wooden ship, with only roughly nineteenth century towns to plunder.


    SAINT had no trouble following along with the recipe.


    After a few hours playing different types of music, I came to the conclusion that the Pledge Regalia was easier to use when I had an instrument in hand. When I first built it, I didn''t use a guitar to practice, just whistling and using my voice to try and dismantle a toy Hero figure I had. After all, Kururu didn''t need an external source of sound so I shouldn''t either.


    I wasn''t wrong per se, but having the guitar in hand made things so much smoother. That was the difference between a master and a novice. I wondered briefly if it''d be worthwhile to build the sonic guitar that Kanon fellow had in the manga. He was Kururu''s cousin and the only one who rode the Ring Road with offensive abilities. He incorporated multiple AT mechanisms into his guitar, allowing him to release destructive pulses of sound that could shatter glass or focus said pulses into blades that could compete with a king.


    Stolen story; please report.


    I shook my head. ''Nah, I have enough on my plate.'' Besides, I wasn''t sure I wanted my primary weapon to be a guitar of all things. As cool as such unorthodox weapons were in anime, most people stuck to a sword or something for good reasons. Giving up the use of both my hands, being forced to bring the pledge Regalia into battle when it could be better used in production¡­


    There were better primary weapons.


    After the music session, I moved on to making something for myself¡­ kinda¡­ Lunch came first, which meant tinkering with lineage factors, splicing qualities from different foodstuffs into other, more improbable foodstuffs to get the wackiest meal I could that was still technically edible.


    It was fun¡­ and the fact that this was what I did for fun probably said some things about me¡­ But! It was fun so I didn''t care. I was entitled to play Frankenstein with my groceries, damn it.


    I quickly texted mom and Sisi that I''d be out with friends until dinner and got to work prepping my lunch. I couldn''t eat cherry-flavored garlic or watermelon-flavored leeks, as funny as those were. Good nutrition was critical now that I was forcing myself through hellish conditioning.


    That gave me an idea. It wasn''t from my specializations, neither Pokemon nor One Piece nor Air Gear. Digimon¡­ They grew meat. As in from the dirt. It was a constant through so many games and anime that "meat-apples" were something of a meme with the franchise.


    Could I do that¡­?


    And thus began the next step in my descent to biotinkering degeneracy.


    I made a quick dash to the local Hannaford, the largest supermarket chain in New Hampshire, and picked up a bushel of apples, a package of ciabatta rolls, skirt steak, provolone cheese, onions, pickles, arugula, and a bottle of chipotle mayo. Then, then the madness began. After all, why stop at meat-apples?


    The next two hours passed in a blur as I isolated different flavors and spliced them into individual apples. By the end of it, I had a ciabatta-apple, steak-apple, cheese-apple, onion-apple, pickle-apple, arugula-apple, and chipotle-apple. I carefully sliced them into thin strips before grilling the steak-apple and topping it with a cheese-apple. Then, I layered the rest of the slices into a standard sandwich configuration, capped on either end by two bread-apple slices.


    I stared down at six of what looked for all the world like deconstructed then reconstructed apples.


    "This is the single most idiotic thing I''ve ever done," I told SAINT, "and might be the most unreasonable way to make a sandwich in fiction."


    "Poreee," he trilled beside me. He dusted off his powder-laden bill and hovered over a tablet, one of the few I''d not dismantled yet from the Hillside Heist. He quickly googled something and held the screen up to me.


    "''Your scientists were so preoccupied with whether they could, they didn''t stop to think if they shou-'' Really? You''re quoting Jurassic Park at me?"


    "Porygon. Gon."


    "Oh, you smug fuck."


    "Por."


    "Yeah, well, I''m sure it tastes fine." So saying, I grabbed one apple sandwich and took a big bite. The exterior layers were crisp, which translated somewhat well to what I expected of a sandwich, crisp onions, arugula, and the crunchy crust of a well-made ciabatta roll. Then the cheese-apple and steak-apple hit. I''d grilled the two in the hopes of giving them a more authentic flavor.


    I froze.


    "Pory?"


    "N-No, it''s fine," I told him, forcing myself to take another bite. I chewed thoroughly before swallowing. "Okay, definitely up there on the weirdness factor. To be fair, all the flavors are there. Skirt steak tastes like skirt steak and the provolone cheese is nice and mild, but they''re also really juicy like an apple and it''s kinda weird. Want one?"


    "Reee," he trilled before a vacuum-like hole made up of pixels, zeroes, and ones opened up on his mouth. One of my "sandwiches" vanished into it.


    "Did you even taste it?"


    "Pory."


    "Fine, whatever. I''ve had my fun so let''s get back to work."


    "Gon?"


    "Are you done making the extra Muggy Ball powder?"


    "Gon."


    "Great job, bud. I really appreciate your help," I told him sincerely. Having him around was basically like having a second tinker and I couldn''t be prouder of his growth. Best of all? He accepted crusted almonds as payment.


    "Pory-gon? Pory?" he asked. Our connection twanged as he plucked on it like a guitar string, sending impressions laden with curiosity.


    "Why do I keep making weird food?"


    "Gon."


    "Two reasons: First, it''s fun. Like I said, SAINT, it''s not enough to have a purpose, having a way to wind down is important too. Second, the lineage factors are not some unique invention by Vegapunk. They are a field of study, a subset of biology as understood by the scientists of One Piece. Sure, I made the Lineage Factor Extractor and Splicer, but I need to keep working if I want to better understand the process. Devil fruits don''t just incorporate vegetables; they''re part lion, dragon, eagle, or whatever else. I don''t just want to be good, I want to be flawless. Get me?"


    "Porygon."


    "Yeah, so I''m going to make weird foods as a way to experiment from now on. That steak-apple had the flavor but the texture and aroma wasn''t quite right for example. Being able to eat my experiments is just my way of having fun with the learning process."


    We hopped right back to it after lunch. To give myself some time to digest, SAINT and I practiced our aim, me with my pistol and regular bullets and SAINT with telekinetically lifted projectiles.


    I wasn''t bad, I did hit my targets, but without SAINT hovering in my suit to act as my personal aimbot, my aim was only marginally better than average. Increased proprioception did mean I had better posture, but a natural deadeye, I was not.


    "Say, SAINT," I called, making him pause. I had been taking a small break and watching him "shoot." "Why do you do that?"


    "Pory?"


    "That," I gestured to the little bolts he''d been using as ammunition. "Why throw that instead of using Psybeam?"


    "Gon. Pory-gon," he chirped. He pressed a shared memory into my mind, of me telling him to practice this way. "Porygon."


    "Well, yeah, I know I told you to, but that was initially to teach you better control over Psychic. You can hit the target as accurately as you want now and I think you understand psychic type aura so it should be fine to do something different."


    "Gon?" he asked with a curious trill.


    "Psybeam. It''s supposed to be a beam of raw psychic power and a staple of the porygon line. I don''t remember everything you can learn naturally, but I do remember Tri Attack and Psybeam were on that list."


    "Gon," he said. I had the distinct feeling he was shrugging helplessly at me. It was more of a bob considering the little fella didn''t actually have shoulders, but the message was clear enough.


    "Try treating it like Thunder Wave," I advised. In a way, this too was an experiment. Just how much could SAINT learn on his own? I lacked a specialization to guide him and Earth-Bet lacked psychic powers altogether to act as a frame of reference. There was telekinesis which he copied from Rune and other capes, but this kind of raw expression of energy was a foreign concept to the capes of Earth-Bet. For the first time ever, I intended to leave SAINT on his own. I sent over a memory, a hazy scene from an anime of an alakazam crossing its spoons and a beam of rainbow color lancing out. "This is what it''s supposed to look like. Want to try it?"


    "Gon," he nodded. He turned back to the target. A corona of violet light surrounded him as he focused his psychic energy. And then¡­ nothing. "Gon?"


    "I don''t know either, bud. This is going to be your personal project, to use what you have now and adapt it into a new technique of your own making. That''s what inventing is. How ''bout it? Still think you can do it?"


    "Porygon!" he chirped enthusiastically. I was counting on that. No matter how artificial, SAINT was a pokemon. He didn''t mind being a tinker-lite and working alongside me, but as a pokemon, growing stronger was an inbuilt need. A competitive spirit was a natural part of who he was. I''d presented him with a challenge, one he should be able to overcome. And so, he would.


    "Then I''ll leave it to you. When you''re not helping me, I want you to practice on your own. I know you''ve only been out fighting once when we raided the Merchants, but that''s because I''m not as strong without you in the suit with me. Sooner or later, I''m going to be able to fight without a guided assist. I want you to be right by my side then."


    "Pory-gon," he promised.


    "We''re going to kick so much ass."


    "Gon!"


    After another half hour of that, I transitioned back to tinkering, specifically, my new regalia. The heels of the Germa-tech hover boots contained unique compressors that compressed water vapor using a compound derived from pyrobloin to allow me to run on air. I simply refitted that into ¨­m''s Water Regalia, adding something to shape the compressed vapor into constantly spinning bubbles.


    "I can stop right now and I''d still shoot rasengan water balloons from my heels," I mused. As funny as that was, I wasn''t satisfied. Perhaps it was the result of being inundated with three months of shonen nonsense, but just as running Spitfire and Kazu''s road wasn''t enough for me, wearing ¨­m''s skates wasn''t enough either.


    I wanted my own regalia, my own road.


    Trouble was, incorporating the Water Regalia into my hover boots was the easy part. Getting it all to play nice with Key Mother? I knew that''d be the real challenge, even with seastone frames to contain the immense friction.


    And that was why I had to tear up the hover boots completely so I could build the entire body out of seastone. Leather, as comfy as it was, just wasn''t good enough. Gold wire for conductivity. Wapometal for internal components that needed to be flexible and strong. But seastone for the skeletal frame of the boots as well as any component coming into contact with the rapidly rotating vapor-bubbles. In the end, what I''d designed was basically a set of grieves to go over a padded interior.


    Unfortunately, molding all of that seastone used up almost everything in my stockpile. It took long enough that I barely made it home in time for dinner, earning myself a small scolding from mom.


    X


    I retired to my room for the night to find a message from a potential business partner. Surprisingly, it was not from Uppercrust, but from Big Rig. I thought Uppercrust would be faster in responding though I didn''t know why. Maybe he gave off a more professional air than Toybox as a whole? Then again, he was likely the busiest tinker alive, Dragon excluded, thanks to his municipal defense systems.


    Or maybe, Big Rig had relatively fewer resources than the head of an Elite cell and was more likely to jump on any opportunity to build connections, especially if said connection came with hyper-efficient engines fueled by easily acquired carbonated sugar-water. In any case, I had a note from the construction-tinker waiting in my pokenav.


    Creed,


    No worries, man, we''re tinkers, being too busy to answer email is part of the experience. I took a gander at the Brockton Bay side of PHO and gotta say, you made quite the entrance. That''s not necessarily a good thing, mind, keep that in mind and be careful. Wouldn''t want to lose a business partner just after getting one because he was careless.


    Now, I''ll be honest with you. I wasn''t impressed with your message. Keep in mind that a ramjet is a type of engine, not a measure of the engine''s output. Yeah, I know what you meant, saying it''s a small thing that rivals one found on a plane, fine, but it still read mighty unprofessional, like you didn''t know what you were talking about.


    Then I saw the specs on that engine and tested it myself. You build a lot better than you talk, that''s for sure. Hell, even Pyrotechnical was impressed, said he wouldn''t mind a collaboration. You can expect a letter from him sometime soon, whenever he''s done with his current commission. Or he might forget, who knows? Guy''s worryingly spacey for someone who handles so much explosives.


    Look, I''m not really good at this whole negotiating thing, I leave most of that to Toy Soldier normally, but I want more. I make drones that build buildings and I can see how your tech synergizes with mine. I plugged the sample engine you gave me onto one of my drones and it was amazing how simple that was. Normally, tinkers have to jump through a bunch of hoops to get their tech to play nice with other tinkertech. You got something real valuable here is what I''m saying.


    And that seastone stuff. I ain''t sure about the name, but you do you. What I am sure of is that I like the gray, granite look it''s got and I''ve never seen any stone anywhere near as durable. Looks are real important for some of my construction jobs, you see. I''ve got a job coming up to build a private emergency bunker for some fat cat up in Chicago and I want to make the walls and foundations out of this seastone stuff.


    As for the wapometal, I''m interested, but it''s not a priority. Pyro''s got a knack for forging too, got some kind of tinkertech forge in his lab, and shape-memory alloys aren''t new. It''s stronger than most things Pyro can readily make, but I''m not willing to shell out a lot of cash over it. Maybe that''ll change if I come across a specific job, but not right now. Toy Soldier seemed interested for his power armor if you want to take it up with him.


    Lastly, that Germa fabric? It''s not nearly as useful in construction as the other stuff you sent me. I wouldn''t mind having a costume made of it for protection of course, but that''s about it.


    So here''s the gist: I want the engines and seastone. You want a CAD, fabricators, and drones. Alright, let''s make it happen. I''m going to keep an eye on my chatbox for the next few days. Get back to me when you can and we can hash this out properly.


    -Big Rig


    I grinned as I finished reading. It was happening, person whose cooperation I wanted most had bitten the bait. Others might keep him waiting as some kind of power play, but I saw no point. He had something I wanted, I had something he wanted, so we''d trade.


    I sent him a private message on PHO. Not four minutes later, I had a reply to a video link. After having SAINT check it out to make sure the line was secure, I put on my helmet and accepted the call.


    Big Rig was a corpulent man who wore a hard hat and gas mask, the sort you''d find on a construction site. He had on a neon-orange vest over comfortable work clothes. Everything was stylized of course, more blocky and angular to give him broader shoulders.


    "Big Rig, a pleasure to put a face to the name," I greeted.


    "Likewise, Creed. I gotta ask, for Dodge''s sake, are you another Sentai Elite fan?" he asked with a chuckle and the hint of a southern drawl. "Kiddo was real excited when he saw the outfit."


    "God, if I had a quarter for every time I heard that¡­ There are things I like and don''t like about them. It''s more the old school Super Sentai, Kamen Rider, and Ultraman aesthetic I like. I think we both drew inspiration from the same place."


    "Fair enough. Now, let''s talk business, Creed."


    I allowed myself a quiet sigh that didn''t carry through my helmet. This would be a long night, but I hoped it''d pay off.


    Author''s Note


    Thanks to Lincolnator on SB for correcting my nonexistent engineering knowledge. A "ramjet" is a type of engine, not a scale for how powerful an engine is. Though most are found on planes, he''s since told me that you can have a "ramjet" fuel a tricycle if an engineer felt so inclined. Big Rig''s reaction is a bit of a dig on that.


    Why does he sound southern? I have no idea either.


    Not much to say. Have an animal fact: The ocean sunfish, or mola mola, is the largest bony fish in the world, which is distinct from a cartilaginous fish (sharks, rays, etc.). It is also one of the few fish that lack scales, instead having small, tooth-like projections on its skin called denticles and mucus. Because it''s relatively slow and lacks scales, it often suffers from parasites. It also has only four teeth in its mouth, though its throat is lined with teeth that help grind up food.


    Admit it, you though I''d make a joke about fish, didn''t you? Well, it''s good to have a purely educational A/N once in a while. Gotta keep you on your toes.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 3.9 Surge

    Surge 3.9


    2010, November 7: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    I was pleasantly surprised; negotiations the night prior didn''t end up taking all that long. Neither Big Rig nor I were the sort to pinch pennies and it showed. Face to face, Big Rig was every bit as gruff as his construction foreman costume implied. He had a rough but not unkind demeanor to him that bashed directly to the point like a bulldozer. He was a man who knew what he wanted and didn''t tolerate fools and "snake oil salesmen" as he''d called them.


    Unfortunate that I couldn''t fleece him for extra cash, but great in that he wasn''t the sort to cheap out on me either.


    In the end, we settled on a simple system: For every construction drone I wanted, he''d get a hybrid soda engine out of me, and vice versa. Should one of us have our fill of the other''s product, we''d default to cash, or in his case, a set weight of either seastone or wapometal. The CAD and fabricator, which I''d only need one of for the immediate future, we agreed to purchase for a set weight of seastone, to be delivered as soon as I could get the fabricator working.


    He''d begun by trying to demand more for the fabricator, but I pointed out that me being able to mass-produce was just another way for him to secure his own supply chain, especially if he wanted to cover an entire private emergency bunker out of seastone. The fabricator wasn''t as much a part of negotiations as it was the bare minimum that I needed to have for any trade to even be feasible in the long run. He grumbled, but in the end gave me a steep discount on the first. If I ever needed a second fabricator, he warned that he fully expected me to pay the full amount.


    Lastly, we agreed that any trade between us would remain independent of market considerations. As in, neither he nor I would change the price of our goods just because another tinker hiked up demand elsewhere. It was a promise I made for his sake, I strongly expected demand for my time to skyrocket as I acquired different specializations. Still, he''d been straight with me and I felt obligated to be fair in turn.


    I accepted the deal and thanked him for his generosity. I suspected that at least part of it was Toybox''s stated mission of propping up independent tinkers. Regardless of the reason, negotiations came to an end far more expediently than I''d initially expected.


    I received a notice from Big Rig shortly after informing me that Dodge of Toybox would be delivering my new CAD and fabricator to the Palanquin at 3 AM, Monday.


    I scratched my stomach and got up with a lazy grumble. I wanted to spend Sunday morning relaxing, but as much as I appreciated Big Rig''s speedy delivery, it meant I''d be busy tinkering again today to prepare for the influx of supplies.


    To be fair, it was something I should have done a long time ago, as soon as I realized Strider would be coming in with almost a literal ton of volcanic ash on a regular basis. Now that I expected the deliveries to be even bigger, in volume and likely in mass, simple expanded bags wouldn''t cut it anymore. I needed a way to carry things that wouldn''t fit in the mouth of a large suitcase.


    I needed another DSS port, one that I could carry around.


    I groaned pitifully. Trying to get that to work with a laptop was going to be a nightmare.


    I stepped into the shower and allowed the cold water to wake me fully. Then I froze before promptly running my forehead into the ceramic tile. Then one more time, because I deserved it. "Holy fuck I''m stupid¡­ Why does it need to be a laptop? I can just carry a desktop in an expanded bag, piggyback off the Palanquin''s network, digitize the deliveries, then pack up the desktop again."


    I sighed. Now that I was thinking properly, I remembered having similar thoughts when I first built the DSS in th Gullrest. Then I got distracted tinkering and shelved any plans to tinker in the future. I slumped, resting my forehead against the cool ceramic. I thought I took a lot of notes where my power was concerned, but I clearly wasn''t nearly meticulous enough if I forgot about such an obvious exploit. What else had I missed while chasing the hot new thing?


    Getting out of the shower, I toweled myself off and replaced my contacts. I''d just have to take the loss on this one and learn from it. Just because I built something once didn''t mean I couldn''t find different applications or workarounds.


    Thus resolved, I headed down to join mom and Sisi for a delicious breakfast of sausage, pepper, and onion hash with a side of fruit. I reached into the fridge to grab my hot sauce and settled down next to my sister.


    "Morning, mom, Sierra," I greeted as I sprinkled a generous helping of hot sauce onto my breakfast. It was a chipotle-lime blend this time; mom bought it just for me.


    "Good morning, dear," mom greeted back. "Either of you want to come to church with me?"


    "Nope," we chorused as one, completing our Sunday morning routine. I didn''t know why Sierra wasn''t religious, but I personally found it hard to believe considering the reincarnation I knew to be fact.


    Perhaps I was unique? Was I some kind of abomination or abnormality, overlooked by both Heaven and Hell?


    No matter the answer, it was at least clear to me that the God I grew up with no longer had a claim on me, if he existed at all. It was a disquieting feeling, one I did not enjoy being reminded of. Still, church gave mom peace of mind and that was good enough for me.


    "Well what are you two going to be doing then?"


    Sierra shrugged and ripped open a Pop-Tart. Why she''d come to the conclusion that a strawberry Pop-Tart would go well with a sausage hash was beyond me, but I decided to be a merciful little brother and cut out the snark. "Michelle and Sabah are coming over."


    "Another project? Semester finals should be around the corner, no?"


    "Mom, relax, finals are after Thanksgiving. We''re just going to hang out."


    I snorted and shot her a teasing grin. "You three aren''t even going to pretend to be working this time?"


    "Hey, we did have lab. We just finished and watched TV together afterwards. What''s wrong with that?"


    "Nothing, sis, just saying, I''m surprised you haven''t found a better place to hang out than our living room by now."


    "Their house is always crowded because their roommates are slobs," Sierra said with a shrug. "Besides, don''t act like you don''t enjoy having cute older girls around, Bryce. They''ve basically adopted you at this point."


    "True," I hummed, "no point denying it. Michelle and Sabah are really pretty."


    "I liked you better when you were easier to embarrass."


    I rolled my eyes. "Did such a time exist? When?"


    "Selective memory much?"


    "Absolutely. I ignore everything I don''t like. That''s the key to a happy, fulfilling life."


    "Mom, Bryce is becoming an idiot," Sierra said in that tattling tone all sisters seemed to master instinctually.


    "Mom, Sierra is already an idiot," I chimed back. We glared at each other for a second before we broke into chuckles.


    "What about you, Bryce? Are you going to hang around the house all day?" mom asked with a fond smile. She didn''t even try to pretend to admonish us.


    "Nah, I''m thinking I''ll wander around the Boardwalk. Maybe visit one of the music stores."


    "You know they''re mostly tourist-traps, right?"


    "Yeah, mom, I know. But that''s not always bad. They''re good for killing time."


    "Why don''t you invite your friends out? You went to the arcade with the boys from school, right?"


    I considered it, then snorted. "No thanks, mom. Not everything needs to be a social activity."


    "You should enjoy the time you have with friends," she chided gently. "You won''t get so much free time when you''re an adult."


    That took me back. My parents used to tell me the same thing when I was a teenager the first time around. I scoffed and ignored the advice then as just some inane "wisdom" adults liked to dish out on unsuspecting youth, but they weren''t wrong.


    As I grew older, attended college, and started a job, I found myself busier and busier, and before I knew it, the friends I thought would stay with me forever had all drifted away. I remembered thinking once over a glass of whiskey how it''d be cool to reconnect; then I drowned the thought in liquor and dismissed it as too awkward or needy. After all, they all had their own lives, right? Who was I to barge in after years of radio silence?


    I smiled sardonically at the bittersweet memories. Would I feel the same way about Chelsea? Stephanie? The Wards? Vicky? Amy?


    No, of course I wouldn''t. I wasn''t delusional. I was only loosely tied to that friend group by virtue of Chelsea''s overenthusiasm and my identity being known to Amy. We all had very few shared interests beyond being a cape, which I obviously had no intention of sharing. The things they enjoyed, I couldn''t find it in me to take much interest in, especially now that I was busy building and launching my probably illicit business. It was the magic of high school, where you could consider someone a "friend" simply by eating lunch with them for a bit.


    ''How ironic,'' I mused, ''that I can only really appreciate the worth of that advice when I can no longer take advantage of it.''


    "I know, mom, I know," I said finally.


    X


    Contrary to what I''d told mom, I wasn''t at the Boardwalk proper. I was instead several blocks inland, roughly ten minutes from the college. I stood atop a telephone pole, invisible to everyone else. I wore the incomplete hybrid regalia, currently just the Water Regalia and Germa boots, and spent an hour skating through the Boat Graveyard to acclimate myself to the new skates.


    If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    I looked down at the shopping center. It was a large, square warehouse that had been converted into a joint Target and Best Buy. Smirking to myself, I hopped down to the ground and waited by the automatic door for someone else to enter before following them inside.


    Still invisible, I made small bubbles of air beneath my feet to cushion my footsteps. I wandered around the Best Buy until I found one of their "geek squad." He was a short but bulky man with clearly defined muscles that strained against his blue polo, very much the antithesis of a stereotypical geek. He was also helping a teenage girl and her father who were shopping for a new laptop for her birthday. At their side, a young boy shuffled aimlessly, looking around for anything that might distract him.


    I stood off to the side a ways, hands clasped in front of me politely, and signaled for the invisibility to fade away. I waited there patiently, mostly just to see how long it''d take for someone to notice me.


    Two minutes later, the boy, who had been halfheartedly browsing through some graphic mousepads, turned and incidentally caught me out of the corner of his vision. For all intents and purposes, I''d teleported directly into the store, right before his eyes. His eyes widened comically but before he could say anything, I leaned forward and placed a finger in front of my face in the universal sign for "Be quiet."


    "D-Dad?" he stammered, his hand grasping his father''s sleeve.


    "Not now, Connor," the man said distractedly, he was asking about the RAM on a Dell laptop versus a Lenovo, "we can look at the games after we pick out a computer for your sister."


    "Dad? I think you should see this."


    "Conner, stop being a pest," his sister scolded. She turned around to say something but caught me leaning against a stand of headphones. "Why can''t you be quie-"


    Seeing the gig was up, I raised a hand and waved. "Yo."


    That did it. The Best Buy employee and the father turned as one to look at me. Amusingly enough, they had two very different reactions. The employee, Carl, his nametag said, was wholly resigned. He''d clearly heard of my visit to Toys R Us. He was so jaded that he stared at my orange-visored helm for only a handful of seconds before going right back to explaining how RAM and HDD memories differed.


    "Okay, I know this is slightly beyond the budget you said you had sir, but if your daughter is really into digital art, you''re going to want the extra RAM-"


    "Wait, hold on, that''s Creed!" the father exclaimed, pointing at me.


    "Yes, it is, sir," Carl drawled. He turned back to me with the most "done with this shit" expression I''d ever seen. "Should I open up the register or are you here for something else?"


    I held a palm to my chest in mock offense. "Excuse me? I''ll have you know I am a villain class and culture." I leaned down conspiratorially to whisper to Conner. "Besides, it''s not a good idea to rob people who supply me with tech."


    "Right¡­"


    Conner looked like Christmas had come early while his father waffled between pulling him away or not doing anything that might offend me. The kid, being a kid, practically vibrated in place. He took out a notebook and thrust it towards me. It had a graphic design on the cover, Legend, I noticed.


    "Sign this," he demanded.


    Before I could respond, the father finally decided on a course of action and yanked the child back by the scruff of his neck. "Nope. This isn''t happening. Come on, Penny, we''ll try Fry''s."


    "But daaddd~" Conner whined. "He''s not even that bad!"


    "Conner, I swear to god¡­" I heard him trial off as he whispered harshly to his kid.


    Penny, presumably his daughter, looked at me, at her family, back at me, then sighed before flipping me off. "Thanks, my shopping trip just got longer."


    "In my defense, I literally did nothing but stand here."


    "Whatever. I hope Armsmaster kicks your ass."


    "I hope so too," I replied honestly, "not getting my ass kicked, more fighting him, tinker to tinker. Could be fun. Ooh, I should pick that fight at some point¡­ Now how to do it in a way that doesn''t get The GOAT on my ass¡­"


    "Whatever," she grunted before stalking away.


    Carl the Geek stared at me. "That was my commission, you know."


    I winced internally. That actually did make me feel bad. Retail workers didn''t deserve that shit. "Sorry. If it''s any consolation, I''ll spend more than enough to cover it."


    "Fine, whatever. What do you want?"


    "Several hard drives. Highest HDD and RAM you''ve got. Money isn''t a concern."


    "Can''t you just build a supercomputer?"


    "Maybe," I hummed. He wasn''t wrong, strictly speaking. I had all of anime-earth''s tech tree in my head, which included more than just ATs. I understood the ins and outs of everything from automotive construction to vaccine development, even the basics of things like quantum computing, which the Chinese government had begun to play with. "But just because I can doesn''t mean it''s productive to build everything myself. That''s like asking why every architect doesn''t build his own dream home instead of taking out a mortgage on something already standing. Sometimes, good enough is good enough."


    He grunted unintelligibly before taking me over to the desktops. He started to explain the nuances of different computers, realized he was talking to a tinker, then promptly shut up in a way that reminded me of goldfish.


    "You know what you want?" he settled.


    "Yup. If you have anything better in the back, bring it nout, but otherwise, yeah. I''ll browse on my own, thanks."


    He grunted something and moved off to the side but didn''t leave. I assumed he wanted to at least jot it down for his manager if I actually did steal something, not that I planned on it.


    I browsed through the computers on display and frowned. They were all awful and I couldn''t believe that these were the best they had. And then I remembered, ''Oh, right¡­ 2011¡­''


    I couldn''t remember off the top of my head, I wasn''t paying much attention at the time, but the computer I''d fitted with a DSS back home wasn''t too advanced either, certainly not up to my 2022 standards. They also didn''t sell individual hard drives, just fully assembled computers.


    In the end, I purchased six desktop computers with large memories, advertised as providing a "flawless movie-watching experience." According to Carl, they were most often bought by gamers with rich parents or graduate students in architecture or engineering back at the college.


    His eyes widened as he rang me up. "That''s $9,923."


    I nodded, having expected that. All things considered, a little over $1,600 per computer wasn''t bad for a high-performance model. I handed him my card. "I did say I''d pay you back for that commission I cost you, no?"


    "R-Right."


    "I''m a villain of my word. Besides," I leaned in and spoke in a mock-whisper, "crime does pay."


    "And what crimes are those?" I heard behind me.


    My heart leapt to my throat and I forcibly stilled my hand to keep from reaching for my walker pistol. If I was going to be attacked, it would have happened already. I turned to find Kid Win and Aegis, both aloft, which explained why I hadn''t heard them coming.


    The two Wards looked amused, or at least non-combative for the moment. That they were the ones here instead of the Protectorate told me much of how the PRT viewed me at the moment. More, since the Wards patrolled in pairs, I could assume this was a coincidental encounter. Another employee likely reported my presence here and these two happened to be the nearest capes on patrol.


    That bit of rationalizing calmed me down and I forced myself to speak nonchalantly, thanking the voice modulator in my helmet for doing much of the heavy lifting. Shrugging ambivalently, I swiped the card back from Carl and said, "Oh, you know, a contract here, a commission there. Really, I haven''t even made a dent in my inbox."


    "Selling unregulated tinkertech is illegal," Aegis said sternly.


    "Unregulated? By you, you mean. I''ll have you know that both catalogs were looked over and approved by The GOAT and ''quality'' is their middle name."


    "Is it really?" Kid Win asked sarcastically. "The Quality GOAT?"


    "Well, no. It''s ''The Mighty GOAT actually, but you get the point," I shot back as I stuffed the six computers into the expanded bag beneath my cape. "Anyway, it''s been real, but I actually have plans for these things so I''m gonna scram. Later, Meatlug, Mini-V."


    Despite what I said, they followed me out.


    "Care to share what you plan on making? Tinker to tinker," Kid Win probed unsubtly.


    "A kitty-laser."


    "A kitt-laser? You can''t buy a laser pointer to mess with cats like everyone else? They''re five bucks at Target."


    "Yup. Laser weapon that turns everything it hits into a cat. I need more kittens to drown to keep my villain cred and the local shelters won''t sell them to me so I figure I''ll just manufacture my own."


    "I¡­ What?"


    "Exactly."


    "Kid, I don''t think he''s going to tell us," Aegis drawled, though I could hear an undercurrent of amusement. "You realize we''re going to have to stop you the moment you try anything illegal?"


    I turned to him and made an excited face but realized he couldn''t actually see my expression. Instead, I did a little thrilled hop and pumped my fist. Really, half the hammy act I put on was so I could express myself in a fully covering helmet. "Y-You mean it? You''ll be my testing dummy and all I have to do is¡­ do something evil? YES!"


    So saying, I promptly ran off to the closest person with a car.


    "No! Nonononono, that''s not what I meant!" Aegis yelped as he flew after me. "Creed, that wasn''t an excuse to commit a crime, damn it!"


    I didn''t listen. The nearest person happened to be a young woman with dusky skin and teased hair just about to get in her car. "Hey, you! Lady! Give me your car!"


    She stared at me like I was something scraped from the bottom of her shoe. "Fuck off, asshole. I have shit to do today."


    She slammed the door of her car and drove away, probably going past the posted 15 miles per hour sign and breaking a few statutes of her own. A part of me was tempted to race her but I ultimately saw no point in it. It wasn''t bad to cultivate an image like this.


    I stepped back, bewildered. "Well¡­ That was a thing. Maybe I need a better plan¡­ The GOAT did say no grand larceny and I suppose the car was a bit much¡­ Say, Meatloaf, what''s the limit on larceny before it becomes grand larceny in New Hampshire again?"


    "No, no crime is acceptable, Creed. As nice as it is to know that this goat-person is keeping a leash on you, I''m not going to tell you how much you can get away with," he said with an audible frown.


    I wanted to bust out laughing, almost did, but caught myself. Messing with Carlos was unexpectedly fun. I resolved to seek him out more often, the guy could probably morph away his own migraines anyway. Then, I remembered: the Legos.


    I dug in my bag to reveal the Lego set I bought from Toys R Us. I hopped into the air and held it out to Kid Win. "Here, Iron Lad."


    He stared at me in confusion, his half-uncovered face far more expressive than my own. "What? You didn''t steal this, did you?"


    "No, I bought it, remember?"


    "Okay, why are you giving me a Lego set?"


    "Take it. I really want to fight you, especially you and Beardmaster, but I can''t. Right now, the way you are, you''re¡­ Umm¡­ Let''s say you''re not at your best¡­" I trailed off. Then, with more pep, "So! I decided I''m going to help you out a bit, tinker to tinker. Seriously, take the damn Legos."


    He took the box, mostly because I shoved them into his chest. "What am I supposed to do with these?"


    "You''re a tinker, aren''t you? Build."


    Aegis cut in. "Is this what you do? Build models of your tech with Legos before you start making something for real?"


    "Hah! No way, but he should," I said with a bark of laughter. I hopped further into the air before activating my regalia. The skates came alive with the satisfying whir of impractically powerful motors. A faint shimmer of mist that wasn''t strictly from the condensed pyrobloin began to enshroud my feet in a pale haze. "I''m giving you a freebie here. Trust me, little Stark, and work with the Legos for a bit. It''s what you''re good for anyway."


    "Hey, screw you," Kid Win said.


    "Wasn''t an insult. Use. The. Damn. Legos. Or don''t. Lead a horse to water and all that. Anyway, Ciao~"


    With that, I kicked the Water Regalia into motion. I didn''t bother with invisibility this time; they''d hear the regalia purr anyway and I wanted to maintain the illusion of teleportation for a while longer. No, I''d go back to the Gullrest to work on a DSS and prepare for Big Rig''s delivery in an hour or two, but for now, this was all me-time.


    I whooped as I raced across the sky on vapor trails of my own making. Was there a cape in the city who could catch me? I wasn''t sure; ¨­m''s regalia wasn''t built for raw speed like Key Mother, more internal stability and agility in enclosed spaces such as Trophaeum Tower. Could the better flyers like Laserdream, Purity, or Glory Girl keep pace with me if they went all out?


    I didn''t know but the idea of an aerial dogfight against them made my stomach flutter pleasantly with butterflies.


    Besides, me outflying the Wards was bound to be great advertisement for my ATs, whenever I decided to put them on the catalog.


    Author''s Note


    Honestly? The first part of this chapter is my bad. I tend to zero-in on one aspect of a story and neglect others, which is a bigger problem with tinker fics than most. I''m still learning to juggle. Then again, Bryce is one of those characters whose WIS would definitely be his dump stat so it kinda works for him, I think.


    As for the Best Buy scene, it mostly just kinda came out. I''m considering it practice for when I finally have to write Andy waking up in Legendary Tinker because if Bryce is a minor (villainous) celebrity, Andy''s going to be whole different can of worms. To be fair, I have pretty good examples of fame culture both IRL and in different series like The Boys.


    Also, if any of you are into RWBY fanfiction, try Raise by Coeur. Yeah, it''s a Coeur fic and they tend to be tossups, but this one''s pretty standard canon worldbuilding except one major difference: Jaune discovers his Semblance early and it can raise the dead. It''s about Jaune struggling with fame. I don''t think I''m going to get that edgy with Andy, but it''s definitely something to consider.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 3.9.5 Chris Williams

    Interlude 3.9.5: Christopher Williams


    2010, November 7: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    Creed led us on a merry chase through the shopping district. His skates seemed to be able to change direction in midair just as quickly as Aegis. He made it look natural, like running on air was something humans were all born to do. I really wanted to take it apart to see what kind of gyroscope he used, but that looked more and more like a pipe dream the longer the chase went on.


    It was clear he was toying with us, and not just from that terrible attempt at a carjacking console used as pretext to let us give chase. My hoverboard had a higher top speed than Aegis'' flight, but I couldn''t turn very well while going so fast. Aegis on the other hand just wasn''t fast enough. We tried working together to corral him but every time we got close, he vanished from sight, only to appear a block away with one taunting joke or another. One time, he even teleported onto Aegis'' back and rode him like a cowboy.


    Until finally, he stopped popping up, leaving us in the middle of the Boardwalk feeling like fools.


    We signed a few autographs, posed for pictures with tourists, and finished up our scheduled route before heading back to HQ. All the while, we tried to figure out what he could be up to.


    "I don''t get the guy," I told Aegis as we flew back. "He does a terrible job of trying to steal a car to get us to chase him and then just¡­ leaves¡­? Why?"


    Aegis shrugged. "I don''t know, Kid. Maybe he was trying to distract us from something? Console, any word on crimes in the area?"


    Officer James, I wasn''t sure if that was his first or last name, spoke over the comms unit. "No, nothing that ''d warrant a cape response from us, Aegis. We''ll have you write an AAR when you get back. The director also wants both your helmet cams."


    "Do we have to?" I noticed that even my normally responsible leader couldn''t quite hide the whine. "I wouldn''t say there was much action."


    "Yeah, you just let the newest villain skate literal rings around you," came Shadow Stalker''s biting remark. It was protocol to have both one Ward and one PRT officer on console, the former to gain experience and familiarity with protocol and the latter to actually handle any emergencies. Just my luck, Stalker was our gal in the chair today. As far as I could tell, she was once again being punished for something or other. It happened so often that I barely paid attention anymore.


    "Don''t start, Stalker," Officer James said warningly, "you''re already on thin ice."


    "Yeah, whatever."


    "And yes, Aegis. You do have to write that AAR. The director wants any and all information we can gather on Creed. She''s especially interested in hearing your thoughts as a fellow tinker, Kid Win."


    I groaned. It made sense, I knew it did, but that didn''t mean I had to like it. What did she want me to say? That Creed was a better flyer than me? That he built better tech? It wasn''t as though I had the chance to take his gear apart.


    "Yes, sir," Aegis and I chorused.


    "For what it''s worth, you two did well," Officer James told us. "Our current policy is to gather intelligence more than anything so him getting away isn''t a huge loss."


    "Aren''t you worried about what he could be making with all those computers, sir?" I tried.


    "We are, but it''s not as though they were specialized materials he couldn''t get elsewhere. If he really wants some computers, we can''t stop him from getting them, especially since he actually did pay for them. Even if we caught him, we can''t really confiscate them indefinitely. For the moment, we''re putting Creed on the same threat level as Uber and Leet; he''s more of a professional comic than a villain, and one who seems interested in preserving the stability of the city as a whole."


    "So you''re saying he''s not a priority," Aegis said. "I can see that. I just wish we could have asked him some questions."


    "That''s right. As far as we can tell, he seems unlikely to commit overt crimes despite his self-designation as a villain."


    "What? Carjacking isn''t a crime?" Stalker laughed derisively.


    "It would be if he succeeded, or he wasn''t so blatantly trying to fail. At most, it''s harassment or disturbing the peace as things stand and even that''d be a stretch. It''s clear that he never intended to take that woman''s car. He''s intentionally making himself look less competent, something we''ve seen from other comics."


    "Yeah, Leet''s trying to be a fuckup."


    I let the rest of the conversation wash over me. It wasn''t like me to contribute much anyway. Gallant, Dean, said I was the type to "keep my own counsel," but that probably made me out to be wiser than I was. For fuck''s sake, I could barely count. What wisdom? What expertise?


    I sighed. That was him in a nutshell. Dean was a cool dude, but he sometimes got so caught up in gauging our feelings that he didn''t say what was plain for everyone else to see.


    I did wonder though: Creed seemed superhumanly capable at times, even more than other capes, but he also behaved in ridiculous, possibly even short-sighted ways. That was one of the big arguments for him being a new cape: He was too unprofessional despite his obvious connections and wealth of resources.


    On the other hand, I''d heard off duty officers talk about how it could all be an act. If he really was a veteran immigrant from out of the city just looking to rebrand, if he really did have connections to some mysterious sponsor, it''d explain his advanced tech and near impossible growth. In that scenario, his admission of being Wards-age could be a white lie to get us to treat him with kid gloves; his publicity stunts at the bank, Toys R Us, and now Best Buy could be just that, stunts.


    There could only be one conclusion in that case: He wanted to look less competent than he really was. For whatever reason, he wanted to blunt his own image despite having interfered against the Empire and Merchants in such a spectacular fashion.


    Why? To convince the PRT that he''s not a priority? If so, he succeeded. Was it all just an advertisement campaign for his catalogs? It was a comforting thought in a way, to believe that he was purely motivated by money. At least then, that''d be something we could all understand.


    I wasn''t sure what to think. The box of Legos, I wasn''t sure why I kept them, weighed on me. I''d have to get it screened, have it opened by an officer to make sure there were no bugs or anything. That was obvious, right? Even he wouldn''t try to sneak something by us in such an obvious way?


    Which meant he blew five hundred bucks just to give me a Lego set so he could¡­ what? Insult me?


    "It''s what you''re good for," I heard his voice echo in my mind.


    No, that didn''t seem right. If he was really as mercenary as he claimed, if he was motivated by money, why would he go so far just to mock me? Parting with that much money just to insult someone he''d never met before wasn''t the kind of thing a mercenary would do, right? If he wanted a tinker rival to show off his catalog in forced confrontations, he''d probably have gone for Armsmaster.


    If there was one thing I never suffered from, it was an over-inflated sense of self-importance. Creed didn''t do this to mock me, at least not entirely, which meant there was some meaning in the Lego set. He''d said something similar in his introductory PHO post too, along with a shoutout to Miss Militia about Moby Dick of all things.


    I shook my head, baffled and frustrated. I had no idea what that guy could be thinking.


    I felt Aegis tap me on the shoulder. "Kid, you alright? You''ve been spacing out."


    I looked around to find that we''d arrived. I''d just been following Aegis and hadn''t even noticed where we were going. "Yeah, sorry, just thinking."


    "Penny for your thoughts?"


    "Just thinking about Creed."


    "Isn''t everyone?"


    "Yeah."


    After opening the Lego set in public and checking over the pieces, they gave it back to me with minimal fuss. It wasn''t stolen, it wasn''t a bribe, so it could stay. Maybe he did build Lego models of inventions during the brainstorming phase and he was trying to give me a leg up?


    I snorted. I wasn''t that lucky and villains weren''t that nice.


    The two of us headed back to the Wards section of the PRT base to get out of our costumes. Aegis would probably go text his girlfriend or something and I wanted to get some tinkering done. Aegis swiped his thumbprint to override the alarm, there was no need to wait the customary thirty seconds when it was just the three of us.


    "Hey, Stalker," he said cordially. He always did, he was a cool leader like that, always trying to reach out in his own way. He lacked Dean''s emotion-vision or whatever, but Carlos made up for it with a steadfastness that none of us had. I''d miss him when he graduated.


    "Sup, losers," she shot back in true Stalker fashion.


    "No need for that."


    "Yeah, not like you let a villain fly circles around you or anything."


    "You heard Officer James, Stalker, policy is to gather intel. He didn''t actually commit a crime today."


    "Today," she stressed. "We all know he''s responsible for the Hillside Heist. The only reason he''s ''wanted for questioning'' instead of an arrest warrant is ''cause Piggy wants to soft-sell the Wards to him and the rest of you are too pussy to do anything about it."


    "No, it''s because he''s really wanted for questioning, Stalker," Aegis said, tiredly but firmly. He ran a hand through his hair and slumped onto the sofa. "We went over this. We don''t actually know who committed the Heist."


    She threw her hands up in frustration. "For fuck''s sake, Aegis, he admitted to selling illegal tinkertech! On live camera!"


    "He did, and we''ll deal with that, but I think The GOAT being heroic is messing with Piggot. They''re not quite sure what to do, or if leaving him alone is actually the best policy. Personally? I think she''s giving him enough rope to hang himself with."


    "Well it''s fuckign stupid."


    "No arguments from me, but pressing him with just the two of us could mean dealing with his full arsenal. We don''t know enough about what he can do and we want him playing with kid gloves until we know more," Aegis said, but it was pretty clear that he was just parroting what someone else told him. The guy wasn''t the sort to back down from a fight and I wondered how much of what he said he actually agreed with. He let out a tired sigh and pulled out his phone, probably to text Stephanie.


    Stalker fumed. Seeing she wasn''t going to get more engagement out of our leader, she turned her angry eyes to me. "Ugh, so what? ''Unknown tinkertech?'' Your shit should be equally unknown to him too, but you''re too much of a pussy to take a shot at him, huh?" she said venomously.


    "Not true," I tried defending myself. "I''m not about to start shooting in the middle of Best Buy, genius."


    A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    "So what''s your excuse for when you were outside?"


    "I was foll-"


    "''Following orders?'' Really? You''re pathetic, Kid." She stood with a disgusted snort and tapped the backpack. I heard the jostling of Lego pieces. "Maybe Creed''s right. Maybe this is all you''re good for."


    "Stalker, that''s uncalled for," Aegis called, but she was already halfway in her room. We heard the door slam shut a moment later. He turned to me. "Kid-"


    "She''s right, you know," I said, taking off my visor with a watery smile. "I''m a failure as a tinker. I don''t even know my own specialization and Creed shows up and forces the gangs to play nice over an afternoon."


    "No you''re not, Chris. Creed''s an abnormality. If he wasn''t, we wouldn''t be talking about him at all."


    "That doesn''t change that I can''t finish a single one of my projects. I still take my board apart and put it back together, you know. Same with my pistol. I keep trying. There''s always something that tells me that they can be more, and then¡­ and then¡­ they get assembled right back into what I had before."


    "You''ll figure it out," Carlos said. He tried to be comforting, to act like he had faith in me, but he wasn''t the tinker here. He didn''t understand. The only one who could was Armsmaster, and one of the top ten heroes in America had better things to do than tutor the failure. "You''ll get it one day. That''s what the Wards are for, to learn."


    "Yeah, sure," I replied morosely. "I''m going to my lab."


    "Yeah¡­ Okay¡­ Have a good one, man."


    "You too¡­"


    X


    My lab honestly looked a lot like a mix between a high school science class for one and a mechanic''s shop. One half of the room was clean and pristine, or it would be without my crap all over it. It had slate-gray countertops, nice wooden furniture, and cabinets filled with tools I needed for detail work.


    The other half had the larger, noisier tools such as a lathe, drop hammer, and bandsaw for shaping the chassis of my creations. Just sitting through the training course for those had been a pain and a half. I didn''t need the course, no tinker did, but the PRT apparently liked to cross their "i"s, just in case. I''d mostly used them to form the plates of my armor and the body of my hoverboard.


    I let out another dejected sigh and laid out my gear on the counter. I had a depressingly small catalog.


    The tech I was proudest of was without question my hoverboard. I ran my fingers along its edge. It was actually several distinct pieces that I kept trying to configure in new ways for better speed and handling. There was an anti-grav module on the bottom, magnetic clamps for my feet, two repulsors for thrust, and a hard drive that interfaced with my helmet along with a gyroscope to keep me balanced. It was a great piece of tech, even Armsmaster said so, but I felt it could do more, be more.


    What did it say about me when the best thing I''d ever made felt so incomplete?


    Next was my spark pistol. I had two of them because I once thought guns were my specialization. Stupid in hindsight considering my hoverboard, but I''d been desperate to cling to any success. It had good range and lobbed condensed orbs of electricity that could be adjusted to fit the scenario. Most of the time, it was just a nasty shock, enough to snap people out of doing something stupid so we could talk them down, but it did have higher settings that could potentially be lethal to normal people. "Brute-rated," the analysts called it, though I doubted it''d do anything to a real brute like Glory Girl or Lung.


    I looked it over and seriously reconsidered its design. Creed had something similar but had imbedded it into his suit. I had to admit, however grudgingly, that it was a neat idea. It gave him an almost mage-like aesthetic that was more PR-friendly than carrying a gun around. It also made him impossible to disarm.


    Why hadn''t I considered that? There was enough room in my gauntlets, surely. I banged my head against the table and let the cool surface soothe me. It felt like he was just plain better at designing things, even discounting how his tech outperformed mine.


    I looked at my breastplate and visor. I''d modeled them after Hero''s own. The greatest tinker ever wore blue and gold; I wore red and gold. He insisted on a visor instead of a full helmet because it made him more approachable so I''d done the same. From the smooth curves to the sharp angles around the shoulders that broadened my silhouette, I''d done my best to pay homage to the greatest tinker ever.


    Once upon a time, I wanted to be just like him. Now, as I looked at my armor, that dream was starting to sound pretty damn sarcastic even in my own head.


    I spent the next half hour performing maintenance on my tech. I didn''t need to, our encounter could hardly be called a fight, but this was what Armsmaster recommended: Check over everything as often as you use it. Don''t put off maintenance, however minor. The man was meticulous and I could see why he was considered one of the best in the world. I already failed at building, far be it for me to take what I did make for granted.


    After routine maintenance, I took my gear apart to try and make improvements. If I rerouted energy in a different way, could I improve the output from my repulsors so I could go faster? If I reprogrammed the software connecting my visor to my hoverboard, could I make myself more agile?


    Armsmaster told me once that necessity was the mother of invention, that the greatest works of man were made in times of great need. He also said that we stood on the shoulders of giants, that by looking to others for inspiration, we could progress further than we''d ever considered.


    I turned on my computer to the video that had been immortalized on the Internet. It was the tail end of the fight between the Empire and Merchants, Creed''s debut. I must have watched it a hundred times by now.


    "GIGA IMPACT!" he roared as he crashed down onto Squealer''s latest monstrosity in a corona of yellow and green energies. Truck exploded in a truly spectacular fashion and Creed was launched into a building by Skidmark''s fields. He emerged a few seconds later to force the battle to a standstill.


    His ridiculous need to give his finisher a name like a cartoon character aside, the clip was now being used by at least one mod as the unofficial PHO banhammer.


    ''Could my armor take that kind of punishment?'' I asked myself for the thousandth time. I didn''t like the answer.


    I watched it again and again, asking myself, "What could I learn from this?"


    That Creed was a Sentai Elite wannabe? That he made "signature attacks?" That his armor might be voice-activated to perform those finishing moves like some kind of pro wrestler? That my armor wasn''t anywhere near durable enough? That I should stack forcefields? I didn''t even know how to build one forcefield, never mind two!


    "Fuck!" I swore. I kicked the backpack lying beside my desk in frustration. It rolled and I must have forgotten to zip it up again after I came back from patrol because the Lego set clattered out onto my floor.


    "That''s what you''re good for," I heard. I could see his face in my mind, that black-orange suit and smug posture, always with some wiseass quip for us as he skated just out of reach.


    Before he came along, I still wasn''t the best tinker, far from it, but I at least had the distinction of being the only flying tinker. Aerial support was a big thing, I''d been told. My hoverboard let me do something even Armsmaster couldn''t. It made me the most mobile Ward after Vista and Vista was a shaker-nine.


    And then Creed made his debut. He could fly. He had enough firepower to make two gangs stop fighting. He was versatile enough to copy my spark pistol while making some sort of telekinetic gun that could choke out Krieg. He could teleport. He could make forcefields strong enough to rival Dauntless.


    He was me, but better in every way.


    Creed''s dark helmet was replaced by Shadow Stalker''s stoic faceplate. "It''s all you''re good for."


    Some teammate she was.


    In that moment, I hated them. Creed, for being everything I wished I could be. Stalker for being a fucking bitch.


    I grabbed the box of Legos and hurled it against the wall with a frustrated yell. "Ahhhh!"


    The box burst like a water balloon. The plastic trays that held individually sized pieces must have broken too, because dozens of little Legos scattered all over my floor.


    "Shit."


    I breathed heavily, thanking God that my lab was soundproofed.


    I looked around and felt ashamed. There were Lego blocks strewn all over, like a child had thrown a tantrum. That was exactly what happened, I reminded myself sardonically. Assault liked to say that we should let ourselves be kids, but that didn''t make me feel any better.


    Even so, there was a small part of myself that I was afraid to acknowledge that was happier now. Not happy, but at least content, refreshed. They did say I needed to express myself more¡­


    "I''m jealous," I admitted aloud. It felt good to get it out there in the privacy of my lab. "I feel like a failure."


    I stood there and allowed the air to absorb my words. Then, I felt awkward, like I was one of those weirdos at school who talked to themselves.


    Sighing, I bent down to pick up the pieces. The anger faded, replaced by a resigned acceptance. I wasn''t being fair to myself or Creed. It wasn''t his fault that he won the power lottery. It wasn''t his fault that Stalker was a raging bitch.


    "That''s all you''re good for," I heard her voice again.


    Was that what he really meant? I-I didn''t think so. He said something similar on PHO, too. I waffled back and forth between being pissed and trying to figure out what he could have possibly meant. Miss Militia was evasive when I asked her about it, though she suggested he or The GOAT might have some thinker elements to their powers, something about personality profiling that was beyond me.


    That was one more reason the director was cautious: We legitimately didn''t know how many people he had on his side, or who they could be.


    Whoever the thinker analysis came from, it was a hard miss on me because I didn''t grow up playing with Legos. Or maybe he wasn''t trying to offer any form of thinker advice. Maybe he was just fucking with me. That was seeming increasingly likely.


    I picked up one of the pieces and absentmindedly began to fiddle with it. It was a miniature satellite dish, the main laser gun of the Death Star that focused several beams into a single focal point before blowing up some poor schmuck''s planet from lightyears away.


    Ridiculous of course, but I couldn''t help but like the classics.


    I set it aside. If nothing else, maybe it wouldn''t be so bad to kill some time with. Besides maintaining what I had and tuning Dean''s armor whenever he needed it, I didn''t have too much in my pipeline anyway. Contrary to popular belief, tinkers weren''t all workaholics like Armsmaster.


    I picked up one of the few swiveling pieces in the set. It was basically a plastic nub that formed a socket so some other piece could rotate. From a cursory glance, it probably went with the auxiliary turrets on the Death Star, the ones that did such a piss-poor job of defending against Han and the rebels.


    ''It''d look cooler as the center of a minigun,'' I thought. And before I knew it, I was reaching for the scattered pieces to build it a bigger mount for the barrels.


    I didn''t know how long I kept at it. It wasn''t quite a fugue, not even tinker-bullshit could let me make a new piece of invention out of Legos, but it was close, closer than even a pen and paper drafting session. Something about the act of building with Legos soothed me; it felt right, like all the metaphorical pieces were falling into place. There was no math, none of my iniquities, none of the constant comparisons that found me wanting.


    By the time I returned to myself, three hours had passed. In front of me was some sort of sci-fi spider-tank. I used every last piece of the Death Star and the new creation looked good enough to have been a box set of its own. The best part of it all was that it was still recognizably from the Death Star set. I could recognize individual parts of the whole: the main laser that stood on a towering mount, the turrets that became miniguns, the hinged plates of plastic that acted now as wing-like thrusters. It wouldn''t have been out of place in a custom building contest.


    I admired my creation for a minute and allowed myself to feel proud of my work. I even snapped a picture to show mom.


    Then the bitterness washed away the pride. "Why can''t I build like this when I''m actually trying to make something? Was Carlos right? Should I build models out of Legos before trying to machine them? Do I just need to stop thinking and have fun?"


    Now that I looked, there was so much more I could do. I could see it now: The spider legs could be tucked in to form treads. The thrusters could be expanded into fully functional wings. The main laser could be converted into a thruster. My spider-tank could be reconfigured into a space-fighter. Or a submarine. Or a subterranean drill-bot.


    There were so many possibilities, so many different ways I could take this. In fact, if I wanted, I could probably make scale models that actually worked. I''d need Armsmaster''s help miniaturizing the anti-gav module in my hoverboard, but I could machine most of the parts myself, right here in my lab.


    Why hadn''t I ever played with Legos? It was awesome how interchangeable they were. Everything was variable, limited only by my own imagination. Everything was¡­


    "It''s what you''re good for," I heard Creed''s voice in my mind. That same smug, self-satisfied voice that said he knew something no one else did.


    Then it hit me.


    It struck like a bolt from the blue. Creed wasn''t mocking me; he wasn''t Stalker. He was¡­


    "Oh, that son of a bitch!"


    Author''s Note


    Sophia''s honestly kinda fun to write. She joined the Wards in the summer of 2010 as far as I can tell and she is every bit the angry pitbull. It''s hard to imagine, but I wonder if she actually mellowed out a bit by April 2011. This is still November, so the bruised ego from the press-ganging is still kinda tender.


    "That''s what you''re good for," was Creed''s hint at Chris''s specialization, but it was admittedly a poor choice of words. Bryce wanted to play on the rule of cool and be the man of mysteries, but Stalker turned that into "This is all you''re good for." Subtle but major difference there.


    I feel bad for Chris, but I believe in letting my characters be themselves. Have you ever had an older sibling or friend everyone compared you to? He was more athletic, taller and better looking, did better in school, had an easier time making friends, never had any trouble finding a girl? Have you ever told yourself that it didn''t matter because you were your own person, but knew deep inside that it did matter because you cared?


    Chris is like that. He''s a young tinker with dyscalculia and zero knowledge of his own specialization, something most tinkers figure out pretty quickly. Throw in the regular teenage self-esteem issues and it shouldn''t be a surprise he constantly compares himself to Creed, the other young tinker. Problem is of course that Creed isn''t a tinker in the normal sense, he''s the tinker of fiction, a walking embodiment of all the bullshit in the multiverse.


    Random fact of the week? Sure. The beaver has a gland in its rectum called a castor sac that secretes castoreum, a mix of anal juices and urine. It''s by beavers to mark territory, and by humans as additives... in ice cream and perfume among other things.


    Yup. It has a musky/fruity note that brings out the flavor of vanilla, gives cigarettes a nice aftertaste, and adds depth to perfume. It''s rare so it''s not in everything, but some luxury brands still use castoreum in their products. You may go about your day knowing that at some point in American history, the number of people who made a living off of picking through a beaver''s anus was greater than zero.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 3.10 Surge

    <div>


    Surge 3.10


    2010, November 8: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    I whistled a jaunty tune to myself as I skated along the rooftops towards the Palanquin. Today? Yesterday, technically, had been a great day. I had fun playing with the Wards, got to advertise my Air Treks for whenever I ultimately decided to post them to the catalog, acquired six high-specs computers to tinker with, and I managed to build the portable Digital Storage System.


    Granted, it still stuck in my craw that I was fiddling around with expanded bags when I could have done this a month ago, but I decided not to think about that. Past-Bryce''s stupidity could only make present-Bryce''s brilliance look all the better in comparison.


    Optimism! Or something¡­


    Most of all, I helped Chris. Or, as much as I was willing to at any rate. Most tinkers considered tinkering a deeply personal process, not least because fugues were a little different for everyone. Finding your specialization was very much akin to finding your purpose in life and I''d heard it said that discovering it was equally fulfilling. I didn''t want to take that away from Chris by just telling him. The journey was as important as the destination.


    I let out a snort of laughter. Nah, I just thought the Legos would be funny.


    "Ree?" SAINT trilled. A small window opened on my UI, showing me his questioning face. The little duck had a surprisingly expressive bill.


    "Nothing, SAINT, just thinking about Kid Win and his specialization."


    "Pory?"


    I felt a pulse of concern through our bond. Not for Kid Win, but for me. Porygon weren''t social creatures; they weren''t made to be. Though they could form and benefit from the bond between pokemon and trainer, they weren''t capable of empathy in the sense that they''d care for just anyone they met. They had a very objective-centric perspective on life and if it didn''t impede their objectives or harm their trainer, it wasn''t relevant.


    Which begged the question: Why was he concerned? I wasn''t in immediate danger.


    I considered it and took a shot in the dark. "Are you worried that I''ve revealed too much?"


    "Ree," he nodded, his turquoise bill bobbing up and down on my screen.


    I''d told him everything of course. He was my best friend and closest confidant, not just an assistant. After all, if I couldn''t trust my starter pokemon, who could I trust? "Maybe. I''ve already hinted at knowing a possible future through my PHO introduction. Miss Militia definitely got the reference, so did Tattletale or she''s nowhere near as smart as she thinks she is. If Kid Win actually bothers playing with the Legos and thinks about why I gave the set to him, he''ll probably figure out his specialization."


    "Poree¡­ Porygon. Por-pory."


    "I know it''s dangerous. ''Knowledge is power'' and all that. But I really do think Kid Win has the potential to be a splendid hero, a real hero, someone this world desperately needs. I won''t regret giving him the pieces, even if he becomes a powerful rival for me later."


    And¡­ Truth be told, he could. I could think of dozens of ways he could push "modularity" to its limits, just from the things he''d made in canon. Teleportation drones fitted with anti-grav modules for battlefield control? A modular alternator cannon that could be assembled with a handful of drones and fired from nearly any angle? Hoverpacks that could split off from his board to grant his allies flight? The possibilities were incredible; Kid Win was likely the most flexible tinker in the setting, with maybe the exception of Dragon herself.


    Thinking about his raw potential made me giddy with excitement. If he unlocked his specialization, if he had a "rival" to push him, how far could he go? Could he pose a challenge even to a tinker of fiction?


    "Gon," SAINT huffed. The PRT-ENE logo flashed onto my screen. "Porygon-poree¡­"


    "The PRT? You think they''re going to hound me?"


    "Gon."


    "Yeah. That''s why I made the post in the first place. The PRT, Tattletale, Coil, and whoever else received leaks from the PRT all probably think I either am a thinker, or have thinker support. They might even think The GOAT is that thinker. Not revealing themselves and using a proxy like Creed is exactly the MO of thinkers anyway. That''s kind of why I did it."


    "Ree? Pory-gon?"


    I let out a bark of laughter. The little shit sent me a picture of Amy''s face and a question. "Okay, yeah, I made The GOAT handle to mess with Amy, but I saw an opportunity, you know? Why can''t I do two things at once? I think that so long as the gangs are afraid of a third party from outside the city moving in, they''ll moderate themselves. One tinker, no matter how strong, isn''t going to dissuade them forever, but well, the fear of the unknown is a powerful thing. By giving away enough to imply that there is someone else working with me, I can make Creed seem much more dangerous than he is.


    "See, now, Creed isn''t just a Wards-age tinker who won the power lottery. He''s a mysterious, capable mercenary backed by other equally mysterious and capable parties, one of whom is a thinker capable of discerning Kid Win''s specialization. Is it just me and The GOAT? Or are there more capes hidden and waiting in the wings? What does The GOAT know? If they attack carelessly, could The GOAT work to sabotage them? Maybe help their enemies? If Creed is attacked or the unwritten rules are broken in a major way, will this new group stop playing by the rules too? Can they? It''s all part of their risk calculus and I''m just thumbing the scale as much as I can."


    "Pory¡­"


    "Yeah," I sighed. I wanted to take off my helmet so I could feel the wind on my face. I didn''t like having this kind of conversation but it did help to talk things out more sometimes. "I''m playing a dangerous game. Coil''s going to start taking potshots at me in different timelines to try and see what sticks. He''ll move carefully, but he''ll definitely start moving against me now. Still, that was something that would have happened anyway. The GOAT is a smokescreen that''ll keep him in check, at least for a while. He should know that strong thinkers interfere with each other and that''ll make him cautious."


    Two images flashed on my UI: Sierra and mom. "Gon? Porygon?"


    "What happens if he finds my identity somehow and goes after my family?"


    "Ree."


    "Then I stop pulling punches," I told him grimly. "I reveal his name. The unwritten rules don''t protect those who don''t abide by them. I give SMILE fruits to random people to wreak havoc in his territory; I''ve never revealed biotinker abilities after all. His power can''t predict what he doesn''t know exists. Those should be out of context powers for him. All else fails, I summon the lady of hats and cut a deal: Coil''s head for information. My family for my service."


    "Gon."


    "Yeah, I hope things don''t get to that point either."


    The sobering conversation did much to quiet my mood as I approached the Palanquin. It was nearing three in the morning, as promised. The club had closed for the night and the remaining cleanup staff knew better than to ask questions.


    I landed in the back lot near soundlessly, the quiet purr of the Water Regalia the only thing that announced my arrival. To my surprise, Dodge was already there. Or, I assumed that was him seeing how Big Rig stood next to him.


    I heard that the camera added ten pounds. Lies. If anything, Big Rig was even stockier in real life, with a sizable beer belly that strained his construction foreman outfit. Then again, he also had biceps that belonged on some fantasy orc or troll so I didn''t doubt he used to work the sites himself once upon a time.


    By comparison, Dodge was tiny. He stood at only a handful of inches past Big Rig''s waist. He was¡­ green¡­ From his emerald hair to his form-fitting tights, he wore a lot of green. His costume had a distinctly draconic theme, though not in the same mechanical way Dragon''s creations did. The boy couldn''t be older than twelve.


    "Creed," Big Rig greeted, as gruff as ever.


    "Big Rig," I nodded back, making sure my voice modulator was working. "And you must be Dodge."


    "Hi, you''re Creed, right? I''ve seen your debut video like a million times already. Your costume looks even cooler in person. Were you inspired by the Sentai Elite too? Who''s your favorite? Mine is Hisuiryu, obviously. He''s the Tokyo team leader and he''s super strong. It''s gotta be Aosame, right? You''ve got the navy admiral look down just like he does. Or maybe Hairou? Is that why your outfit is mostly gray and black?" he rambled.


    Big Rig put a steadying hand on his head. "Easy, squirt. Not everyone''s as into them Japanese comics like you are."


    "Manga, Rig, they''re called manga. Get it right."


    "Sure, kid, mangy." I was fairly sure he was doing it just to get a rise out of the younger tinker. Sure enough, he turned and shot me a mischievous wink as Dodge began to pout. "Anyway, I wanted to show up for the first meeting. Dodge is a little young and business is best closed face to face, you understand."


    I nodded and held out a hand for him to shake. "I get it. Good to see you."


    "Yeh, business now. I don''t like staying up late if I can help it. Dodge, let''s unload and get outta here."


    "Aww, but I wanted to ask about his tech," Dodge whined like only a twelve year old could. He was only three or four years younger than me but even with my past life''s memories, it still seemed like an eternity. Still, he was cute in that bratty baby brother sort of way.


    "Sorry, Dodge," I told him, "maybe next time. I want to get the fabricator and drone set up before I have to go to school."


    "Promise?"


    "Promise."


    Dodge dug around in his pocket for what looked a lot like a remote controller. He tapped some buttons on it and a dimensional gate popped up. I didn''t think he had any at the moment, but I couldn''t help but think that a "subspace tinker" would be incredibly powerful should he choose to invest in offensive options.


    The gate looked like something straight out of StarCraft, a black void with some kind of neon-blue light bordering it. Dodge tapped something else on his remote and a metal palette slid forward on a hoverpad. I wondered if it was a stylistic choice or because the edge of the portal was impossibly sharp.


    "Here you are, one order of BIg Rig''s fabricator installed with his latest CAD and one construction drone," Dodge said in a chipper voice that he probably practiced in the mirror. He shot me a cheeky grin and held out his hand expectantly. "That comes with a $10 service fee and a $5 surcharge for packing."


    "Do you even know what a surcharge is?" I asked, bewildered.


    "It''s my money."


    "Nice try, kid. If you want a bigger allowance, bug Big Rig here. I''m not Toybox."


    "Aww, why won''t you join? I can make you a dimensional apartment."


    "I have my reasons, sorry, Dodge. I don''t mean to be rude, but I really do want to get all this set up before dawn. I don''t think I''m getting much sleep tonight as is."


    "You''ve got the right idea," BIg Rig said with a jaw-popping yawn. Time doesn''t flow exactly right in our HQ compared with the east coast, but it''s pretty late for us too."


    Dodge looked ready to protest but thought better of it. "Alright, next time?"


    I nodded readily. Dodge was a very promising tinker. Even if talking to him didn''t advance anything in my pipeline, the cheery boy honestly seemed like a good time. "We''ll have more to talk about next time. Maybe schedule this for not 3AM."


    "You two will. I''m satisfied that Dodge isn''t gonna get himself in trouble," Big Rig grunted. "He can handle deliveries between you and Toybox."


    "Yes!" Dodge pumped his fist.


    I moved over to the delivery and pulled out a computer before storing it all in its hard drive. "Welp, that''s that."


    "Wow, you have a dimensional pocket too?"


    "Not quite. Digital storage. It''s still technically in this dimension."


    "Sweet! I mean, mine is cooler, but it''s pretty cool that you can store things too."


    "Don''t brag, Dodge," Big Rig chided.


    I laughed. "I don''t mind. He''s right; his is better. Anyway, it''s time for me to go. Cheers."


    The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    "Nice doing business with you, Creed. Keep me posted on any deliveries of seastone," he said, a not so subtle reminder that though the drone and hybrid engine were one for one trades, the fabricator was an investment.


    "I remember," I waved as I vanished.


    I didn''t leave though. Instead, I headed up to Faultline''s office, where I paid her the agreed upon $3,000 for use of the Palanquin as a dropoff site. Though they hadn''t directly made an appearance, I knew that Gregor was watching over us from the second floor, far enough not to eavesdrop but close enough to get involved should the need arise.


    After that, I made a beeline for the Gullrest, where I burned through almost my entire liquid cash, about $60,000, on several material orders from Strider that I couldn''t readily acquire here in the bay, mostly volcanic ash. Now that I had a fabricator I could run 24/7, it was time to start stocking up, both for Big Rig and for my custom ship.


    X


    As predicted, I didn''t get a single wink of sleep last night. I felt giddy, like a child opening birthday gifts. I couldn''t sleep even if I wanted to and ended up spending the rest of the twilight hours figuring out how the fabricator and drone worked. Or, I tried.


    I couldn''t make heads or tails of the exact mechanics and I was loathe to tear them apart to attempt to reverse engineer them. In the end, Big Rig was a tinker and his tech was blackboxed to high heaven. What I did get was a pamphlet titled, "Tinkertech Construction and You: Big Rig''s comprehensive guide to operating his creations."


    I shrugged. Did most people know how their cars worked? In the end, it didn''t matter; so long as the drone and fabricator could speed up production, I''d be satisfied.


    The pamphlet was surprisingly thorough. It began with a warning in big, bold, red that said he would not be held responsible for any malfunctions or accidents stemming from idiots who did not follow operating instructions. He¡­ wasn''t wrong. I had something similar in my own introductory pamphlet for the hybrid engine. It was tinkertech. If you fucked around with it while ignoring the tinker''s explicit instructions, you deserved everything that happened to you.


    Other than the exact mechanics of how it worked, his creations were shockingly compatible with mundane tech. The CAD accepted blueprints in PDF format and automatically translated them into digital models, which I could then edit or pass off to the drone to begin building. The fabricator could process raw materials and mold them into component pieces while the drone was best used for rapid assembly.


    For starters, I had the fabricator tuned to disassemble the junk I had lying around from the Hillside Heist into their component materials. A hand vacuum went in, clumps of plastic, aluminum, and other metals came out, all sorted in neat piles for easy use.


    SAINT was more occupied with the construction drone, a large-ish crab-like thing with customizable limbs and a large rear bed to store building materials. It honestly reminded me a bit of the pokemon, crustle.


    My partner took to hijacking the drone to get used to piloting it. Seeing how he could build things using Psychic, I wasn''t sure how useful a construction drone would be in his hands, but if I input the right plans into it, I figured it could operate more or less independently.


    Didn''t matter; he seemed to be having fun so I left him to it and trudged off to my house so I could pretend to wake up. In the end, I took a spoonful of Enchanted Honey and reminded myself to make more, preferably when my sister wasn''t around.


    X


    "Wow, Bryce, you okay?" Stephanie asked. I groaned in defeat. Stephanie was rather unlike Chelsea. She wasn''t the effervescent girl who could befriend Hookwolf if given half the chance. She was friendly enough, but our relationship was distinctly one of mutual ambivalence. We liked each other enough to eat together at lunch and not make an issue of it.


    That even she was concerned enough to ask after my wellbeing said a lot about how tired I looked. As I learned today, even Enchanted Honey had limits and I''d been pushing myself for months living a double life. It was only because I actually bothered to take breaks occasionally that I''d lasted as long as I had.


    I moaned something vaguely coherent and offered Steph a thumbs up.


    "You want a pick me up?" Amy asked as she sat down with Vicky.


    "Nah, I''m good. I had coffee already," I replied, thanking God she was such an introvert. She didn''t do the touchy-feely thing and wasn''t likely to touch me without good reason. It was also November in New Hampshire so I could get away with bundling up without raising any eyebrows.


    "Suit yourself, but for the record, you look like shit."


    "Is that your expert medical opinion?"


    "Yup. I''ll even write you a note: Bryce Kiley - looks-like-shit-itis. Terminal. No known cure."


    "You''re an angel, Ames," I drawled, sarcasm dripping like a waterfall. I stuffed a spoonful of mom''s rendition of egg fried rice in my mouth and chewed carefully. She was of the opinion that anything vaguely Asian could be stir-fried in fried rice, which meant my lunch also contained clam, oyster sauce, bits of grilled pineapple, ketchup, and whatever else she wanted to experiment with this past weekend.


    It wasn''t bad, just¡­ unique¡­


    I trudged through the slog that was the rest of the school day, Spanish and AP European history, with a bit more energy from lunch. Neither of those classes stood out to me. Spanish was easy because I spoke it in my past life and AP Euro didn''t matter in the least despite the "AP" moniker. The teacher, Mr. Fauver, made us a deal at the beginning of the year: We could either take the individual grades or replace them with our AP exam scores. Five for an A, four for a B, and so on. Suffice to say, I didn''t plan to try very hard during the year.


    History as a whole was something of a declining art in academia. More and more school districts were replacing traditional social studies classes with world issues, which was of course dominated by parahuman studies and current events relating to said parahumans. History was now something high schoolers took to show colleges that they had academic drive, like AP economics or calculus.


    I wasn''t sure how to feel about the matter. On one hand, history did seem important, at least to a point. On the other hand, I could understand the need for contemporary knowledge, especially considering Bet''s cape culture. It was a weird feeling to know that a big part of my past life''s high school curriculum was purely optional now.


    In my case, mom and dad made me sign up for as many APs as a freshman was allowed, biology and Euro, so I could start prepping for college. It certainly wasn''t voluntary on my part. I hadn''t protested overmuch because I had no powers and didn''t expect any, being Bryce Kiley and all. Now that I did though, I''d likely just settle for a B through the exam and cut down on courses next year, if there even was a next year in the Bay.


    I passed Chris in the halls. The boy looked absolutely wired, like he''d been strung up to a car battery or downed an entire six pack of Monster. He was on cloud nine, with a full, ear-to-ear grin that made people wonder if he got laid or something. The guy couldn''t have been more obvious if he wore a neon sign.


    I walked out of school with a smile, feeling good about what I''d done. Had I made Hero 2.0? Had I given him reason to believe I was his villainous rival?


    Quite possibly.


    As I watched him bump into someone, get told off, and smile like a giddy stoner, I decided I didn''t care. In fact, just thinking about how far Kid Win, or Winman if he stuck to that idiotic naming convention, could go now was making me excited.


    "Heh, bring it, Chris," I chuckled to myself. I was the Tinker of Fiction. I looked forward to his challenge.


    X


    My mood further improved that afternoon thanks to Hannah Chong. Or rather, her mother. Mrs. Chong called to cancel today and all future tutoring appointments, neatly freeing up my schedule. I did need at least one student to meet Arcadia''s extracurricular requirements, but I had two weeks to find a replacement. In the meantime, it meant that I could go back to the Gullrest for a quick power nap.


    After a quick nap, I decided to check in on SAINT. What I found was¡­ interesting.


    SAINT and the drone faced off against each other. Between them was a neat pile of materials with wires, screws, bottles of lubricant, and other materials all in separate categories for easy access. In front of each was the hollow body of a hybrid soda engine. The two of them began to move at some unknown signal, the crab-like drone reaching out with four limbs for different wires to thread into place while the telltale glow of SAINT''s Psychic enveloped the components of a pressure valve.


    He was racing the construction drone. It made sense; I''d probably be bored out of my skull too. He wasn''t organic, but that didn''t mean he didn''t want to mix things up once in a while. I had him practicing his moves when I was at school but even an AI had to have limits. I watched the two go at it. Just from the materials laid out on the ground, I could tell that SAINT had all my junk processed by the fabricator.


    I smiled to myself and went about building the Key Mother. It wasn''t as though he wasn''t being productive after all.


    X


    That evening, I finished my homework assignments and sent off a few new emails to parents of potential tutoring clients so I could have a digital trail to show my homeroom teacher. Mr. Maury couldn''t get on my case too hard if I at least made the attempt to find a new student.


    Mom had thankfully resigned herself to American cuisine tonight; her experimental phase was over, for now. After a generic but tasty dinner of lemon cod, green beans, and dinner rolls, I locked myself in my room. I could already see an incoming shortage on the horizon.


    Though I could expect a sizable infusion of volcanic ash and other materials from the order I''d placed with Strider, that left me mostly broke. It was time to take on other jobs.


    I flipped through my PHO inbox. I hadn''t bothered to do more than skim before, Accord''s commission and my own projects taking most of my attention. I had to admit, even if just to myself, there was something inordinately satisfying about seeing the pages upon pages of messages.


    In the end, I decided to take a commission from each catalog, one from a civilian and another from a hero. The civilian was a wealthy businessman in Los Angeles who wanted to buy his son a motorcycle for his twenty-first birthday. Like any normal parent, he worried for his son''s safety despite indulging his hobby. He wanted a bike that could "make Alexandria lose a game of chicken."


    No such bike existed of course, I hadn''t stumbled on DIgimon or Kamen Rider yet, but I told him the Black Rhino was as close to it as he''d get. If it was sturdy enough for Franky to ride it into battle against Charlotte Linlin, it was sturdy enough for some kid who wanted a joyride.


    I was stumped when it came to price. From a quick google search online, I found that luxury motorcycles cost somewhere in the ballpark of $35,000. However, that was for mass produced models, not dissimilar to a Lexus. They could get far more expensive, topping out at more than ten million for collectibles.


    I also had to consider the soda engine. The engine of a luxury car could cost hundreds of thousands of dollars to replace. The soda engine was not only a luxury good, it was a source of near limitless renewable energy. There would be those who wanted to buy my engine separately so I had to price my bike just a bit higher than the engine, if only for consistency''s sake.


    At the same time, the price couldn''t be too high, I didn''t want my bike to be a collector''s item, flaunted by the super wealthy but otherwise never used. I felt that it would be a disservice to Franky. My bike cost that much because wapometal could handle the stresses of the New World, not because it looked good on display. The engine wasn''t just a novelty; its output could pilot a mecha.


    It deserved to be ridden.


    That decided things for me. I offered the man a deal. $150,000 for the soda engine, $300,000 for the upgraded hybrid variant, and another $120,000 for the bike. So $270,000 for the basic Black Rhino with a soda engine attached. Seeing how he was my first client to order it, I''d shave seventy grand off the price and round down to a neat two hundred if he agreed to send me videos of his son riding the bike for advertisement purposes. After all, the bike was one of the few things on the catalog that I hadn''t had time to personally show off.


    Was I ripping myself off? Absolutely. The engine alone should be several times the price I''d set. Even so, I couldn''t find it in me to be too disappointed. I''d make up for the price drop through quantity of sales if necessary; it wasn''t like I was going to lose potential clients anytime soon.


    The second commission I was considering was from a hero, and therefore a bit more complicated. Glyph of the Guild wanted a new costume with the same defensive and aerial mobility capabilities as shown in my debut fight. It was a reasonable desire, considering she was one of the Guild''s frontline combatants and could really use additional defensive options than her power-generated shields.


    The problem was, I''d just charged $200,000 for a bike. How much should a Germa raid suit, hover boots, and shield module cost?


    Too fucking much.


    Millions. Hundreds of millions. By conventional military standards, it wouldn''t be unreasonable of me to demand the net GDP of a small country for something like this. It wasn''t a magic handbag or an extra-sturdy motorbike. It was a fucking superweapon. Anyone who wore it could be considered a high-tier brute and decent mover, and that was after I removed both the texturing function and its invisibility cloak.


    The problem was, I couldn''t charge what my suit was really worth. On a moral level, she did good work alongside Dragon. That there wasn''t some scandal surrounding her and that she continued to work with Miss Totally-Not-An-AI without said AI arresting her said good things about her. As far as I knew, she was a genuine hero, a rarity on Earth-Bet. I was selfish, but I agreed with Amy: Heroes like that deserved my protection.


    On the more practical scale, she couldn''t afford my suit. Hell, no one save the stupidly rich or a national government could shell out hundreds of millions like that on a whim. I knew Canada technically funded the Guild, but I seriously doubted they''d subsidize her costume quite to this degree.


    If I charged what my suit was actually worth, the only customers I''d get would be the Number Man or corporate "heroes." Anyone who had that kind of money on their own likely got it by stepping on others; there was a point at which wealth could no longer be accumulated by ethical means.


    I didn''t want my products to be things affordable only by the ultra-rich. Not only did the notion bother me, it was just bad optics overall. So it was a given that Glyph would receive a steep discount. The question was, how much?


    "SAINT?" I called to my favorite duck in the world.


    "Pory?" He floated to my side. Instead of reading over my shoulder like a normal person, he simply installed himself onto my hard drive. A moment later, I saw a picture of my adorable duck on the corner of my screen.


    "Glyph. The heroine who sent me a message for a costume. See her?


    "Pory."


    "Look her up. Every public information about her. Her debut, all her activities, any controversies around her, how much someone in her position is paid, everything. I want to know how much I should charge her to impress on her the value of my costume but also not leave her a beggar."


    "Porygon. Pory." SAINT opened up a google search, an image of a hexagonal logo with the head of a horned beast: Dragon''s logo.


    "Dragon? What about her?"


    This time, a notepad opened and he began to type: Glyph works with Dragon.


    "She does."


    Would Dragon subsidize her ally''s costume? Dragon has the funds to purchase your work in full, Maker-Trainer.


    "She might. But remember what I said about her also being an AI? One with far greater restrictions than you? She might decide that I''m not a hero and so should not be funded. Or her restrictions might make the choice for her. Or someone else in the Guild or PRT brass might overrule her because Richter made it so she can''t disobey people in positions of legal authority."


    We know too little, he finished for me.


    "We do. I don''t really want to interact with Dragon at present so let''s work with the assumption that she''s a non-factor."


    Very well. I shall compile a dossier on Glyph. Would you like anything else done while you rest, Maker-Trainer?


    "Thanks, SAINT," I said with a smile. "Not for now. Just check on the drone occasionally to make sure the engines are being assembled correctly."


    I shall. Good night, Maker-Trainer.


    "Good night, SAINT."


    Author''s Note


    Contessa and Cauldron aren''t likely to feature in this story by author fiat, at least for a while. I want something more local and the moment Contessa gets involved, this story will hit endgame or become a copy of Legendary Tinker. I''m not involving her because this fic is meant to be an exploration of cliches, not Cauldron.


    Fun fact: Despite what most of the fandom thinks, the Sentai Elite is not just one team, it is a full institution and Japan''s equivalent to the Protectorate. Kyushu did not kill them all off; they even fielded a giant robot during the New Delhi battle.


    Once again, Fabled is neither an engineer nor an architect. If my technobabble sounds like something a monkey wrote on a typewriter, that''s because you''re not far off. I was always that one Asian kid that couldn''t count.


    Animal fact? Sure. Tigers hunt by facial recognition. Or rather, they stop hunting by facial recognition. Because they are ambush predators, if they see a pair of eyes, they''ll assume they can be seen in turn and won''t leap.


    Indian and Bangladeshi lumberjacks and woodsmen have used this to their advantage by wearing hats with faces painted on the back of the head to deter tigers. Unfortunately, tigers aren''t stupid. They''ve caught on and there are on average 22 deaths per year (up to 50) in the Sundarbans region.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 3.11 Surge

    Surge 3.11


    2010, November 9: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    Tuesdays were quickly becoming my favorite weekdays. Thanks to Arcadia''s weird, vocation-forward schedule, I only had PE, world issues, and English before I was free to do as I pleased and Mrs. Currie in world issues didn''t collect assignments on Tuesdays, opting instead to give us as much time over the week as possible.


    I once again poked fun at Stephen while playing flag football; the asshole deserved it. I made sure to be on his team and did my absolute best to lose convincingly. After three months of consistent exercise, I wasn''t ripped, but nor was I the twig-like twerp anymore. Yes, I could proudly call myself a reasonably fit twerp now. Progress!


    Throw in the mastery of my own body thanks to the solid sense type and it was a genuine challenge to not seem like I had my own Spidey Sense.


    No, I wasn''t supernaturally fast, at least not without Agility, but my sense of balance and awareness of the world around me made it so that it was honestly more challenging to lose convincingly than it was to win.


    That, and the way Stephen''s face flushed red like a baboon''s asscrack was hilarious.


    X


    I made a beeline for the Gullrest after school. Strider had sent me a message saying he''d be able to make his delivery at 1AM, Thursday. Seeing how I couldn''t build up my stockpile of seastone until then, I dedicated the fabricator to creating more nuggets of wapometal. Between that and the lab beneath Harvey''s, I wouldn''t be running out of the SMA anytime soon.


    SAINT was once again racing the drone, this time to see if he could build a Black Rhino trike faster than Big Rig''s machine. I left him to it. If nothing else, it was fantastic Psychic and Magnet Rise practice. While he did that, I decided to put the finishing touches on my custom regalia.


    Three hours later, I stepped back to admire my handiwork.


    It looked pretty funky, truth be told. The color scheme was still black and charcoal-gray with burnt-orange accents much like the original Expansion Suit, but that was where the similarities ended. Nor could it be compared to Sanji''s stylish white boots.


    If anything, it took quite a few design cues from Om''s nameless Water Regalia. Like Om''s regalia, it boasted three wheels per shoe, with the back wheel being twice as large and thick as the others. There were notable tread grooves carved into the back wheels that allowed water to escape their rotation in specific tracts.


    The heel contained the same piece of technology that allowed Germa raid suits to condense water molecules using pyrobloin. The large back wheels then used their tread grooves to manipulate the condensed vapor, spinning in a set frequency to strike a balance between vibration and surface tension that generated Om''s trademark bubbles.


    These bubbles could then be released directly from the heels like Om or stored within the regalia. That storage was only possible thanks to the hyper-durable seastone frame, which helped pressurize the water and generate even more friction for the front two wheels which contained Key Mother.


    Key Mother could then perform all the flamboyant tricks Spitfire, Aeon, and Kazu were known for without me having to go supersonic with Agility. At least, that was the theory. My work was sound, the question was whether or not I could do my own creations justice.


    Of course, as homage to the original Flame King, I painted the wheels a burnt-orange, with the trademark kyubi no kitsune in bright crimson. Would anyone be able to tell? Probably not, it wasn''t as though I''d sit still long enough for them to admire my handiwork, but it felt right. I started by following the road they''d paved for me; it was only fair I paid proper respects.


    There was a tradeoff to this extra versatility however. Because of all the friction and heavier weight of seastone, I had to admit that the original Key Mother had a higher top speed. So long as I didn''t cheat with Agility, Kazu and his bullshit anime-physics supersonic nonsense would be forever beyond me.


    I grinned and treated myself to a mango-flavored garlic. Man-garlic? Sounded stupid; I''d take it.


    My experimentations in genetic engineering had really begun to take off. Now, I was able to flavor the skin as well as the flesh. As for why I decided garlic peels should taste like chicharrones¡­


    I coughed and made a face, spitting out the peel and bits of the clove. "SAINT? Please remind me that pork rinds and mangoes do not go well together."


    "Pory," he trilled back. The pulse that echoed through the bond left me with the distinct impression that the little shit was laughing at me. "Gon. Ree-gon."


    "Shut it, I was curious, all right?"


    "Ree."


    "Fine, fine. You''re smarter than me. Happy?"


    "Porygon."


    "Smug little¡­" I walked over to my costume and dressed myself before hefting the Pledge Regalia behind me. I held a hand out and deployed its primary function. "Ring In: Infinite Scale."


    As much as I''d like to be done with my new regalia, I couldn''t pass this off as a finished product. Regalias were powerful, powerful enough to make modern military technology look like toys in comparison. Hell, there was an actual aircraft carrier made with AT tech in the canon storyline.


    In exchange for that power, they had extremely specific maintenance requirements or they''d never perform at their optimal level. Usually, king-level riders sought out talented tuners who could synchronize the regalia''s internal mechanics with the unique biometrics of the individual wielder. The relationship between king and tuner was so tight-knit that it had been compared to marriage on multiple occasions.


    This was one of the main reasons I''d begun by building the Pledge Regalia: Without proper tuning, everything I built would break down in short order when forced to a king''s standard of performance. I hadn''t bothered to tune the Water Regalia because I knew I''d need to do it all over again when I finished incorporating Key Mother. Now that I had, it was time for me to truly make it mine.


    Seven cross-like amplifiers hovered in the air, splitting off from the main body of the Pledge Regalia. Normally, Kururu would have had her subordinate tuners manipulate each one. I wasn''t sure I had seven friends, never mind seven highly talented tuners at my beck and call. So, I improvised.


    "SAINT, come here and help me tune this."


    "Pory!" He dropped the half-finished Black Rhino, the third he''d made today, and sank into my helmet. I saw him integrate seamlessly into my pokenav before taking over the internals of the regalia.


    Yayoi, Agito''s tuner, was said to possess an eerily accurate internal clock, so much so that she could tell time down to the precise second no matter where or when. She wasn''t unique in this; all of the better tuners in Tool Toul To, Kururu''s team of tuners, could do the same.


    As ungodly gifted as they were, it stood to reason that they couldn''t stack up to a literal AI designed for precision.


    "Heh, eat your heart out, Kururu, SAINT can tell time to the nanosecond," I laughed smugly. So what if I couldn''t beat bullshit anime-people? I could build a porygon that could beat bullshit anime-people.


    Yes. SAINT was truly best duck.


    I let out a pulse of sonic vibrations that peeled my man-garlic for me with only minor pulping. We only had half an hour before I''d have to return home for dinner but I wanted to get a start on tuning. Then, just to prove that Earth-Bet would fuck with me in even minor ways, my pokenav began to ring.


    "Porygon?" SAINT asked as the caller ID popped up onto my UI.


    I sorely wanted to ignore it but the caller ID said it could be important. "We''ll have to tune it later," I replied with a disappointed sigh. "Start packing up. We''ll go home after this call."


    "Ree."


    "Oh, right. I''ll go home. You keep messing around with the drone. Make sure the fabricator keeps spitting out more wapometal and stack them in storage, alright?"


    "Pory."


    I detached the pokenav from my wrist and placed it on the counter so I could look at Amy properly. The chinguard of my helmet detached with a pneumatic hiss and wrapped around my neck. Then, staring directly at the camera, I popped a clove of raw garlic in my mouth.


    "Yo. How''s it climbing, oh horny one?" I greeted cheerily.


    "Fuck you and the horse you rode in on, ass," came her immediate response.


    "I mean, if you want¡­ Phone sex isn''t really my cup of tea but I guess I could give it a shot." Our relationship was built upon a foundation of shit-talking and we''d build this pile until it reached the fucking moon.


    "You wish."


    "Okay, obligatory snarkfest done with. What''s up? Need me to bust some kneecaps for you? Because I kinda had plans."


    "You''re not a mafioso, you dingus."


    "True, but you literally called me to kick the shit out of the Empire a few weeks back."


    "To save civilians. Not the same thing," she shot back dryly. "Anyway, it''s not that. Answer me honestly."


    "I always am."


    "Are you a thinker?"


    "Me?"


    "Or are you working with a thinker?"


    "No, I''m not working with a thinker. What brought this on?"


    "Kid Win found his specialization the other day. It''s modularity apparently, whatever that means."


    I took my patented teaching-position-number-one, with my right hand pointing for emphasis and my left hand cradling my right elbow. I pushed up an imaginary pair of glasses and said, "Modularity is a design principle focused on the deconstruction and reconstruction of a machine and its components systems into variable configu-"


    "Yeah, yeah, whatever, nerd." She gamely ignored my exaggerated pout. "That''s his specialization. He discovered it from playing with Legos apparently, Legos you gave him. Was this an accident?"


    "If I say yes, will you believe me?"


    "Not a chance in hell."


    "Figures. Zero trust, Ames."


    "Creed."


    "Fine, fine. How''d you even hear about it?"


    "Gallant told Vicky who told me," she said simply.


    To be fair, that should have been obvious. I popped a garlic clove in my mouth and chewed. "Well, congratulations to Kid Win. I''m happy for him. Are you just here to drop me the PRT scuttlebutt?"


    "Creed, this is serious. Do you have any idea how much of a hornet''s nest you kicked off?"


    Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    "I do, yes. PRT is probably poring over every single one of my PHO posts. They''re likely to think that since I am a confirmed tinker, either The GOAT or another one of my associates is a thinker. Sound about right?"


    "Yeah. Last I checked, they were trying to connect the dots between Monsters Inc. and Othala because you called her Wazowski once," she said with a chuckle. "So you''re a thinker."


    "Si, seniora."


    "Senorita, you turd. If you''re going to speak Spanish, stop butchering it."


    "Ja, compadre."


    "That''s not even the same language."


    "I know."


    "And stop distracting me! Why? Why let people know you''re a thinker?"


    If I had to be honest, I wrote that stuff on PHO because I thought it was funny. Still did, to be fair. A part of me wanted to help Chris reach his potential as a tinker. I couldn''t just say that I did it for shits and giggles though. Besides, I could use the chaos I''d generated. "Let me ask you something in turn, Ames. Tell me, what''s keeping Creed independent?"


    "What?"


    "You heard me. What''s keeping Creed independent? Creed is an established villain with rogue-like tendencies. He is a mercenary who isn''t above selling his tech. He''s confronted both heroes and villains now. So what''s preserving his neutrality in all this?"


    "I¡­ Your tech. You have a bunch of tech that everyone wants and can use it to keep yourself safe."


    "True, but then what''s keeping me from getting swarmed by the Empire and being overwhelmed with numbers? Or Armsmaster from trying to take out my tech via EMP and forcing me into the Wards?"


    "I don''t know; is there a point to this?"


    "Of course there is. It''s fear: Fear is what''s keeping me free. Not fear of me directly, I made it clear that I''d restrain myself, but fear of who I might have in my corner. Right now, the PRT thinks that I have outside support and that support is heroically inclined, which makes them less eager to directly engage me."


    "Shouldn''t the Empire and ABB want to crush you quickly if they think you''re an immigrant cape? They''d want to cut off any influence from outside, especially if it''s heroic."


    "I''m sure they do. A big part of what keeps me safe is my ability to camouflage and pick and choose my battles. I can''t beat all of them at once, but I can pick off who I want and that makes them cautious. There''s also the fact that the PRT leaks like a sieve so both Kaiser and Lung should know everything the PRT knows. So what you''ve got is a flamboyant tinker who seems to be the primary face of some shadowy organization with at least one thinker and seemingly very deep pockets. With me so far?"


    "You''re saying they''re afraid of what this mystery organization might do?"


    "Maybe ''fear'' isn''t quite the right word," I conceded. "They''re cautious. At the same time, since they know that Creed will follow the rules and seek to keep the Bay stable, they''re willing to take a wait and see approach."


    Amy huffed. "So you let people think you have thinker support for street cred? That''s fucking stupid."


    "Maybe you''re right. There is always the possibility that one of the gangs will go on a rampage to try and flush me out, but keep in mind that stability is good for the gangs too. For the most part, neither Kaiser nor Lung want a gang war. It doesn''t matter how much Kaiser postures like a peacock; in the end, he doesn''t want to throw down because that''s bad for business. Sure, there are grunts on both sides who want to prove themselves, but gang wars are expensive, in both the financial sense and the human lives sense. I''m counting on both leaders being self-interested enough to take the cautious road."


    "Really? That''s a hell of an assumption to make in the Bay," Amy pointed out, not incorrectly. Irrational stupidity was basically our city motto. "You think that''s going to keep Hookwolf from ripping your ass a new one?"


    "No, of course not," I scoffed. "He''s one of those unpredictable elements I talked about. What it does do is keep Kaiser from reinforcing Hookwolf or publicly condoning his actions in a way that mobilizes the entire Empire. Sure, he''ll sing Hookwolf''s praises and say he''s the ''Aryan ideal'' or what other tripe, but he won''t move the gang. You know what? Here''s another question for you: Why knights? Why does Kaiser take a knightly aesthetic?"


    She thought about it for a moment. I could see the moment light bulbs lit up in her head. "Image. You''re saying mobilizing the entire gang to flush you out looks bad for him, or any gang leader. This is especially true of the Empire though because they''re supposed to be defenders of white people or some shit."


    "Exactly. They can''t initiate is what I''m saying. Or they can, but only to a point. Otherwise the foundation they''ve built their reputation on starts to crumble."


    "I still don''t like this. You''re playing with fire. This all depends on the assumption that Kaiser and Lung are reasonable people. Think about that. Repeat it to yourself and if that makes sense to you, maybe you''re the crazy one."


    "If it helps, the city isn''t any more likely to blow up than it was before. Think of it like a stack of Jenga blocks. Every robbery, every drug dealer posturing on his street corner, that''s all slowly crumbling away at the foundation. All I did was give everyone a reason to stop pulling the blocks apart for a while. I don''t think it''s going to last, Ames," I said solemnly.


    I wasn''t delusional. My amateur try at realpolitik could only stem the tide for so long. If there was one inevitable truth about Brockton, it was that someone somewhere would do something monumentally stupid. My goal was never to forge a lasting peace anyway; it was to preserve the peace long enough for me to come into my own as the Tinker of Fiction.


    Amy sucked in a breath and released in an exasperated sigh. "Is this coming from your thinker powers? No, for that matter, what are your thinker powers? They''re your powers, right? You don''t have anyone besides me?"


    It wasn''t as though I could tell her about SAINT, who''d easily qualify as a thinker now that I considered it. I placed a hand over my heart dramatically. "You''re my one and only, Ames."


    "Eww, don''t ever say it like that."


    I wiggled a hand in front of me in a so-so gesture. "Anyway, yes and no. I don''t know the future if that''s what you''re asking. I''m acting on information provided by my powers about the key actors in this city. Which isn''t to say it''s absolute, but¡­ think of it like receiving a dossier about each person. Some people''s files are more complete than others."


    "And this file told you that Kid Win''s specialization is modularity."


    "Yes."


    "Do you know how big a deal that is?''"


    "Huge. Kid Win is a genuinely heroic person whose power could potentially rival Hero''s once he has time to mature."


    "Seriously? Comparable to Hero? The Hero?"


    "Yup. Mr. Zebra-Snax himself."


    She let out a snort of laughter. "You''re fucking awful."


    "I am shameless. But seriously, Winman is going to be great."


    "Not if he calls himself ''Winman."


    "Hey, don''t diss Winman. It''s part of his brand. Only losers diss Winman."


    "Of course," she said, eyes rolling like pinballs. "Did you know that there is no precedent for someone else discovering a thinker''s specialization? It''s usually considered something personal to them. Either the specialization is super obvious, like force fields or something, or they have to spend months figuring it out on their own."


    I scoffed. "And that''s likely the problem. Tinkers are cagey about their power and methodology and each individual is different so no one bothered looking at Kid Win''s tech. Would it have helped? I don''t know, but me being the first doesn''t mean other people couldn''t have come to the same conclusion. If anything, that I''m the person to find out first should be embarrassing for the PRT. God knows I''m not that bright."


    "Oh hey, humility. I didn''t know you knew what that was."


    I flipped off the smug bint and started to peel another man-garlic clove. "Fuck you kindly, my dear lady."


    "Is that garli-No, never mind. It''s a big deal because they thought thinkers couldn''t figure out specializations either but sure, just casually upend everything the PRT thought they knew about tinker powers why don''t you?"


    "What can I say?" I shrugged. "I''m one of a kind. So, besides the PRT rumor mill, what''s up?"


    "I''m watching my idiot friend eat garlic. Seriously, what''s wrong with you?"


    "Nothing. Garlic tastes like mangoes to me."


    "Got it. I''ll bring you some crayons for lunch."


    "Thanks, I love the purple ones."


    "Idiot¡­ Say, Creed?"


    "Yo."


    "What do you know about me?"


    "Like, my power?"


    "Yeah. You said you had a dossier on people right? Do you have one on me?"


    Her question sounded innocent enough but I could plainly hear the land mines hidden beneath. I needed to be careful not to set her off. I settled on honesty; it really was the best policy where Amy was concerned. "That you are my friend, you are a woman of unyielding moral fiber, and that you are the hero I admire most."


    "Now how much of that did you mean?"


    "Every last word. You did the lie detector thing on me, remember? Trust your power if you don''t trust me."


    "I trust you. Or, at least I trust that you''re not a bad person."


    ''And that''s progress,'' I thought ruefully. As miniscule as it seemed, that she considered a known "villain" like me a good person was already a huge leap forward compared to the black and white morality she had in canon. Of course, she was far more morally flexible in Ward, but the point was to not have to go through the shitfest that got her there. "Amy, do you think I''ve been manipulating you?"


    "Have you?"


    "No, but I can''t convince you with words alone. You''re going to have to decide that for yourself."


    The freckled healer was silent for a long time. Then she let out a resigned sigh. "I think¡­ I think everyone manipulates everyone else. With love, with words, with social expectations¡­ I don''t think you''re special in that way."


    "Thanks, I appreciate not being accused of mastering Panacea," I replied dryly.


    "Say, Creed?"


    "Yes, Panpan?"


    "Can I ask you something?" I opened my mouth. "And if you say, ''You just did,'' I''m going to grow a cactus up your ass."


    I winced at the image. That girl was becoming uncomfortably creative with her threats. "Fair enough, shoot."


    "What do you know about me?"


    "I told you, you''re the b-"


    "No. None of those platitudes. Yes, I know you mean them, but don''t think I didn''t notice how you hide behind sincerity. How much do you know about me?" she asked a third time.


    "I¡­"


    I wasn''t sure how much I should say. Was she ready to hear everything? For that matter, was I the right person to hear it from? In an ideal world, Carol would have sat her down and talked her through her adoption status and her origins like a mature adult. Carol should have been the one to guide Amy through the responsible use of her powers. Carol should have been the one to teach her about moderation. But this was Earth-Bet, where Carol was every bit the bundle of issues as Amy herself.


    Which was why this was now my problem.


    The truth was that I''d been manipulating Amy far more than I''d let on with her. I''d been doing my best to nudge her moral compass in a healthier direction. It was why I was so insistent on being a criminal, even if my "crimes" barely counted. It was why I''d allowed myself to be chained down by Amy. Yes, for my own sake, but also for hers.


    I''d made her The GOAT, and in doing so, I''d made her complicit in all my actions. I''d placed her in a position in which she had to consider different perspectives and outlooks. I''d forced her to think about the outcome of different actions outside of the unambiguous goodness of being the world''s best healer. By giving her a say in my actions and catalogs, by becoming her friend, I''d ensured she''d be morally and emotionally invested.


    Even the experimental fruits and vegetables I kept eating in front of her had their purpose. I wanted to use them to desensitize her to the idea of biokinesis for a purpose outside of healing. I wanted to rouse her curiosity while pushing the envelope for what she considered harmless and I was willing to literally reward her with peanuts like a circus elephant to do it.


    I was training her like a rat using what amounted to a real-world application of the intermittent schedule of reinforcement. It was all for her sake, for the world''s sake if I was being honest. She needed a new perspective if I wanted to prevent her descent into becoming the Red Queen. But I wasn''t delusional. I had been manipulating one of my sole friends, using what amounted to a thinker power to groom her into being a different version of herself. A part of me felt disgusted with myself.


    This, more than any heist, was why I insisted I was a villain. I acted with good intentions, but¡­ so did Taylor.


    "I¡­ How much do you want to know?" I asked quietly.


    "Everything," she replied firmly.


    "Amy, I know a lot about you, about a lot of people. But I also don''t know them as people; I know them as data points, words on a page. The truth? The truth is that the more I learn about you, the more I admire the person you are now. So fine. You want to know what I know? I''ll tell you, but only what I know about you, no one else. Just make sure that you really want this."


    "I do."


    I let out a sigh of resignation. All I could do was trust that I''d had a positive impact on Amy thus far. "Okay, no lies. No tricks. Shoot."


    She took a deep breath to center herself. "Who is my father?"


    "Heh, I should have expected that to be your first question," I said with a rueful chuckle. "I guess you''re not going to accept ''Mark Dallon'' as an answer?"


    "No," she insisted. "You said no tricks. That means not twisting my questions. I meant my biological father."


    "I did say that¡­ Marquis. Marquis is your father. Your birth name is Amelia Claire Lavere and you are the biological daughter of Marquis."


    A dozen different emotions flashed across her face. Fear. Anger. Resignation. Acceptance. "I should have known."


    "You know that doesn''t make me think less of you, right?"


    "You knew. You''ve always known."


    "Since I had powers."


    "There are no lame powers, only lame people," she threw my words back at me. "You told me that once. You knew."


    I nodded. "Yeah. I know you can do a lot more than heal."


    "You¡­ You let me touch you anyway."


    "I did. Like I said, I trust you."


    "Why?" she burst out. "Why do you trust me? Because your power gave you a sign?"


    "Because you choose to be a hero. Because your parentage doesn''t define who you are. I knew plenty about Amy Dallon, but I didn''t know her as a person until I met her in September," I said honestly. "And, what can I say, I liked what I saw."


    "I¡­ I need to go."


    "Sure, but remember what I said. I know you, and still think you''re worth knowing."


    "I¡­ Yeah¡­ Thanks," she said softly. Then the call disconnected.


    I let out a sigh and slumped back into my chair. I tried to be as positively affirming as I could but that was really all I knew how to do. All things considered, I thought that went well enough. I''d somehow managed to keep her from asking about her pseudo-incestuous attraction to Vicky so there was that.


    I glanced at the clock: almost six. I stood and dusted myself off before activating the cloaking function. "SAINT, I''m off."


    "Pory," he trilled. He sounded concerned.


    "Don''t worry about it. I think that chat went about as well as it could have."


    "Ree?"


    "No, no tinkering tonight. I''m going to go home and stay on top of my schoolwork. I don''t think I can focus on tuning right now."


    "Porygon."


    "Yeah, stick around if you want. If you want to come home, remember to travel via the DSS."


    "Gon."


    Author''s Note


    Much talking. I did say Bryce''s relationship with Amy is complex. In the end, he''s grown-ass man who decided to outsource his moral compass to a seventeen year old girl and he''s fully aware of what a scumbag that makes him, extenuating circumstances aside.


    Nothing much to say so have an animal fact:


    The Korean national bird is the Asian magpie. Though magpies are known for being selfish and annoying, they have a much more positive reputation in Asia and Korea especially. This is because magpies are also fiercely territorial and will loudly cry out when strangers approach their nests.


    Korean people used to take advantage of that by using the birds as early alarms. In fact, it was considered great luck if a magpie built a nest above your home.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 3.12 Surge

    Surge 3.12


    2010, November 10: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    I received a politely worded warning from Mr. Maury, my homeroom teacher, telling me that I should find a tutoring student by the end of next week. Otherwise, he''d be forced to report my inactivity to the administration and I''d be volun-told to work in group study sessions with a much larger audience. I wasn''t against the position necessarily, but more students at once would mean I wouldn''t have time to do my own homework or plan out my tinkering during tutoring sessions. I gave him my thanks for the heads up and moved on to algebra II and AP bio.


    Math was as mind-numbingly dull as always, though seeing Chris so happy did make me feel a bit more lighthearted. The boy''s notebook was filled with doodles of robots, laser guns, jets, and who knew what else, so much so that it barely had room for the math problems he was supposed to be doing. Clearly the high hadn''t quite worn off yet.


    In AP bio, we had our first dissection of the year, one of three throughout both semesters. Mrs. Pearce had trays with scalpels and dissection scissors out on each lab table, one for every two students.


    "Pair up, pair up," she said as we walked in. The rail-thin woman was as stern as ever. "We''ll go over lab safety one more time before I cut you loose. Remember, if I find any of you playing with the cow eyeballs, you will go straight to the principal''s office and receive a week''s detention. Am I clear?"


    "Yes, ma''am," we chorused back. She was one of those teachers who would hound the principal until she made good on that threat.


    Stephanie and Chelsea immediately paired together, sending me an apologetic smile. I waved them off. They were my friends, but only in that tangential way that lacked true familiarity. I was about to join one of the few freshmen nerdy enough to be in this class with me but before I could, someone else grabbed me by the sleeve of my sweater and gently tugged me to his desk.


    I blinked in surprise. He looked vaguely familiar though that wasn''t saying much. "You''re¡­ Brian¡­ right?"


    The tall boy gave me a lopsided smile. "Hey, yeah. Bryce, right? Mind working with me?"


    I shrugged. He was as good a lab partner as any. I sat at his table and pulled up the worksheet. I''d been a physician''s assistant in my past life and regularly played Dr. Frankenstein with random foodstuffs for my own amusement. It didn''t matter who I worked with.


    We went around the classroom and grabbed our eyeballs. Brian¡­ Jones¡­ probably? James? Johnson? For the sake of being a good lab partner, I proposed we take turns making the incisions to answer each question on the worksheet. Luckily, neither of us were particularly squeamish.


    "So, what''s up?" I asked as I grabbed the eyeball like a small apple and began to peel the fat tissue around the sclera with the scalpel. It was tough and a little stringy, but where the blade caught, subtle application of force via Psychic let me cut through easily enough.


    "Huh, you''re really good at this."


    "I like science," I replied with a non-answer.


    "Well, umm¡­ You eat with Chelsea at lunch, right?" he asked, voice subdued so the other tables couldn''t hear us over the low drone of the class.


    I let out an internal sigh. I remembered him now. "Yup. You went to the dance with her."


    "Yeah¡­ Hey, you know if she''s single?"


    "As far as I know, yeah."


    "Sweet, is she interested in anyone?"


    "Not a clue. She doesn''t talk about guys with me, man."


    I rolled my eyes when he was distracted with peeling the lens out from inside the iris. From what Chelsea said, they''d agreed to be friends but he clearly didn''t feel the same way. He probably thought he was being smooth, using this lab as a chance to get some intel about the girl he likes. Chelsea probably figured him out the moment he dragged me off.


    I didn''t want to be stuck in this weird high school drama. It wasn''t as though I knew anything important about her in the first place so I couldn''t help him even if I wanted to.


    Brian gave me what I assumed was supposed to be a friendly punch on the shoulder. "Come on, man, help a brother out a bit. What''s her favorite food? If I asked her out, where should I take her?"


    I decided to throw the guy a bone. If Chelsea wanted to go out to dinner on his dime, that was her business. "She said she likes Thai food one time, dunno if that''s her favorite or anything but I guess it''s a safe pick. Brian, it''s not that I don''t want to help you," I lied, "but we don''t really hang out outside of school, you know? Chelsea and I are friends in the sense that she''s a really friendly person, took pity on the lonely freshman, and we now eat lunch together."


    He sighed. We''d completely forgotten about the eyeball now but I''d filled out my worksheet while he''d talked. "I know, it''s just, the dance felt like a good opportunity and when she said yes, maybe I got my hopes up too high."


    "And what happened after?"


    "She said she wasn''t looking for a guy and wanted to be friends."


    "Look, I don''t know much about dating, but I do know that chasing a girl when she says she''s not interested isn''t going to make her like you. This isn''t a romcom where the guy wins her over after some funny hijinks."


    "But what if she''s playing hard to get?"


    "Again, not a rom-"


    "Mr. Jones, Mr. Kiley, care to share with the rest of the class?" Mrs. Pearce interrupted us, to my silent thanks. Brian wasn''t a bad guy, as far as I knew, but this conversation had been getting stale.


    "Sorry, Mrs. Pearce," I apologized politely. I picked up the scalpel and finished laying out the back of the eye, removed the optic nerve, and put a pin on where the fovea should be before sliding my worksheet to Brian. "There. Retina. Optic nerve. Fovea. Fovea has cones, rest of the retina has rods."


    "Shit, thanks. You''re really fast."


    "I like science," I said again with a nonchalant shrug.


    We finished up with lab. As I was packing up to go to lunch, Stephanie poked me on the arm. "So, what''d he say?" she asked with a knowing smile.


    "Don''t ask things you already know. He''s still interested, told him it wasn''t my business."


    "Oof, cold. No respect for the bro code?"


    "What bro code? More importantly, what could I tell him about her anyway? No offense, Steph, but leave me out of Chelsea''s love life."


    "Fair point. You look like you have enough troubles of your own," she said leadingly.


    "What are you talking abo-"


    I was cut off by Stephanie pointing to the door of the class. There, one of the most recognizable faces in the city waited. Amy Dallon stared at me with an arched brow. The "come hither" was implied.


    "Thank god I wore a sweater today," I muttered. It was November, cold enough that I could cover up without looking out of place. After our chat last night, I''d reaffirmed my decision to avoid letting Amy touch me. I didn''t know how she''d react if she ever found out about me being a gravity child, but I sure as hell didn''t think she was ready for that particular bomb.


    "You say something?"


    "I said it''s cold. Glad I wore a sweater."


    "Anything you want to tell us about you and our prickly healer?" Chelsea said, eyebrows wiggling suggestively as she caught up to us. The girl was like a bloodhound for potential gossip.


    "We''re planning a June wedding," I replied dryly. I walked up to Amy and before she could take me by the hand, I instead grabbed her shoulder and pushed her out into the hall. "What''s up, Ames?"


    "Do I want to know what that was about?"


    "Chelsea''s love life."


    "Oh, yuck. Let''s go somewhere quiet."


    "Ames, there isn''t really anywhere in school we can talk. Just call me like you always do."


    She didn''t look like she''d let this go so I walked a step ahead of her and out into the quad. It wasn''t empty by any means, there were the usual cliques, skaters practicing tricks against the fountain, jocks tossing a frisbee around, and some other students catching the sun, but at least we''d see anyone coming to eavesdrop.


    She let out an explosive sigh and allowed herself to flop onto the manicured lawn. She stared up at the sky for a long minute before looking at me. "Did you mean it?"


    "Hmm?"


    "What you said yesterday. Did you mean it?"


    I sat down by her head, close enough to be familiar and far enough to avoid accidentally touching her. "Absolutely. It doesn''t matter who your dad is. That doesn''t define you, Amy. I don''t think less of you."


    "Even if I''m not just a healer?"


    "Even then. They say powers run in families. If anything, I like that you''ve built something positive out of your father''s legacy."


    "You don''t get it, Bryce. I''m the biokinetic. I can make Bonesaw look like an amateur."


    I rolled my eyes. "Who''s the thinker, me or you? And yes, yes you can be much worse than Bonesaw. But you''ve also chosen to be much better. If I asked you to make a superfood grain that could grow in all climates, was immune to mundane diseases and parasites, and had high nutritional value, could you?"


    "I''m not going to," she huffed.


    "No, you''re not, because you''ve decided somewhere along the line that every use of your power besides healing is wrong, even if it means making a dent in world hunger. Or making a super-penicillin. Or a cure for cancer in pill form."


    "Introducing new species or drugs like that could have unpredictable effects and-"


    "And you''re not equipped to be the judge of that," I finished for her. "I get it. But let''s not pretend there aren''t ways to mitigate the risks. You could work with thinkers who can simulate stuff like that. There are entire universities dedicated to ecological and economic impact. You could get the PRT and the Guild to help distribute them to where they''re most needed."


    "I don''t know¡­"


    I rolled to face her. I decided to back off for now; there was no point in pushing someone who was already so set in her ways. "And that''s okay," I told her sincerely. "I''m not saying you should march up to the PRT and shoulder even more responsibility than you already do. That sounds like a nightmare, honestly. My point is, your power isn''t evil and you''re not going to become a villain just because your dad happened to be one."


    Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.


    "You really believe that."


    "Yup. Besides, if you ever do join the dark side, you can be my sidekick and we''ll conquer the city in the name of universal healthcare or something."


    She let out a derisive snort. "Who''d want to be your sidekick?"


    "You''d make a terrible supervillain so of course you''d be the sidekick. A real supervillain needs flair, vision, gravitas. That ain''t you, Ames."


    "Of course, that''s what I''m lacking. Style."


    "First step to a solution is admitting you have a problem," I nodded sagely. She rolled her eyes and sat up. Her hand lashed out in a whipcord slap over my unguarded stomach, making me cough. "Oof, why?"


    "You''re such a dick, Bryce."


    "You''d be more convincing if you weren''t smiling," I replied with a groan.


    "Whatever. Come on, let''s go eat before lunch ends."


    "Sure, did you tell your sister where we''d be?"


    "I said I had to talk to you about something. If she asks, I healed a little girl in the hospital who fell behind on her schoolwork. I wanted you to tutor her, got it?"


    She had that dangerous gleam in her eyes that promised unfathomable pain if I didn''t go along with her story so I decided on the better part of valor and nodded. "Yes, ma''am. Tutoring some kid."


    "Good. And Bryce?"


    "Yo."


    "Thanks¡­" she said hesitantly, a single word laden with meaning.


    Naturally, I couldn''t keep things too serious so I did what I do best. "Whatever keeps you from growing a cactus in my rectum, Panpan."


    I laughed as my words registered and her face went red. We raced through the halls towards the cafeteria, me cackling like a loon and Amy threatening increasingly anatomically impossible punishments on my person.


    X


    Since I didn''t have a student to tutor, I shot a few quick emails to potential clients before shifting into my costume and heading off to the lab beneath Harvey''s. Harvey''s Bar and Grill had been doing well enough from what I''d been hearing. Its location near the college made it reasonably popular by default and the traditional Irish pub aesthetic was a timeless classic for a reason.


    But that was in the evenings. Just after school, the bar was all but deserted, with only a handful of people inside working the dead shift between lunch and dinner. There were a few college kids waiting around and watching the rerun of some basketball game or other. A few more hung around a dartboard, probably killing time until happy hour so they could grab some grub on the cheap.


    I pulled up the face of the out of state owner on my UI and took on his appearance with the suit''s texturing function before waltzing in through the back. The line cook looked at me funny, he''d never met the owner before so I was a stranger, but shrugged and went back to frying up a basket of fish sticks for the basketball crowd. I''d come in using a key so as far as he was concerned, I belonged here. He wasn''t paid enough to care beyond that.


    I nodded to the manager who did know what the owner looked like. Galen had come recommended by said owner, Faultline''s business partner who''d also helped her set up the Palanquin, and was read in on enough of the details to not be surprised. He had a cushy job here; $130k and benefits to run a mildly busy bar and not ask questions about what was in the basement.


    He was an old-ish fellow in his late middle-ages with a salt and pepper beard. According to him, he''d had his excitement and now wanted something nice and stable, like managing a bar. How he thought Brockton could be "stable" was beyond me, but he''d moved from upstate New York for the job and the fact that he was an out-of-towner made him more trustworthy by default than any Brockton native.


    I gave him a quick wave before making my way to the basement. In the end, whether he was or was not trustworthy didn''t matter much. If he sold information to one of the gangs, the most they''d learn was that Creed had a lab here. If they raided the place, I''d lose very little while gaining some valuable intel about my opponents. The most they''d find here was some wapometal, which I stopped by once a week to upload to the DSS.


    After digitizing everything, I hung around long enough to exchange a few quick words with Galen. I also got myself a late lunch in the form of a chicken pot pie; Amy and I had not arrived at the cafeteria fast enough to eat anything substantial.


    While I was still downtown, I decided to have a bit of fun and try something I''d seen Ikki, the protagonist of Air Gear and the Storm King, do fairly often. The Wing Road was the most elaborated upon road, not least because both the main antagonists and the protagonist used it as their foundation. It didn''t make the rider an airbender from Avatar, but it came pretty close. Like the other roads, it took generally accepted physical principles and extrapolated them to the point of hilarity.


    For starters, the Wing Road allowed the rider to "break the barrier front," and run at an extremely low pressure, minimizing air resistance and maximizing jump time. This was also somehow used to minimize blunt impacts by distributing force throughout the rider''s entire body rather than a single point, though for obvious reasons I didn''t feel the need to test it. Any impact that could hurt me through the Expansion Suit, I wouldn''t be able to shrug off like this anyway.


    Masters like Ikki, Sora, and Nike were said to "catch moondrops," using differential pressure to create a surface of air to skate on. They could effectively replicate the Germa hover boots through raw skill alone.


    Thankfully, seeing how I had the boots anyway, I didn''t need to master the Wing Road to that degree. I''d be happy enough just learning to "grow wings," a phenomenon by which a rider could enhance an existing tailwind.


    I revved my new regalia and jumped into the air until I stood just above the rooftops. Then, dipping down, I skated atop a power line and kept going. I felt the wheels catch on the line and skate forward. There wasn''t any chance of getting shocked so long as I only touched one wire, not that my suit couldn''t handle it anyway.


    Then, gingerly, I shut off the pyrobloin valve. There was nothing keeping me in the air except this one line.


    It was an exhilarating experience. I knew of course that I couldn''t lose my balance anymore, but knowing in my head and doing something like this, something so hilariously dangerous and impractical, was entirely different. Sure, I''d raced faster while trying to pick up After Burner. I''d climbed higher into the sky while fighting the Empire and Merchants. But this was different. Then, I''d been relying on my hover boots or Agility. That wasn''t the case here. It was just me, a set of wheels, and the wire stretching out like a path before me.


    I felt the wind flatten my suit against my chest. I wanted to pull up my helmet and feel the breeze on my face. I understood now, that inexplicable, instinctive love of the sky that Ikki felt when he first took to the air. To fly under your own power, to rely on your own skill and travel as you please; this was freedom.


    "Whoo!" I let out an excited yell as I skated through a residential district.


    I drew a lot of attention, especially when I passed by an elementary school, but I couldn''t find it in me to care at the moment. It would be one more way for me to advertise my ATs for the catalog.


    I purposely caught the treads of my back wheel on the edge of a wooden telephone pole and allowed the sudden jolt to rocket me into a seemingly suicidal flip. Twisting with catlike grace, I alighted atop another pole across the street before skating along its connected wire. Someone wolf-whistled and I laughed before twirling atop a street lamp and collapsing into a deep bow.


    I''d strayed far from the Boat Graveyard now. I was still headed in the same general direction, but I zig-zagged every few blocks. I wasn''t going very fast, nowhere near the top speed of a regalia, even untuned, but seeing the city below me and the sea stretching past the horizon lightened my heart in ways I couldn''t quite put to words.


    It was nice. Until now, every time I went riding, it was for some specific purpose. It felt good to put it all aside for a few minutes and simply luxuriate in the freedom of this birdlike mobility. This, this was what I was about, the joy of creating and the wonder of delighting in my own creation. More than being a hero or villain, more than playing the great game of cops and robbers, more than being Creed even, this was what I wanted to do as the Tinker of Fiction.


    A wide grin threatened to split my face and I found myself laughing as I flipped through the air. I raced on a rooftop before launching myself into a 720 degree rotation that ended with me landing on a power line to continue skating forward. And that was one of the simplest tricks I could pull off now. Soon enough, the residual trepidation was washed away and I was performing tricks straight out of one of Tony Hawk''s video games, if on roller blades instead of a skateboard.


    I was mid-flip when I saw someone rising towards me, or falling given how I was oriented at the time. Dauntless, the only flight-capable member of the Protectorate, had arrived.


    He raised his arclance in salute. "You look like you''re having fun."


    "I was, thanks for ruining it, Chronos," I drawled as I landed softly on a street lamp.


    "Aww, don''t be like that, Creed. I came by to say thanks. Heard what you did for Kid Win."


    "What''d I do?"


    "You''re really gonna play dumb?"


    "I was playing until you showed up. And now I''m not but I still don''t know what you''re saying, Chronos."


    "Fine, be difficult. Why do you call me that? Not that I mind being compared to the god of time and all¡­"


    "Well he did eat his own kids so there''s that."


    "What?"


    "Yeah, that''s his most famous legend. Chronos was the son of Ouranos and Gaia. He murdered his own father via dismemberment and castration because his mother told him to. There was a prophecy that said Chronos would go the way of his father and he really didn''t want to die by his own kids so when Rhea, his wife, birthed them, he swallowed them all. And then Zeus came along and killed him so¡­ prophecy fulfilled. Neat, huh."


    "That''s¡­ I don''t think I learned that in school."


    "Yeah¡­ Greek mythology gets pretty dark. I mean, there''s more context behind it, but that''s the gist."


    I could see him frown under his helmet. "What are you getting at? What do I have to do with Chronos?"


    "Nothing. You grow with time, get it?"


    "Then why''d you tell me all this?"


    I gave him an exaggerated shrug. "Who knows? Maybe I just like mythology. Or maybe someone asked me to tell you. Or¡­" I leaned in as if to whisper. Dauntless found himself doing the same. "Or maybe, I just like fucking with you."


    "Wha-Hey!"


    "Toodles~"


    And with that, I was gone. Dauntless was one of the few capes I wasn''t eager about fighting, not just because he was powerful, but also because he was the "hometown hero" and I was trying very hard to manage my image. Win or lose, it''d be a net negative for me. That said, for all his power, he wasn''t much of a sensor so he could do little but stand around looking constipated as I vanished from his sight.


    X


    I arrived on the Gullrest with a few hours to spare. I doubted I''d get much done today but I didn''t regret the time I''d spent zipping around the city. If I was honest with myself, I needed that more than I cared to admit. I tossed SAINT a bag of almonds I''d bought at a 7-Eleven on my way here and picked up the drone.


    Big Rig''s drone obeyed instructions incredibly well, a given considering what it was made for. The crab-like creature was built for construction so its chassis could take a few hits. It had some rudimentary sensors to determine which material or tool was what. Strider would be by tonight at 1AM to deliver $60,000 worth of materials, but there was no reason I couldn''t supplement my metal reserves using this drone.


    I slapped one of my old expanded bags on its back and sent it off further into the ship. So long as the outer hull was intact, and there were enough support beams left to withstand the water pressure, there wasn''t any reason for me to leave the ship untouched. Better, by hollowing out the ship, I was making room for me to build my own ship directly inside, kind of like one of those parasitic hornet larvae that grew inside a paralyzed caterpillar by eating it alive from the inside out.


    I set what used to be the mess hall as its storage and set it to harvesting. Then I turned to my partner. SAINT had polished off the whole bag in the time it''d taken me to give the drone its marching orders.


    "You''re lucky you can''t gain weight, buddy."


    "Ree," he trilled defensively.


    "Yeah, yeah, you''d still be cute even if you could get fat. Rub it in. You ready to get to work?"


    "Pory!" he cheered before slipping into the pokenav. I saw a cute, chibi duck icon light up on my UI showing me he was fully connected.


    "Good. Let''s get to tuning the regalia. I doubt we''ll finish today but I want to make some progress on it."


    "Porygon-gon."


    The Pledge Regalia hummed to life, splitting into seven cross-like amplifiers that spread out across the room. Its sensors came online one by one and I could feel my control over the surrounding vibrations increase. I turned my attention inward, receiving a full scan of my biometrics. It was all here, from my heart rate to the rate at which each individual muscle passively twitched and spasmed. My body, laid out before me in more detail than I thought I''d ever know.


    SAINT trilled happily and took control of the Pledge Regalia. He began to filter out all unnecessary information, feeding me only what I needed to tune my regalia. As always, creation was far trickier than destruction. Dismantling something via sonic vibrations was easy compared to tuning the regalia. I resigned myself to a grueling, tedious process.


    The two of us worked in companionable silence. Key Mother and the unnamed Water Regalia had to be completely in sync so I began with that. Tuning the two together was a challenge, not just because they were incredibly complex pieces of machinery, but because I''d made the frames of my skates out of seastone. Suffice to say, a material as unyielding as diamond made scanning what lay beneath a challenge.


    It wasn''t impossible by any means, especially thanks to SAINT keeping meticulous calculations of every single system contained within the regalia as well as its internal dimensions, but the whole thing was still an exercise in patience.


    After tuning the regalias to each other, I had to tune them to my body. Apparently, there was a way to cancel or heavily diminish the stresses my body felt by adjusting the regalias'' operational wavelengths compared to my own body''s. It was complicated physics about reciprocal wavelengths canceling each other out, treating everything from sonic booms to friction as just another expression of those same wavelengths, then applying the concept to the way energy was transferred up my legs through my skeletal structure. Wave-motion physics and ergonomics, but kicked up to hilarious, sci-fi levels.


    So basically standard Air Gear nonsense.


    I huffed out a laugh, more out of frustration than anything else. The task was mind-numbingly repetitive and not even the fact that I had SAINT''s company slowed it down much. In the end, I expected this to take several more days. Until then, I''d just have to satisfy myself with thinking of an appropriately hammy name.


    Author''s Note


    Could the AP bio seen have been cut entirely? Yes. I ended up including it because I enjoy writing slice of life, especially from the perspective of someone who''s much older emotionally. High school was like that for me; not that I was "more mature" or whatever but that I feel like I paid a lot of attention to things that didn''t matter in the end, and not enough to the things that really did.


    I also feel like it''s a decent contrast to the talk with Amy. She''s coming out of her shell and the seeds for being more than just Panacea have been planted.


    Is it tactless to call someone by their pseudo-endbringer title? Probably. Is it a fun easter egg most of the fandom doesn''t know about because a grand total of like twelve people actually read Ward? Yes. Is Bryce going to keep doing it? Also yes, because he''s a tactless shitheel who likes feeling smug.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 3.13 Surge

    Surge 3.13


    2010, November 14: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    The rest of the week passed in that paradoxical way that was both a blur and a lazy lull. Strider''s delivery went well; he delivered $60,000 worth of various materials for construction, the bulk of which was volcanic ash.


    The fabricator I purchased from Big Rig and the forge beneath Harvey''s were now running near constantly to produce a constant flow of seastone. In fact, I had to build yet another foundry in the Gullrest to convert the volcanic ash into usable pyrobloin so I could keep the fabricator running efficiently. The one in the Gullrest was several times larger than the one beneath Harvey''s as I was not constrained by basement floor space.


    I also asked the parahuman porter to deliver the Black Rhino to Mr. Staber and promised him a small cut from the proceeds. Said proceeds were then immediately used to make yet another order of volcanic ash alongside a second fabricator and three more drones from Big Rig. I didn''t have quite enough money to purchase everything from Big Rig but he was happy to do another tech swap, three more engines for three more drones. All told, I had north of $200,000 and lost it all in less than ten minutes building up my pipeline.


    Tinkertech was expensive¡­


    I knew that of course. I also had a general expectation that construction materials could command some hefty price tags, but I wasn''t anywhere near being able to build heavy industry yet. At the rate I was producing seastone, I could maybe build a house in one week? It was a lot for my personal use, but only just barely enough to meet Big Rig''s quota in making some rich cat''s personal survival bunker.


    My ship? I could forget about that for now. The amount needed to build a boat out of seastone was absolutely monstrous, which was probably why even the marines never did that; they only lined the bottoms with the wonder-material.


    Didn''t matter. Price was no object. I could be patient. My production was starting to ramp up, which meant I could have SAINT take on catalog orders for me and oversee manufacturing. Hopefully, I''d soon reach the point where I could accept jobs online and only provide one final quality assurance check before shipping them off via Strider.


    That''d be the key to having a near passive income, which I would of course reinvest into more and more fabricators. I just had to make sure SAINT and I were up for management roles.


    Little else of interest happened on Friday and Saturday. I spent those two days training with SAINT and finishing tuning my regalia.


    SAINT''s progress was smooth and steady, especially for a pokemon with only a singular sparring partner in myself. He''d mastered almost every move in his arsenal and had no trouble using them in combat. His Protect could withstand the detonation of a Muggy Ball, though just one at a time.


    I was so proud of him that I told him he could have the Upgrade when he finished two more tasks: First, customize Protect until it could be used to cover a larger surface area, enough to shelter one or two people. And second, use psychic aura to develop a Barrier.


    Were those standards arbitrary? Absolutely, but since I lacked the pokemon world specialization, I had to set those standards somehow. My words and the clear promise of reward seemed to motivate him and he redoubled his training.


    In particular, I suspected it would be the second challenge that would be most difficult. Thus far, SAINT had had all his moves downloaded into his programming. He''d been asked to modify them slightly or even use them in conjunction, as he did with Magnet Rise and Agility to move, but never had he been asked to create a new move altogether.


    He had everything he needed. He knew how to solidify aura into Protect. He knew how to generate psychic aura. All he needed to do was to put those things together, to apply his knowledge in a way beyond the scope of his own programming. That''s ultimately what I wanted from him: organic growth. Everything I''d seen of him thus far told me I wouldn''t be waiting long.


    The reason I was having him focus so heavily on defensive growth was singular: Eviolite. I''d made one for him months ago knowing that I''d never make a Dubious Disc. In lieu of his final evolution, the stone that could make porygon-2 such a defensive powerhouse seemed like a no brainer at the time. By having him learn these defensive options before he evolved, I hoped to give him a strong foundation to build from..


    Zap Cannon? It was great, immensely powerful, but SAINT''s role as floating artillery would always come second to his role as my shield.


    As for my regalia, I finally gave it a name after much thought: Crown Chimera of the Mirage Road. It was a Frankenstein''s monster of a regalia, one forged using not just multiple regalia cores, but the technology and materials of an entirely separate universe. It was a hybrid, a true chimera of different technologies much like the tinker of fiction, one that could only grow as I did.


    I took deep, measured breaths as I ran along the sidewalk. This was my third mile this morning and I was starting to feel the strain in my lungs. After months of consistent cardio, I could officially count myself as "respectably athletic."


    "Alright, so get this, Brockton," came the voice of Kevin Hartley, host of the Foghorn. The sleazy radio host wasn''t exactly good entertainment, but he was usually the second to know about things that went down in the city, the first of course being the ever-enigmatic Bagrat on PHO. "So I''ve been talking about the new gang of thieves called the Undersiders, right? They''ve done a lot of smash and grabs? Well they''ve started a feud against Hookwolf of all people. Now, don''t any of you call me a Nazi sympathizer, but the Undersiders are trying to punch way above their weight class."


    I frowned as his hot take on the city''s geopolitics washed over me. According to him, the Undersiders, who''d been mostly hitting small jewelry stores, pawn shops, and the like, were getting too big for their britches. They were looking to carve out stable territory of their own and losing sight of their main strength as capable escape artists in favor of greed. Apparently, this had been the trend for a week now, though I hadn''t noticed as things hadn''t escalated much.


    "In other news, several courageous PRT officers led by Protectorate power couple Assault and Battery busted a dogfighting ring near the Trainyard the other day after receiving an anonymous tip from a concerned citizen. The ring is suspected of having ties to the Empire and the public is advised not to stay out after dusk. In fact, coming from me, just avoid the whole area altogether if you can."


    I scoffed. No doubt the "concerned citizen" was Tattletale. I knew that Bitch, Rachel, took it upon herself to rescue dogs from Hookwolf''s dogfighting rings but I didn''t think she''d moved this early in canon. Was it a coincidence? Or was Coil indirectly pushing the Undersiders into conflict with Hookwolf? There was no word about a confrontation between Hookwolf and Assault and Battery so someone was clamping down on his leash, likely Kaiser, but for how long?


    I¡­ I didn''t want to deal with this¡­ Just the thought of getting involved in this mess sent spikes of suspicion through my mind.


    My first thought was that Coil didn''t like this tenuous peace. He was much like Baelish from Game of Thrones; for him, chaos very much was a ladder. This made me wonder if he''d finished whatever observation he thought he needed to make and was now ready to act.


    By pushing the Undersiders into a collision course with the Empire, or at least Hookwolf''s faction, he could be looking to destabilize the region in small ways, seeing what I''d be willing to act on and what I''d be willing to let slip through.


    Or maybe, he wanted to recruit me into the Undersiders by urging me to encounter them in a sympathetic light? Bitch was right to free abused dogs, no questions about that. If I had to choose, of course I''d choose to help the Undersiders. It''d be an easy way to open dialogues with a self-professed mercenary.


    Then again, this could all be a coincidence on Bitch''s part and I could be overthinking this. In some ways, that made me even more paranoid. I wasn''t dumb enough to think a tinker on Creed''s level would go ignored by Coil. If this wasn''t part of his plan, then what was?


    I grunted in annoyance as I reached the Lord''s Street Market. I did a quick about-face and began to run home; this was far enough for today.


    ''Shit, I''m really not cut out for this,'' I thought, frustrated with myself. ''I was a physician''s assistant, not a security analyst. Should I just out Coil and be done with this mess? Tell everyone who Thomas Calvert is?''


    I considered the scenario. There was nothing keeping me from doing it. I could even assure anonymity by having SAINT do it for me from a public IP address. It would utterly cripple him. Coil''s best defense was that no one knew about him until too late. Right now, he shouldn''t have had the time to set up as many failsafes. Or if he did, he certainly hadn''t had time to recruit the Travelers and Noelle.


    ''So what''s keeping you?'' I asked myself. Air left my lungs in ragged breaths now. Really, why didn''t I? Shouldn''t I do this before the Echidna Incident became a possibility? ''What could go wrong if I drop Coil''s name like that?''


    For starters, he could clear his name. Quite easily, I''d imagine. Whether through his own resources or through connections like Accord, I didn''t doubt that Coil could easily shovel a great many inconveniences under the rug. And that wasn''t getting into any favors he might be able to weedle out of Cauldron. They''d be his last resort, but I didn''t want their attention any more than he did.


    Or he could fully embrace his inner warlord. He could launch his failsafes and hold the city hostage via planted bombs. Or out the Empire and throw the city into utter chaos. Or invite Heartbreaker here by releasing Regent''s identity to do the same. Or any number of things that didn''t include directly striking at me.


    Hell, it wasn''t impossible for Coil to have tortured Faultline for information already. She didn''t seem like a woman who''d break easily but the snake could try as many times as he needed. She''d talk, perhaps if not for herself, then for Elle. Or Gregor. Or Newter. Her crew that she considered family.


    ''Fuck, I''m regretting going to her,'' I swore. It was necessary when I started but I had to admit that any public connection could be a potential vulnerability. ''At least I didn''t unmask like a fucking dumbass¡­''


    Coil had to go, but he had to go at the right time, when I was ready to pull his organization out root and stem in one smooth stroke. The cleanest way to do that would likely be to steal his files, hack his comms, and build an airtight log of his crimes before attacking both his identities at the same time. But that was easier said than done. The only way I could think of to acquire that kind of information while coordinating an attack like that would be if I had the help of a software or cyberwarfare tinker¡­ or Dragon¡­


    Or¡­ Or SAINT. Theresa Richter wasn''t the only AI around.


    ''I could have SAINT do the hacking for me. I''d just have to find Calvert''s house. I think Coil''s bunker was beneath Forsberg?''


    That was the smart move. As far as I knew, Coil had no protections against an AI just digging through his systems to make copies of incriminating evidence. Technically, illegally obtained evidence wouldn''t be admissible in criminal court, but if Canary''s trial taught me anything, it was that no one in Earth-Bet gave a damn when it came to capes. I could publicize whatever SAINT found while conducting a raid on Calvert''s person. In which case, outing him wouldn''t be necessary in the first place.


    Trouble was, this was all predicated on what I knew. Coil was a regular customer of tinkertech in canon. Who was to say he didn''t have some form of network security that SAINT couldn''t brute force his way through? In a city with a Protectorate team led by a nationally recognized tinker, that''d be the first thing I''d invest in if I were a crime lord. Worst part was, even alerting him might make him tip some dominoes to send a message.


    Was SAINT a good enough hacker? Was I strong enough to handle the fallout?


    Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    ''Maybe¡­ And I don''t like maybe¡­ But he almost certainly will be if he evolves,'' I told myself. Porygon-2 were improvements in every way from the standard porygon. They were specifically designed for space exploration and could process appropriately massive quantities of data. Even better, they were capable of growth beyond their programming in a way that a standard porygon found difficult. ''If SAINT became a porygon-2, he should be able to adapt to and bypass anything Coil has.''


    I reached home and gave mom a quick hug before climbing into the shower. The hot water poured down over me as I considered my options further.


    ''Should I evolve SAINT now then? My conditions were arbitrary. He could probably do just fine even if I gave him the Upgrade now¡­ No, pokemon need a foundation. Even without an organic body that needs to mature, he''d probably benefit from mastering aura¡­ I think¡­ I have time. It shouldn''t be too long before SAINT learns to modify Protect and builds a psychic Barrier.''


    I washed up and went about my day, still conflicted as all hell. In the end, what I knew for absolute certain was that I couldn''t meet the Undersiders. I didn''t know what Tattletale could glean from videos of me, but the last thing I wanted to do was make things easy for her. After all, anything she knew, Coil knew.


    "Hey, bro, morning," Sierra greeted as we gathered around breakfast. She had her teased hair in a sloppy ponytail. Her pajamas of choice was an oversized sweater with a stylized print of Rime''s face on it. She offered me a lazy smile that transitioned into a yawn.


    "Hey, sis. You look tired."


    "Because I am tired. Seriously, why did I choose engineering?"


    I shrugged. "You used to like playing with Legos when we were kids. Like, you stole all my Legos and gave me your Barbies."


    "Heh, yeah. Good times. Real life engineering is too much work though. Maybe I should change majors¡­"


    Mom set two plates laden with waffles in front of us. "Stick with it, Sierra. You''re going to be in high demand when you graduate."


    "Ugh, I know, but is it worth this torture now?" she moaned.


    "Well what would you major in if you changed now? Philosophy?"


    "Mom, don''t diss philosophy. Some of my best friends are in it."


    "And I''m sure they''ll have a very fulfilling life working at McDonald''s and asking people why they want fries with that," she replied dryly.


    Sierra clutched her heart in mock horror. "Oof, that''s cold. Very possibly true, but damn, didn''t know you had it in you."


    "We had our stereotypes in college too, you know. You kids don''t have a monopoly on sass."


    "Point¡­ I guess I don''t really know what I want. I mean, engineering is okay, I''m just not sure if it''s what I want to do for the rest of my life."


    "Sounds rough," I said. I sympathized. I''d been there as well in my past life. Truthfully, the reason I went into medicine wasn''t so I could help people. It was because being a physician''s assistant paid very well without nearly as much medical debt as a full fledged MD. "Everyone has different priorities, sis. I think college is supposed to be about new experiences. As you experience new things, you''ll figure out what you want. Give yourself time."


    Sierra hummed appreciatively before reaching over to ruffle my hair. "What do you know about college, little bro?"


    "I don''t know, heard the line from porn. It sounded nice though," I shot back.


    "Eww! Bryce!"


    "Bryce, don''t be crass," mom chided. "But he''s not wrong, Sierra. Maybe you can audit a few courses? Try to get a taste for different classes outside your major."


    "Maybe¡­ Thanks, mom. And I guess you too, Bryce¡­"


    "You''re welcome, sis," I nodded happily. "What brought this up though? You haven''t always been satisfied with engineering but you''ve never considered changing majors before."


    "Oh, that, you remember Sabah?"


    "Arabic, about my height, really pretty? Of course I do."


    "Of course you do," she rolled her eyes. "Stupid horny teenager."


    "Hey, it''s not all hormones. She''s really nice, helped me with homecoming and everything."


    "Yeah, sorry to break it to you, she''s gay."


    I slumped in my seat exaggeratedly. "Damn. All the cute ones are gay."


    "Whatever, bro. Well she''s thinking about changing majors to fashion. Follow her dreams, you know?"


    That got my attention. Did that mean she triggered already? Or that she was close? I had to admit I hadn''t been keeping an eye on her. "Huh, she''d be good at it," I said uneasily.


    When I first met her, I''d told myself that I''d let the chips fall where they may. It''d practically been my motto until before I triggered: Don''t get involved; let people live their lives. Good or bad, I wasn''t responsible. If I could keep my head down, I could muddle through past all the incoming tragedies and disasters. I could survive Gold Morning and¡­ live my own life.


    Even after I triggered, my plan to keep the Bay as stable as possible could be seen as an extension of this mentality. If I could keep the city from blowing up and waited, I could ultimately become powerful enough to be untouchable.


    As of yesterday, I was very close to that point. Now that I had fully tuned Crown Chimera, there were vanishingly few who could pose a threat. There were arguably stronger capes, but I now boasted a versatility that just couldn''t be matched. Question was, what did I want to do now that I could afford to act more brazenly?


    "Bro, you okay?" Sierra called, breaking me from my contemplation.


    "Yeah, I''m fine. Sorry."


    "You were pretty out of it."


    "I just have some things I need to think about."


    "Hmm? You can come to your big sis for advice, you know that, right?"


    "I do," I said with a wan smile. "I think it''s something I''ll have to work out for myself."


    "Alright, you do that."


    X


    2010, November 15: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    I shut my locker and headed for first period. I still didn''t know the answer to that question. It felt as though the sky had opened up before me, as though I was a frog who had just left his well. I could continue to be the comic, hold off on making sweeping changes until I had my ship, but I felt that if I made excuses now, I''d never stop. I was the Tinker of Fiction, with all the endless potential it implied. I''d never run out of new projects.


    I felt simultaneously like I was being overly cautious and not cautious enough, restless, but as though I stood on a cliffside and a single misstep could send me tumbling down.


    This time, I was the one waiting outside Amy''s class. No matter my decision concerning broader Brockton, I could help Sabah without any consequences to myself. All I had to do was convince Amy to take a personal request.


    The juniors and seniors that made up her class shot me strange looks but otherwise left me alone. In less than a minute, the grumpy healer stepped out. She spotted me and, for a moment so brief it may as well have been a dream, her lips twitched into a smile before settling back into their usual scowl.


    "What''s up, Bryce?"


    "Let''s talk somewhere quiet," I said as I grabbed her by the shoulder and began to usher her outside.


    The two of us made our way to the courtyard, the same place by the fountain where we spoke before. Amy glared away any curious onlookers. It was honestly kind of impressive the reputation she''d managed to cultivate at this school without any of the usual bullying behavior common among teenagers.


    "Alright, Bryce, what do you want?"


    "I know you don''t take healing requests," I started. Her big, brown eyes narrowed into suspicious glare. Before she could cut me off, I said hastily, "It''s not for me."


    "Of course not. It''s never about you. Who is it? Who paid you to give me their sob story? And how much?" she huffed angrily. "No, I don''t care. It''s the luck of the draw, no matter who it is."


    She glared back mulishly. There was anger, frustration too, but most of all, betrayal. It made me hesitate. How many "friends" had she lost this way? How many blamed her for not saving everyone? How many tried to buddy up to her just for this conversation? She hadn''t been a hero long in the grand scheme of things, only a few years, but even with Vicky watching her back, it likely wasn''t a small number. I suspected that this had as much to do with Amy''s self-imposed isolation as any real introversion on her part.


    "No one approached me about anything," I promised.


    Her glare softened until she slumped with a sigh. "Oh, Bryce¡­ I¡­"


    "It''s not family either," I hurried to correct her misconception. "Mom and Sierra are fine, as far as I know."


    "So what then? You just heard something on the news you want me to fix?"


    "What if I told you I know of a few people who will trigger very soon? Would you help them then?"


    "Bryce, no one can predict triggers. Not even the entirety of Watchdog."


    "I don''t predict them, at least not directly. I know of actors on the stage, remember? I know they have powers in the future but if they don''t now¡­"


    "Then they trigger sometime in the near future. And what do these actors do? Am I going to create the next Bonesaw if I don''t help them?"


    "No, they''re both¡­" I couldn''t rightly call Sabah a hero. Nor Taylor. "They have their hearts in the right place. And one of them can''t really be helped in the medical sense."


    "Bryce," she stressed.


    "Look, we can have this conversation later, preferably not in school, but just keep this in mind, okay? The person I want you to heal is her father. She''s not perfect, but she''s a genuinely good person who I think doesn''t deserve to go through a trigger."


    "I hate you¡­"


    "Amy¡­"


    "I''ll¡­ I''ll think about it, okay? And I''m going to want a full explanation. None of that ''It''s not my story to tell,'' crap."


    "It really isn''t."


    She glared heatedly. "Yeah, well, if you''re trying to get me involved in ''her story,'' then I deserve to know what I''m getting into."


    I looked into her eyes and saw equal parts determination and irritation. Finally, I let out a sigh. "Fine. I can''t make you use your power for anything. I''ll just tell you what I know."


    "Good."


    I skipped to my feet and made my way back to the cafeteria to join our friends. There was an uneasy silence between Amy and I. I knew I''d be pushing one of Amy''s big buttons, but I felt I had to try.


    I liked Sabah, and not just because she helped me shop for a suit. She was a genuinely kind woman who felt a great deal of responsibility for those under her care. She didn''t need to step up after Leviathan, she was no hero and owed the people nothing, but she did anyway. Even if that was by joining the villains, even if all of that hadn''t happened yet, I felt I owed it to the older girl to intercede on her behalf to Amy.


    X


    I finished up and shipped off another two Black Rhinos, hybrid soda engine included, for a cool $600,000 total. Likely still undercharging, but they were easy enough to make with my fabricators and drones so I considered it worthwhile to draw in more customers. Despite the relatively easy load over the past few days, I felt emotionally drained.


    I explained the situation with Sabah to Amy after school, but the best I could get from Amy was an "I''ll think about it." I wanted to press but that would involve giving her more specific details, details like, "Levi might be coming around May." I hadn''t told her that much because doing so raised a whole slew of questions I wasn''t ready to answer.


    If Amy knew, so did Shaper. Would Shaper communicate with the other Shards? Would endbringers still hit where I knew they would? Could the Simurgh see me? Did I even have a normal Shard or did whichever godlike entity who put me here activate the tinker of fiction power when dad died just to stay on brand? If I told Amy, and that in turn caused behavioral changes in the endbringers via Shard network, how long would it take until Contessa paid me a visit?


    Hell, all that was even with the unlikely possibility of Amy choosing our friendship over telling the PRT an admittedly gamebreaking piece of information.


    The only conclusion I could reach was that it was better not to mention it at all. And so, all Amy knew was that Sabah would trigger while frustrated and alone, largely in part due to her father in the hospital. She would abhor violence and remain one of the city''s few true rogues until people forced her hand. Then she would become a leader and fierce defender for all who came to her.


    I let out a groan of frustration. "Enough. I''m just going around in circles. SAINT, wanna come help me blow off steam?"


    "Pory?" my partner trilled. He vanished into my helmet and a picture of Amy''s mug popped up over my UI.


    "No, it''s not Amy. At least, not completely. I guess I''m starting to realize that keeping a lid on this city is way harder than I first expected." I clicked my heels, feeling for a moment like Dorothy, and allowed myself a small smile of satisfaction as Crown Chimera sent silent vibrations up my legs. "I don''t want to think about it anymore. I''m going to clear my head, see how Crown Chimera handles now. Ready?"


    "Porygon. Poree¡­"


    "Yeah, I know what I said. But it''s not good to just wallow in despair either. Sometimes, you need to come back with fresh eyes."


    ""Pory."


    I kicked off, sending us skyward and out of the hatch I''d carved into the hull of my lab. Instead of inland, I headed out to sea. I needed to do so many things. Blow off steam. See how it felt to perform the martial arts trickling in through the Inorganic Net. Make new tricks for the Mirage Road.


    Hell, maybe that was what I needed, to be loud. To blow up shit with zero regard for my surroundings. To really cut loose and make increasingly ridiculous names for my finishing moves like a shitty shonen protagonist.


    If the US could test nuclear bombs in the ocean, surely I could do the same.


    "SAINT, lock pokenav coordinates to Brockton," I told him. Then, once we were several dozen miles off the coast, I stood atop the water and pumped aura through my feet. "Chart a course southeast. Four hundred miles out."


    SAINT manipulated my UI until a map appeared showing the pristine blue of the North Atlantic Sea. Aura-induced After Burner included, it should take no more than half an hour to reach my destination. If anyone managed to find me so far out at sea, I figured at that point, they''d deserve my time.


    With the boom of a collapsing vacuum, we were off.


    Author''s Note


    According to Homeadvisor, you can expect to pay $50 per square foot in material costs, or about $75k for a 1,500 sq-ft house in the US, if you want to build a single-family home. Though Bryce lost ~$260k, that was so he could acquire the capacity to make a house out of bedrock each week. All things considered, he''s coming out far ahead of the average. He still thinks it''s crazy pricey because he has no frame of reference for this stuff.


    On another note, reading the cost of homes makes me depressed because it reminds me that I''ll never own one lol.


    Shoutout to Zerak for the name of the road.


    Oof, definitely the angstiest chapter to date on this fic I think. But then again, I don''t know how I could''ve avoided this confrontation. Like any teenager, or adult, with shitty coping skills, Bryce is doing what he does best and kicking the can down the road by heading to the open blue to test out techniques.


    Speed of sound is roughly 767 miles per hour. After Burner (Kazu''s low-end sprint speed) clocks in at slightly north of that, so yeah, about half an hour to travel 400 miles. Be honest, how many of you forgot that "pokenav" stands for "pokemon navigator?" It''s one of the first things he ever built; he may as well use the damn thing for its intended purpose.


    Feel free to suggest chuuni attack names. Air Gear had some weird move names: Leviathan''s Fang (he''s not shouting that on Earth Bet, lol), Saint Elmo''s Crossfire, Moonstruck Drop Bagram, Gungnir, Astro Magus, and my personal favorite, Thunder Road Final Form: Electric Titan Thunderbolt Snowman. I shit you not that''s an actual attack name. It''s even funnier because Nue was honestly such a badass.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 3.14 Surge

    Surge 3.14


    2010, November 14: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    It took me exactly thirty-two minutes to get where I wanted, though I supposed I could have stopped at any point past a hundred miles. The ocean stretched as far as the eye could see, blue and gray and ominous and majestic all at once. The waves roiled below my feet and I was struck by the eerie silence of it all.


    When the sea was mostly calm like this, without any waves high enough to slap back against the surface of the water, the ocean was as quiet as the grave. I''d never experienced this level of quiet before, in both lives. I''d gone camping sure, and there were quiet nights spent staring up at the stars, but the forest wasn''t ever truly quiet. Crickets. Owls. The wind playing its melody through the branches. The forest wasn''t quiet, not like the sea.


    I turned on my helmet cam and spent several minutes recording, just looking up at the sky, then at the horizon where the blue of the sea met the blue of the sky. It was pristine, untouched by man since Leviathan''s arrival. No, even prior, we were merely guests, using this stretch of sea as a simple thoroughfare. I wondered if any sailors ever got to appreciate the silence like this, or were their boats too loud?


    I too was a guest here. I came to test out some of my more destructive techniques because I feared that even the hull of an oil tanker wouldn''t be enough to contain them. Truthfully, a not insignificant part of me felt like a big fish in a little pond, powerful enough that should I go all out, no one in Brockton could afford to ignore me.


    Looking out at the tranquil sea around me, I realized now how arrogant that line of thought was. I was so small. Hell, with Air Gear''s modern tech, I could build hydrogen bombs, the Tsar Bomba even, but they''d still be small compared to the breadth of the sea stretching out beneath my feet.


    And Scion was so much bigger than this¡­


    One step at a time. I took a deep breath and called to my most treasured partner. As much as I cared for Amy, our partnership was built on manipulation, world-ending secrets, and a constant tug-of-war between our moral compasses. I loved her dearly but there was only one person I could unreservedly trust. "You ready, SAINT?"


    My HUD burst to life as the greatest mallard of all blipped onto my screen. Lego-duck appeared a little pixelated, like one of those old pokemon games, an aesthetic filter he liked to mess around with. "Porygon, pory," he chirped.


    "Alright, After Burner is more or less mastered, I figure. I''m pretty low on aura but if I can do it for half an hour, it''s probably good to go."


    "Ree."


    "I know, I made sure to keep enough in the tank to run back. If all else fails, I can just float along for a few hours before heading home. It''s not like I have anything to do today."


    "Porygon."


    "Right. To start, I want to go through some of the basic capoeira forms that''ve been trickling in through the Inorganic Net. I picked capoeira specifically so I could incorporate it into my run after all." A little clip art of Disco Stu from the Simpsons popped up on my screen as the theme song for So You Think You Can Dance blared into my ears. Cheeky fucker. "Yes, SAINT, I''m going to dance."


    "Pory¡­"


    "No, you may not get out so you can record me."


    "Pory¡­?"


    "... Fine¡­ You may pick the music¡­"


    As soon as the last word left my mouth, the tranquility of the open ocean was shattered by My Heart is Stereo. "Really? Why Gym Class Heroes?"


    "Ree."


    "Fine, whatever floats your boat."


    I connected the suit to Crown Chimera and triggered Hole Nine Heaven''s Door. Idiotic name that could only sound cool to a Japanese mangaka aside, I felt something shift in my regalia and a deep connection form between rider and AT. The data sticks inside my regalia processed the stored information and sent cues to my helmet, allowing me to act out forms and routines I''d never experienced before.


    I allowed my body to go limp and followed along with the bamba''s, what you call a capoeira master apparently, movements. The sound of a dozen berimbau, the main, single-string percussion instrument in capoeira, filled the air as Gym Class Heroes faded into the background. Still weird, but I couldn''t fault SAINT''s music choices.


    Slowly, beat by beat, I swayed to and fro like a reed in the breeze. Or more accurately, like a buoy upon the waves. I took an hour just to get used to the motions. Just because my suit could do them didn''t mean I wouldn''t pull a muscle or something if I wasn''t ready for it or tensed at the wrong time. I allowed myself to relax and let the foreign memories guide me through the proper motions.


    My footwork became rhythmic, sending ripples along the surface that merged seamlessly into the waves. I transitioned first to cartwheels, sweeps, and then winding kicks that I''d never be able to do without instruction. My torso twisted and burned with the exercise as muscle groups that I didn''t often use got put through their paces. Soon, I was moving so quickly that my feet kicked up streaks of water and made the air whistle as they swung past.


    Then I shut off the Door. It wasn''t like I needed to know every little thing about capoeira after all. In the end, I just wanted it to give me the foundations so I could adapt it to my own style. The martial art''s primary purpose as a medium of dance made it so only selective portions of it were applicable to me.


    I continued dancing and kicking, turning a meia lua de compasso, a quick, spinning kick, into a martelo, a very strong kick typically used to drop someone in one stroke. I danced until I could perform the moves even without my suit''s nudging. It was an amazing feeling, never losing balance despite the constant motion. The enhancements of a gravity child helped me get the hang of these foreign movements far faster than a normal person.


    I could already tell; even though I could do the moves individually, I''d have to spend some time and effort to incorporate them into my muscle memory. It wasn''t enough to just dance after all; I needed to be able to use this in a fight, to fall back on these movements with instinctive familiarity.


    Another hour later, I plopped down onto the water and let the cool current ferry me along. The seawater felt wonderful on my burning muscles. "I wish I''d brought some snacks," I told SAINT. I was getting a little peckish now that I wasn''t doing anything.


    "Ree?" he trilled as an image of fish popped onto my screen.


    "Heh, I guess I could. Crown Chimera could probably be used to cook something in a pinch," I replied with a chuckle. "Don''t worry, I''m not that hungry."


    After a few minutes of rest, I hopped back onto my feet and kicked off. This time, I activated Crown Chimera in earnest, adding its power to the routine I''d been practicing. I grit my teeth and bore the strain as my ATs bit into the condensed water vapors beneath my feet. Instead of sailing free through the air, they were still "running" on misty clouds, still accelerating even mid-kick.


    The repetitive swaying motions layered vapor trails behind each skate until I was going fast enough to turn it all into steam from friction alone. Then, when I felt I''d built up enough momentum, I skipped into the air and twisted with my lower core, whirling into a spiraling snap kick that launched the condensed vapor like a lash. Or, a thorn.


    *Crack*


    The compressed water pulled and strained against its pyrobloin bonds until it all struck with the same, sharp crack of a ringmaster''s whip. Unfortunately, I didn''t get to appreciate my handiwork. The water wasn''t the only thing that cracked.


    "GAH!" I cried out in surprise and pain.


    I fell like a stone into the ocean below. Before the weight of my suit could drag me to the bottom of the sea, SAINT''s Psychic took hold of me and raised me to the surface. I felt like a rod of molten iron had been inserted into my spinal column. There was a detached feeling in my pelvis. Tears rose unbidden to my eyes as my HUD blared with enough warning lights to remind me of a dance club.


    "S-SAINT, status?" I gasped.


    I blinked away the tears and watched as a model of my body took up the screen. Crown Chimera built up friction via compressed water vapor and harnessed that friction for both Flame and Lather Road tricks. The empowered kick had been so sharp that my torso couldn''t keep up, Germa suit be damned.


    I didn''t just twist my spine, I twisted it off like a screw cap while simultaneously dislocating my right leg from my pelvis. Germa engineering was phenomenal at keeping external impacts from getting through, but internal tensions were a different story apparently.


    "Well, that explains why I feel like dying," I groaned. I laid there, breathing deeply until I could compartmentalize the pain. When I could breathe again, I called up my well of aura and whispered, "Recover."


    I let out groan of relief as I felt my spine stitch itself together. As horrible as the injury felt, it was easier to repair than a severed finger, simply for the fact that all the pieces were where they needed to be already.


    "Alright," I muttered as I stood atop the water again. My hip felt a little tender but I got to my feet anyway. "Let''s try that again, this time with a bit less power and a bit more mist¡­"


    "Porygon? Gon!"


    "Yeah, I know. We''re still doing it until I can make a proper thorn. The Sonia Road is probably going to be beyond me, but if I can incorporate it into my run, I can make Mirage Road techniques based off the same general principle."


    "Gon¡­"


    "I don''t need to puncture reinforced steel with a kick, SAINT. I just need to harness friction and sound and be able to use it to shape mist into tangible clones¡­"


    "Ree¡­"


    "Okay, yeah, that sounds way complicated when I say it out loud, but everything I need is right here! I can do it, just¡­ I just need more time."


    "Pory¡­ gon¡­?"


    "You know what I need? I need a shonen training montage."


    "Gon?"


    "I know. School and family and all that. That just means we need to get started now. Ready?"


    "Pory¡­"


    X


    In the end, I broke my own spine a half a dozen more times before I managed a proper thorn¡­ sort of¡­ If anything, it wasn''t a "thorn" as much as it was a "wave," something akin to the Rankayku of Rokushiki fame. It was something I realized about my regalia. Ringo''s Thorn Regalia was uniquely suited for shaping sound into these needle-sharp points. Crown Chimera? Not so much.


    Mine took its energy not from the speed of my run, but the water vapor being condensed and rotated at high speeds in my heels. The vibration against seastone and the friction it harnessed was my source of power. And like the Lather Road, Crown Chimera wanted things to behave like water. Bursts of mist? Massive fogbanks? Or even Om''s Bubblegum Crisis? All great. Blades of water that SAINT estimated could cut steel? Difficult, but doable.


    Thorns? Nah.


    After a while, I realized I was getting too hung up on copying Ringo much as I had been too hung up on copying Kazu. I took a deep breath and allowed myself to relax. I tuned my own regalia. If anyone knew how it worked, it was me. So why was I so insistent on riding someone else''s road?


    After that, things became a lot more manageable.


    "Watch this, SAINT! Lather Road: Bubblegum Crisis!"


    I grinned childishly as a huge bubble of water formed with both of my heels as the frames. With a leap and a front flip, I slammed it down towards the ocean. I''d made it twice my size, big enough to look like Naruto''s Odama Rasengan. The spiraling orb ripped through the ocean''s surface tension before detonating with a deafening boom that could be heard for miles. For several seconds, my attack carved a crater the size of a small garage into the ocean. Then the water came rushing back and slapped a column into the air, drenching me again.


    "Yep. Definitely can''t use this at home," I said. "We''ll file this under ''fuck you in particular'' tricks, okay, SAINT?"


    "Pory."


    I cackled like a proper supervillain at the destruction I''d caused. Was the name stupid? Absolutely. But why shouldn''t I embrace it? I made steak-flavored apples for fun, dressed up as a bootleg power ranger, and planned to build myself a Megazord of my own as soon as I could swing it, because there was no way in hell I was going to settle for just a boring boat. If there was one truth in shonen, Pokemon, One Piece, and Air Gear all, it was that freedom and self-expression always lent itself to personal growth and power.


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    "That''s right, fuck what people think. Right, SAINT?"


    "Porygon!" he cheered. No matter how lame I became, it was good to know I''d have the world''s greatest duck in my corner.


    Bubblegum Crisis was actually surprisingly versatile, for something launched out of my heels anyway. I could also choose to spout a torrent of smaller bubbles instead of one large one. I''d probably do that most of the time because an attack like this¡­ I didn''t think even the E88''s twins could tank hits like this without getting horribly maimed. The smaller bubbles that blew up like grenades were already bad enough.


    I then started working on a technique of my own. By layering mist at different densities, I could make hazy "mist clones," which were a far cry from Spitfire''s realistic illusions, but could be an excellent base for them in the future. They looked like hazy silhouettes at the moment, as though someone was standing behind layers of fog and their features couldn''t be made out. I likened them to Skitter''s own bug clones, useful but not as much as I''d prefer. Although simple and incomplete, combined with my own texturing and invisibility modules, I considered the skill an excellent investment.


    I also made a third trick, Lather Road: Bubble Prison. It was admittedly just a ripoff of Zabuza''s Water Prison from Naruto, just a stabilized ball of water that could hold a person. Still, what was the tinker of fiction if not the greatest plagarist of all time?


    The only difference between his technique and mine was that instead of intentionally suffocating people, I made the insides hollow and swirled the bubble in a way that minimizes friction inside. The idea was to create a jail that offered its prisoners zero leverage. It''d come in handy for nonlethal takedowns if nothing else. I could capture multiple people and take them all out of commission via Thunder Wave into the bubble.


    Really, tricks were so much easier when I stopped fighting my own regalia like a stubborn dumbass.


    All this came after hours of practice, practice that would have been ruinously crippling on several occasions without the help of Recover. The Germa Expansion Suit was phenomenal. It could withstand hilarious amounts of punishment even without the barrier module. What it couldn''t do? It couldn''t protect the wearer from himself. If I twisted so hard that I ripped my own spine or landed in such a way that I tore my ACL to shreds, well, that was all internal. A big part of this training exercise was as much about learning my own body''s limits as it was about mastering the Roads available to me.


    All things considered, I believed I made great strides. I would have liked to learn more about the Flame Road, maybe even figure out Time and Saint Elmo''s Crossfire, but I simply didn''t have the time. Having a usable repertoire of tricks was more important to me than knowing a single, overwhelmingly powerful finishing move that I wouldn''t be able to apply practically.


    "We''re doing this again," I told SAINT as we skated back to shore. "Maybe not every night, but definitely on the weekends. Maybe I can tell mom I have a sleepover and find an atoll to camp out at or something."


    "Pory," he trilled in affirmation. Next time, once I better mastered Crown Chimera, I''d have SAINT come out so we could spar without concern for anyone overhearing us through the tanker.


    X


    "I''m so sorry I couldn''t get back to you until now," said the figure on the other line. She was a woman with snow-white hair kept in a tight bun. Over her face was a white and silver mask that complemented her hair and crystal-blue eyes nicely. Fractals reminiscent of snowflakes dotted her mask and hair pin and hints of blue glitter accented her rosy cheeks. All told, my first cape client looked like a fairy tale princess.


    She was very pretty but the outfit didn''t fit with how haggard she looked. There were deep bags under her eyes and a slouch to her posture that she tried but failed to correct. Her makeup was all over the place and it was clear she''d only just rolled out of bed before hastily throwing on her costume so she could be halfway presentable.


    "That''s no trouble at all, Glyph," I reassured her. She didn''t owe me anything. More importantly, the young woman had legitimate cause to delay; SAINT had been thorough in his assessments. "I understand people have prior commitments. You were active in a joint mission in Bosnia with the Suits and just returned to Canada the night prior. Villain I may be, but well done, Glyph. You did great work out there."


    She looked visibly surprised. "You''re well-informed. Most people don''t even know who the Suits are in America."


    "My tech is valuable," I replied simply. To be fair, she wasn''t wrong. Without SAINT, I wouldn''t have a clue either. The only reason SAINT found out about her activities was that it wasn''t classified, most Guild missions weren''t for the sake of international accountability. "It''s imperative that I know what my clients are up to. While I am primarily interested in business, the one holding my leash is rather particular about who uses my tech."


    "Right, The GOAT," she said dryly. "People still have no idea what kind of thinker they are, or if they''re just one person. Hell, I don''t think Dragon knows, though I doubt she bothered to dig too deep."


    "And we appreciate her respect for the unwritten rules. In any case, rest assured that you have been thoroughly vetted and deemed heroic enough for me to sell to. Now, if you don''t mind, step back from the camera and show me what I''m working with. While you''re at it, tell me what you want in more detail if you please. We discussed a shield module but nothing beyond that."


    She backed away, revealing a svelte young woman clad in a white and blue suit with the same snowflake fractals running along her sides as her mask. There was a complex logo on her breastplate but she wore little else for protection. The fabric did look sturdy but I didn''t think it was tinkertech, probably a stab-resistant weave of some variety.


    As we talked, I sent Amy a full profile of Glyph''s activities as compiled by SAINT. Everything save her personal information was there, from her suspected age of trigger to her brief history with the Winter Maples, an independent team from her hometown, and her many missions with the Guild. Her cute, Disney princess aesthetic was great for PR and she started off in mostly noncombat roles but had recently stepped in to fight alongside Narwhal as one of the premier defensive and utility heroines in the organization. She''d shed the ball gown of her early days in exchange for the outfit I was seeing now. All things considered, what she had was a great costume that showed she now favored freedom of movement over simple aesthetics.


    In a word, Glyph was perfect. She was respectably strong, versatile, and had a nearly spotless career with a demonstrable history of saving lives. She deserved my help and as annoyed with Amy as I was right now, I didn''t think she''d find a problem with me selling to Glyph. Helping out the heroine would be a good way to show Amy I was still committed to our partnership.


    "Okay, that''s great to hear," I stopped her. She was a bit chatty, maybe because this was her first commission and she felt a little nervous? "Any specific designs you want?"


    She did a final twirl for me, getting into the conversation now. "How about a cape?"


    I couldn''t resist. It had to be said. The memelords demanded sacrifice. "No capes."


    "Why not? I think I can pull it off."


    "No. Capes."


    "You have a cape!"


    "Do as I say, not as I do."


    "Isn''t the shield tied to your cape? You swish it around to block."


    "And I''ll give you something else. Maybe a brooch."


    "I don''t see why I can''t have a-"


    "No. Capes," I declared imperiously. Then I changed the subject to something more productive. "What''s your current costume made of?"


    "Umm¡­ I don''t know? Dragon had one tailored for me after I sent her my sizes. It''s pretty durable though. I haven''t had any wardrobe malfunctions."


    "Not good enough. Tear and stab-resistant isn''t enough for a hero. If your glyphs fail or you need to be up close and personal for whatever reason, you''re going to want something more than that."


    "That''s why I''m buying a shield thingie."


    "Maybe, but even that''s not perfect. Glyph, you''re in the big leagues now. That''s why you''re here, isn''t it? Narwhal doesn''t fuck around and I can''t imagine someone on her team is going to have the safe missions."


    "That''s true but¡­ It''ll cost more¡­"


    It would. It was my job to upsell after all. "And? Is that worth your life?"


    "Hey! How about you? You''re a villain, right? Shouldn''t you be afraid I''d come back to beat you with your own tech?"


    "Hahaha, no. The Guild isn''t likely to intervene in my affairs unless I go international and that''s not in my plans at the moment."


    "At the moment," she repeated, eyeing me suspiciously. "Really, what do you get out of helping a hero?"


    "The GOAT-"


    "Yes,The GOAT, whoever that is. But what do you get out of it? Why work with them in the first place? If you really cared about money, you could probably join up with the Elite or something."


    "True, true. I have my own reasons. You''ll just have to be satisfied that I''m on the side of angels¡­ sort of," I said with an exaggerated wink, then felt really stupid because she couldn''t see through my helmet.


    "Whatever. Dragon''s going to go over your tech with a fine-toothed comb to make sure you haven''t slipped anything in, you know."


    "Of course. I''m counting on it in fact. If anything, I''d be very curious to see what she makes of my gear. Now, as I was saying, my own suit is made up of something I call Germa fibers. They''re completely bulletproof up to and including most assault rifles. You''d need a sniper round to pierce a shirt made of this." ''Or a Walker pistol,'' I didn''t say. "A big enough impact can still leave bruises and crack ribs, but you won''t be bleeding out or anything. It''s an additional layer of protection I have beyond the shield module."


    "That does sound nice¡­ I won''t have to look like a Sentai Elite cosplayer?"


    "Super Sentai," I corrected automatically. "The team is themed around the show. And no, I can make you a Disney princess again if you want."


    She made a face. "Eugh, no thanks. I need to be a serious hero now. I can''t just twirl a wand around and pretend I''m at a ball anymore."


    "Fair enough. Can I interest you in a set of new boots?"


    "Boots?"


    "Mobility is everything and these babies will let you walk on air. Or you can add in my ATs, Air Treks, to skate faster if you want."


    "Definitely no to the skates. I have horrible balance; I don''t even like wearing half inch heels. I''d just embarrass myself if I wore those skates. The boots though¡­ I''ve seen videos of you running on air. How long does it last?"


    "Six hours of operational time. After that, give it an hour to charge."


    "How do you charge it?"


    "I''ll include a canister that your suit collapses into. Just plug it in; it''s idiot-proof."


    "Lovely. You know, every time a tinker says that, the world will just invent a better idiot."


    I snorted. "A hero with a sense of humor? My, Canada does make them different."


    "Anywhere not Brockton you mean. Anyway, you''re being awfully generous."


    "Generous? Sweetheart, we haven''t even begun to talk about price," I exclaimed. "The more I give you, the fatter my paycheck becomes!"


    She let out an audible groan. "Lovely, how much is a suit, boots, and shield going to cost me?"


    I leaned forward and steepled my fingers ominously. In lieu of facial expressions, body language was critical to setting the right ambiance. "And now we''re at my favorite part of this conversation. How does a nice, round eight mil sound? Cheap, right?"


    "You''re fucking with me," she deadpanned. "What kind of trust fund baby do you think I am?"


    "Heh, yes, I am. I want to impress upon you the true value of my suit. Once you have it, I can guarantee that it will not require maintenance unless you decide to go wrestle the Ash Beast or something equally stupid. In fact, the suit is far more likely to outlast you than the other way around. And if you do somehow manage to damage the suit, first ten maintenance sessions are free of charge.


    "Now compare that with the conventional cost of weapons development borne by standard militaries and governments. Because let''s face it, this suit isn''t just a suit, it''s a weapon. 3D mobility, protection that would make you a high-end brute. This is the kind of thing nations would spend hundreds of millions developing. You''re not paying for a fancy new jacket; you''re paying for something you''ll be trusting with your life."


    "Well I don''t know what to tell you then. The Canadian government doesn''t subsidize our costumes, at least not to the tune of millions. And a full member of the Guild makes $140,000 Canadian dollars per year unless we contribute something else. I mean, I do and I make a bit more, but you''re crazy if you think I have hundreds of millions to throw around. Or even eight million."


    "I know what you make. Again, I''m trying to show you monetarily what my suit is worth."


    She frowned but nodded. "Well, that''s development. Not production. Each individual weapon is much cheaper even for a conventional military. The development cost isn''t the same as the price tag on an individual product."


    "Hmm¡­ Good, I''m glad you know how to negotiate. Now that you know what it should cost, tell me what you can afford."


    I quickly ran into a problem: Heroes were poor. Well, not really. They made good money and had their housing and many other costs of living subsidized by the government. But they weren''t rich enough to afford even the heavily discounted price I''d laid out.


    I''d sold the Black Rhino for $200,000. Surely a tailor-made costume had to be worth more than that? Except, that was more than Glyph''s entire annual salary and she was understandably not eager to dip into retirement funds or take out a loan, even if she thought Dragon might be willing to do her a solid.


    In the end, we reached an impasse. I wanted to help her. It was an unambiguously good thing I could do. But¡­ But it''d mean building a reputation for myself as a bit of a sap, a "not a real villain."


    ''Aren''t I already that?'' I wondered. ''How much money do I actually need to build a base anyway?''


    The answer was¡­ not this much. Certainly not enough that I couldn''t do a good woman a favor. Volume of sale could make up for an individually larger payday.


    "I''m¡­ I''m willing to be talked down," I admitted quietly. The businessman in me rankled.


    "Then-"


    "Not by you though. Frankly, you''ve got very little ground to negotiate from. I''ll¡­ I''ll chat with The GOAT. There are things they can do for me that might sweeten the pot."


    "Oh, okay¡­"


    "I''ll get back to you soon."


    "Yeah, thanks for hearing me out."


    "Likewise, Glyph. For what it''s worth, you do good work and I honestly do want to help you." I cut the call and sank into my seat. "Ugh, why is everyone so poor, SAINT?"


    He typed into the computer, They are not. Statistically, the average Canadian has a median income of $27,500, Maker-Trainer. Glyph is actually quite wealthy compared to the vast majority of Canadians, sir. Could it be that you have unrealistic expectations?


    "Probably¡­"


    What will you do now, Maker-Trainer? Will you speak with Amy?


    "No, I said she can have a say in who I sell to, but I''m not going to let her set the price. If I did that, she''ll make me give my tech away for free."


    You told Glyph you would speak with The GOAT.


    "That''s you," I said semi-truthfully. "The GOAT is anyone that isn''t Creed, or really an excuse for me to behave one way or another."


    Do you still intend to sell to Glyph?


    "Of course. I''m just¡­ I guess I need to give myself some time to be convinced. It''s¡­ I mean, even fifty grand is probably too much for her to comfortably afford, never mind the millions I should be charging."


    This is likely. Considering the cost of living and any extenuating circumstances, $50,000 is likely to be a significant sum of her savings and represent multiple years of disposable income, SAINT typed into the chat. He then brought my attention to several studies on economic trends and the spending habits of a mid-twenties woman in stressful occupations.


    "That''s what I was afraid of. What do you suggest, SAINT? How can I help heroes while still being a mercenary?"


    I do not know, Maker-Trainer. A mercenary mindset which prioritizes personal gain is fundamentally contrary to altruism.


    "That''s¡­ Things aren''t quite that black and white. I can make money and advance my own tech tree while still doing good in the world. It''s a balancing act¡­ Which I guess is the whole point. Thanks, SAINT, it helps talking to you."


    A pleasure, Maker-Trainer. I look forward to the balance you set.


    Author''s Note


    Remember when Gym Class Heroes used to be on at Every. Goddamn. School. Dance? The 2010s man¡­ Not gonna lie, I still listen to them sometimes for nostalgia, and because I haven''t cleaned out my Spotify in about that long.


    Saint Erasmus of Formia, whose name sounds way cooler than its abbreviation, is the patron saint of sailors and Saint Elmo''s fire was a phenomenon first recorded by sailors atop masts. They believed it was a warning from God of storms on the horizon, hence a sign that their patron was looking out for them.


    Glyph''s appearance and powers were heavily inspired by the Schnee family from RWBY. There is very little information about Glyph in canon besides that they''re a frontline combat-capable member of the Guild, not even their gender, so I just went with whatever came to mind first.


    Edna. Mode.


    For real though. $140,000 CAD is way high.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 3.15 Surge

    Surge 3.15


    2010, November 16: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    "Hey, Bryce, got a minute?" Dean called as I got out of English lit. I''d been looking forward to finishing up a few more commissions so I could get Big Rig to make me more fabricators and drones. Alas, Dean seemed rather insistent on a quick chat.


    I turned to our ever-upright student pres with a smile. "Yo, what''s up, Dean? You need something?"


    "Not me personally. Walk with me a bit?"


    "Sure, why not."


    He nudged me towards his Acura TSX. "Is there something going on between you and Amy?"


    "I''m sorry?" I blinked in surprise. That wasn''t where I expected this conversation to go. I had multiple excuses and deflections for any suspicions he might have concerning Creed, my after school activities, or even should he think I had the hots for Vicky, but not this. In hindsight, this should have been obvious. Dean wasn''t the best at interpreting his power, but he was at least sensitive enough to discern emotional distress, even if he had no way of knowing the details.


    "You and Amy. She''s been scowling a lot lately whenever she looks at you."


    "Dean, she''s always scowling," I waved off his concern. "I love Ames but grumpy is kind of her default state of being."


    "Fine, she''s scowling more than usual. And she''s generally happier when you''re around," he said. He ran a hand through his hair and gave me a sheepish smile. "I''m not blind, you know. Amy doesn''t like that Vicky and I are together, never has, really. So I think I''ve gotten pretty good at telling her moods apart. You used to make her happy."


    I stared at him skeptically. "Really."


    "I''m serious, Bryce. Can we stop pretending Amy Dallon is the embodiment of the Grinch? Yes, she''s moodier than other girls, but let''s not act like she''s incapable of happiness."


    "I''m not. It''s the part where I''m involved that''s the novelty."


    "Well you are. Or were. She puts on a show but she liked trading insults with you. And then now you''re not. I just want to know what happened. Did you ask her out and get rejected or something?"


    I looked at him carefully. Dean Stansfield was as conventionally handsome as a high school boy could be. He had a strong jaw and deep, expressive brown eyes framed by wavy brown hair. His appearance was a tool as useful as his power. He had a way of looking so damn caring, like telling him to stop being nosy would somehow make me the bad person.


    Worst of all, I knew what he could do and I still couldn''t hate the guy. He genuinely wanted to repair a perceived rift between his friends.


    "Anyone ever tell you that you''re really nosy, Dean?" I deflected.


    "All the time," he said with a wry smile, "but if caring too much is my big character flaw, so be it. Now stop deflecting."


    I considered my friend. I had to play into his perception of me. What was his power seeing in my aura? Irritation, with him for sure and not a little with Amy. Frustration that I couldn''t do more for Sabah without replacing her dad''s heart with an AT. And, if I was honest with myself, satisfaction that I received confirmation from Gallant that my efforts to befriend Amy were bearing fruit.


    "What do you want me to say, Dean? Amy and I had a fight. It happens. Friends disagree sometimes."


    "What was it about? Can I help?"


    I rolled my eyes. Having Dean Stansfield butt in on our tiff? Yeah, that''d make Amy want to concede. "Not a chance in hell. Look, you just told me Amy didn''t like you. Do you really think you being nosy would help anyone? She''s more likely to dig in her heels because of you than talk things out. And no, this isn''t because of a bad date or anything like that."


    "What about Vicky? I could maybe get her to play the middleman?"


    "Nope. Never. Dean, I get that you''re trying to help, but the last thing I want is for Amy to think I''m trying to manipulate her using her sister." If she thought I was using her captivation with Vicky to get what I wanted from her¡­ Never mind starting back at square one, I''d be in so much shit I may as well build a castle out of it. "Just trust that we can hash this out ourselves, alright?"


    "Alright, fine, just don''t be afraid to come to me or Vicky if you need a second opinion."


    "Right, thanks for caring," I said as I tapped his windshield. I surprised myself a bit; I meant it. Dean cared and it was¡­ It was refreshing in its own way. In a city where empathy was an endangered species, here was a boy who did his level best to make everyone around him happy. Did that make him a people-pleaser? Yes. It certainly wasn''t a good thing, but I couldn''t quite hold it against him as a fault either.


    We parted and I stuck by the library for a bit so I could schedule my third tutoring student, some kid by the name of James O''Melveny. He said he just wanted a tutor to help him cram for finals, which was great because I also only wanted a student for the end of the semester.


    X


    I just made it to my lab when Amy called. I answered and pointed the camera facing down. "Ames? Sorry, I''m not dressed. What''s up?"


    "Dude, most people have the decency to not answer the phone while jerking off," she sniped. That was probably a good sign?


    I activated my quick-change canister and pulled the camera to my face. "Very funny. This about Sabah''s dad or Glyph?"


    "Both," she paused. "I''m really glad you''re helping Glyph."


    "So am I. She''s a good person, take it from the guy who knows what she had for breakfast last Wednesday."


    "That''s kinda creepy."


    "My background investigation was very thorough. I know where she worked, more or less everyone she''s ever fought alongside and against, and could probably make a more than fair guess at her identity, not that I ever would without damn good reason. Anyway, she does good work. I''ll give her a hefty discount."


    "That''s good. You''re really serious about the ''only selling to heroes'' thing."


    "Of course I am, Ames. We made a promise, and what is Creed if not a promise?"


    "Yeah¡­" She shuffled nervously. "So¡­ About Sabah''s dad¡­"


    I could already tell the answer by the guilty look on her face. "Amy¡­"


    "Hear me out! You said that when Sabah triggers, she becomes a hero, right?"


    "No, she technically becomes a villain actually."


    "Yeah, but a villain like you? Not like Hookwolf?"


    "I''m not seeing the relevance here but yes. The city goes to shit and she gets put in a position where she holds territory and protects people under her rule."


    "What happens for the city to get like that?"


    Bakuda. Coil. E88. Leviathan. A part of me wanted to tell her, blow her mind with the sheer magnitude of everything that was coming, but I couldn''t risk it. I took a deep breath and shrugged helplessly. "Dossier, remember? Not a movie. Besides, not a single dossier mentions me, which means-"


    "You die¡­ Oh, Bryce¡­"


    "What? No! Why is your first conclusion that I die? And it''s Creed. Use the name, woman."


    "Oh, relax, Vicky''s out with Dean and dad''s shooting the breeze with Neil. Mom won''t be home until eight at least," she scoffed. "And because you''re a big deal in the city! If your power doesn''t mention you then it''s because you''re not there!"


    "Or, I''ve left the city for some reason. Or here''s another idea, I''m my own blindspot. The dossiers are filled out as though I was never around to make changes."


    "Oh, that¡­ that makes sense¡­"


    "Don''t go killing me off just ''cause you''re upset with me, Panpan," I scoffed. "Point being, since my power gives me intel without my involvement, a lot of events might change."


    "Well Sabah''s a good person who tries to do what''s right is what you''re saying, right?"


    "Yeah? So? Please don''t tell me you think we should let her trigger because you want her to be a net positive for the city."


    "Hey, you said it yourself; she protects a lot of people."


    "Yeah! People I could just as easily protect in her place!"


    "What about her fashion? Didn''t you say she wanted to unmask one day to make a comment on racial discrimination in the industry? She can''t do that without getting famous as a cape!"


    "That whole plan''s idiotic! Sure, let''s pretend to be white and blonde then suddenly take off my mask and show a city full of Nazis that I''m Arabic! What part of that plan sounds healthy to you?"


    The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    "Her girlfriend," Amy tried. She was starting to sound desperate now. "You said she''ll meet her girlfriend who''s also a cape. Would she meet her if she didn''t have powers?"


    That brought me up short. Lily was important. Not only was she one of the few good people in the world, she was genuinely vital to any attempt at Scion''s life. Having Parian in my corner would also make getting my hands on Foil a far easier task in the future.


    I immediately hated myself the moment I thought about it. I wasn''t thinking Sabah could have a mostly happy ending; I was thinking I could charm Lily to my side by manipulating Sabah. Some friend I was¡­


    "Amy, enough. You call me on my bullshit. It''s what you do and I love you for it. So let me do the same for you," I said softly. I took off my helmet so she could meet my eyes. Not Creed and The GOAT, here and now, we were Bryce and Amy again. "You''re telling me all these reasons but you don''t believe a word of it. No more excuses. No more justifying why you won''t fix Sabah''s dad. This isn''t about who Sabah is or who she might become anymore; tell me about you."


    A dozen emotions flashed across her face, too fast for me to read. She took a shuddering breath. Like this, the perpetual bags under her eyes looked even more pronounced, bloodshot in a way that said she''d been crying.


    "I can''t," she whispered, tears welling in her eyes. "I can''t¡­ Bryce¡­ Does your power tell you what my rules are?"


    "It does. No brains. No biokinesis beyond healing. No payment or commissions."


    "Yeah¡­ Three rules¡­ I once healed someone in the street, you know, back when I first got my powers. I couldn''t leave the Boardwalk for four hours."


    "That''s not what we''re talking about, Amy," I rebuked gently. The real tragedy of it all was that I could see a lot of parallels between Sabah and Amy. Amy herself had triggered when she thought Vicky would die to the Chorus. "Please tell me what''s wrong."


    "I''m afraid, okay?" she yelled with surprising force. "I''m scared! Scared that if I heal her dad, I''ll never be finished! Scared that breaking one rule will make breaking all the others easier! Do you have any idea what it''s like? When I touch people, I don''t just see a button in my mind I push to make them better, Bryce! I get ideas! I want to give them subdermal armor to reinforce their organs! I want to make acid pods that clear blood vessels on their own! I want to split their hearts into twelve different pumps in their bodies so they never have to worry about one going down! I want to make them like Crawler!"


    She took huge, staggering gulps of air as she tired herself out. I''d never seen this side of her before. I knew this was hiding beneath, but I wasn''t ready for the explosion of emotion. She kept herself so closed off normally, wearing her scowl and sarcastic wit like a suit of armor against the world, or perhaps to protect the world from her own perceived imperfections. She couldn''t be Panacea right now. For that matter, I didn''t think being Amy Dallon was a good thing either. She needed to be Amelia, a fresh slate, someone with no reservations or burdens.


    "And that''s okay. I admire you. I respect you. That hasn''t changed, Amy. Do you remember when I said you aren''t your father?" I spoke gently. She sniffled and nodded shakily. "Well you''re not Carol either. Nor are you your power. They''re parts of you, but none of them define who you are. You set those rules but they don''t have to be an anchor dragging you down. You can choose. I believe in you."


    "Really? ''I believe in you?'' You sound like a bad Protectorate Pals episode."


    "Maybe, but that doesn''t make it untrue."


    Amy looked down at her hands, utterly exhausted. She whispered finally, "Why? Why do you believe in me? You know what I can do."


    ''Better than you do,'' I thought wryly. The shadow of the Red Queen loomed overhead but I''d already promised myself not to let it take hold. She wouldn''t ever be that person if I could help it. "I do. I know. And I refuse to let who you might become weigh down the person you are now."


    "Promise?"


    "I promise."


    "Bryce?"


    "Yes, Amy?"


    "When does it stop?" she asked quietly. "You''ll say this is the only one but will it really?"


    I frowned in thought. She¡­ She wasn''t wrong to think that. Eventually, I''d develop healing tech on my own. Hell, I could heal myself already, and others too if I wanted to unveil my TM Interface. But what if something happened to Sierra or mom before that? I''d happily come clean and tell them about aura. What about Michelle, Sierra''s other friend? She''d been good to me too. Would I ignore her personal tragedies simply because I didn''t think she''d trigger? Because she wasn''t narratively important? Would I be willing to out myself to her?


    I asked myself the question and once again found that I didn''t like who I was. But in the end, I wasn''t ready to tell Sabah. Or a hypothetical Michelle.


    I tried to hear the words Amy wasn''t saying. Her problem wasn''t with healing someone with a heart condition, of course not. Her problem was that the request came from me.


    I was a friend, maybe her very first friend that wasn''t part of New Wave since she got powers. Hell, maybe even her only friend. I heard the unspoken accusation: Are you using me too? How long until the next time? Will you abandon me if I don''t do what you want?


    I''d never seen her this vulnerable before. I doubted anyone else had either.


    ''I can''t push her,'' I realized. It was like a bucket of ice water dropped on my head. ''If I push her any further, she''ll close herself off. Everything I worked for goes up in smoke¡­''


    I wracked my brain for a solution. I wanted to help Sabah, but the thought of losing Amy was viscerally unpleasant. I¡­ I cared for her. Somewhere along the line, she''d changed from my moral leash and compass to someone I was proud to call a friend, someone I didn''t want to lose.


    "You won''t lose me, Amy," I promised her. "I won''t stop being your friend. I won''t make our friendship transactional either."


    "It''s easy to say that."


    "A compromise."


    "What?"


    "A compromise. You''re my friend, and so is Sabah. I want to see her happy but I also don''t want to make demands of you."


    "Then what, Bryce?"


    "No commissions, fine. Sabah''s dad has a heart condition. He''s been in and out of the hospital for months now. Would you be willing to visit the cardiology ward after every shift? Heal a few extra people before you head out?" I looked at her pleadingly. This was it. This was the best I could think of in the moment. If she said yes, there would be a good chance Sabah''s dad would get caught up in the healing. If she said no¡­


    One breath. Then four. Then finally, she said with a watery smile, "No commissions¡­ I¡­ I could do that¡­ Heart disease is awful even if it doesn''t kill right away. It''s not weird for Panacea to pay a few visits¡­"


    A wave of relief washed over me. "Thank you," I said sincerely. "I know what I''m asking. Thanks for listening, Amy."


    "I¡­ Yeah¡­ Bryce?"


    "Yes, Amy?"


    "We''re¡­ We''re cool?"


    I couldn''t stop a snort of laughter. I waved my hands apologetically at her scowl. "Sorry, sorry, ''cool?'' After that heart-to-heart, you''re going with ''We''re cool?''"


    "Fuck you, Bryce. I was being serious!"


    "I know, I know. And yes, Amy, we''re cool. Even if you sound super lame."


    "Shut up. And remember to give Glyph a discount!" she snapped before ending the call. Just before she did, I thought I could spy the ghost of a smirk.


    "Give Glyph a discount huh? I was already planning on it but¡­ I guess it wouldn''t kill me to be extra-generous¡­ just this once."


    Maker-Trainer''s biorhythms show signs of relief, SAINT typed into my laptop.


    "You could say that."


    Will you proceed with making Sabah''s father an artificial heart?


    That was something I''d been considering. Air Gear did have artificial organs. In fact, there was a villain who replaced his lungs with a variant of the Rumble Regalia. He was powerful enough to face Lind on even ground, though he did end up losing in the end.


    Modifying the Ramjet into a set of miniaturized pumps to replace a human heart¡­ wasn''t impossible. Strip away all the combat techniques and what I''d be left with was effectively just a better version of any artificial heart on the market. I could probably make it look less disgusting than the literal turbines Arthur had coming out of his chest, but some exhaust was necessary. That kind of energy couldn''t be stored in the human body safely, at least, not as I was now.


    "No," I told SAINT, "Sabah would never go for it. A part of me wants to kidnap her dad and give him a new heart but that won''t solve her problem. If anything, the stress is more likely to force a trigger and I''ll gain a mortal enemy where I was trying to make a friend."


    She would hate Creed even if you solved her problem?


    "That''s likely. It''s not only important to solve problems, but to solve them the right way."


    That seems needlessly complicated.


    "It is. Now come on, I want to spend the rest of my specialization mastering the Roads. I think I have enough on my plate without adding even more to it."


    SAINT jumped out of the computer and into my arms. Soon, we were racing along the tanker hold. I couldn''t use Bubblegum Crisis without causing enough noise to wake the dead, but I could practice making what I''d begun to call Mist Clones. The two of us played an elaborate game of tag using Thunder Waves, Protects, and Mist Clones until we tired ourselves out by dinner.


    X


    My family and I sat around the dinner table, the TV set at a quiet drone in the background. Sierra, in a sudden bout of industriousness, decided she wanted to try her hand at making something edible. The resulting loaded mac was¡­ surprisingly not awful.


    "So, what do you think?" she asked with a smug grin on her face. "Can your big sis cook or what?"


    "It''s mac and cheese with stir fried onions and chorizo mixed in. Let''s not get a swelled head, Sisi."


    "Psh, you''re just jealous."


    "Children," my mom said tiredly. "Must you two bicker?"


    "I just want Bryce to say my food is tasty."


    "Fine, stop pouting. It''s good," I said with a small smile.


    "Finally, it''s like pulling teeth with you."


    "I''m your kid bro. Deflating your ego is practically my sworn duty."


    "Yeah, yeah."


    We fell into a comfortable silence, only for the contents of the news to fill the void.


    "This just in, a violent confrontation between the Empire and ABB ravaged Charlton Boulevard north of Westmark Lane. Seventeen gang members engaged in what police on the ground are calling a turf war, which only ended with the arrival of ABB lieutenant, Oni Lee. We will not go to our camera crew on the ground to spare you the graphic aftermath but the battle resulted in the deaths of eight suspected members of the Empire and three suspected members of the ABB. The gangs dispersed shortly after.


    "We have reached out to the PRT for comment but have received no word as of this live broadcast. By our count, this is the latest of four violent conflicts between the rival gangs in the past month and the first time a cape lieutenant has directly involved himself. We here at BB News strongly urge all to avoid the area should you be commuting from work."


    "Huh, where is Charlton Boulevard?" I asked curiously. I hadn''t even realized there were four such conflicts, though I supposed if this was the first with a cape, the others couldn''t have been too bad.


    "A little southwest of Winslow," mom answered me. She twirled her fork into her bowl of mac with concern. "I know people who live around there."


    "Call them and make sure they''re alright?"


    "I think I will after dinner."


    I finished up dinner and volunteered to wash the dishes since Sierra cooked. As I ran the dishes through soapy water, I wondered what caused this. The gangs were always squabbling, it wouldn''t be Brockton otherwise, but that didn''t mean there wasn''t a cause. Typically, these things were small and mostly nonlethal, people didn''t just drop dead every time some pimp or drug dealer wanted to expand to another street corner or back alley.


    Things were shifting in the background. The Brockton Bay I thought I knew was eroding away as the butterfly that was my presence flapped its wings.


    Author''s Note


    There is a distinct chance that Dean thinks that if Amy gets laid, she''ll stop mad-dogging him and Vicky. It wouldn''t work, but Dean sees what he wants to see, which is kind of the problem with the guy. High CHA, low WIS.


    Ugh, still bad with emotions¡­ Here''s the expected angst of Amy being Amy. On the plus side, I think this chapter is a hell of a shift from the beginning of the story when Bryce wanted to "let the chips fall where they may." In the months since the start of the school year, he''s thoroughly been shaken from his apathy, at least where his friends are concerned.


    Even weeks after writing this, I still don''t know how I could have done better, just that I''m not satisfied with the scene. Does that make sense?


    Anyway, here''s your animal fact: In 2007, a sixteen year old boy was stabbed through the heart by a needlefish while diving in Vietnam. These fish are roughly a foot long, with needle-sharp bills, and are known to fly out of the water like darts when startled.


    Though 2007 is the one that''s lethal, it''s not the only instance of fish doing the spearing. In 2004, someone took a fish through the eye socket. In 2009, another man had one pierce his nasal cavity.


    And that, is why the ocean sucks.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 3.15.5 Various

    Interlude 3.15.5: Various


    Melanie Fitts


    2010, November 9: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    I looked out over the Palanquin dance floor as I filled in an acquisition form for yet more liquor. The club was a never-ending gullet. More than seven thousand dollars per month on alcohol alone, never mind food, payroll, utilities, and other costs of business. Luckily for me, the club was also a highly profitable business, especially in a city like Brockton Bay. It wasn''t uncommon for the Palanquin to rake in upwards of thirty-six thousand dollars per month.


    And of course, that was discounting my other activities.


    The last mission had been a relatively easy one; I''d chosen it specifically so I could test out Creed''s tech in the field. The mission was a simple matter of theft and corporate espionage. We were tasked by a mid-sized robotics and computer manufacturing company to steal relevant files on proprietary technology from Yale University''s computer engineering labs.


    The client wanted files on what was supposed to be a new model of photolithography machine. From what little I could glean about the tech, it was a machine that made microchips on silicon semiconductors. The technology was old, but the new model was inspired by a more advanced variant used by some tinker or other that could consolidate and integrate more circuitry in a much smaller area. By acquiring the schematics, and preventing the university from patenting and selling it to their competitors, they hoped to corner the market while jumpstarting their own R&D branch.


    The job was a bit of a departure from our standard missions, contraband delivery and bodyguarding, but I felt that we were well-equipped to handle it. It was a simple, straightforward job that didn''t even have us leaving New England.


    The mission itself went off without a hitch though there was a minor bit of trouble in the aftermath.


    I was impressed with Creed''s Bug Box, the all-purpose digital lockpick that he claimed could bypass any electronic lock in seconds. The university''s state of the art security was rendered helpless, and without leaving the slightest sign of forceful entry.


    Securing the paper files in the lab director''s room was a simple matter of picking the lock and making copies before storing them into my expanded bag. The electronic files ended up being equally easy to acquire when Newter found the man''s password taped to his monitor¡­ like an idiot¡­ Though to be fair, "YaleCS2011" was hardly going to stop a dedicated thief. He probably never bothered changing whatever the IT department gave him.


    Our mission completed without any snags, we returned back to our hotel room. The next day, when we were getting ready to head home, the heroes found us. They were led by a thinker named Intuit, a minor thinker who received varying intensities of shivers and goosebumps when he stepped near events he found morally objectionable within twenty-four hours. He could also use that power to track the culprit apparently.


    I considered the likelihood that he''d be around the lab to be negligible but looking back on the circumstances and his age, he was likely a student or lab tech at the university. In hindsight, I should have prepared for such an eventuality.


    Fortunately for us, Labyrinth was having a good day. Gregor, Newter, and I held the local team off for several minutes, giving her the chance to set the stage. She turned the hotel into a giant maze made of sandstone bricks reminiscent of the tombs found in the Valley of Kings. We phased through the walls while the Protectorate had to break through or go around. In the end, we were able to reach our rental car and make our getaway, leaving them stuck and waiting for reality to reassert itself.


    That was admittedly closer than I''d have preferred, and all because of chance. As powerful as she was, I did not enjoy inserting Labyrinth into our missions. I knew she was more aware than most assumed but that didn''t mean I could shake the near instinctive need to view her as a little sister that needed to be protected. In that sense, her shield module and invisibility cloak were a huge source of relief for me. With them, it was possible for her to sit around and change the battlefield as she pleases while remaining all but undetectable.


    That extra protection was something I wanted for the rest of my team, but I wasn''t certain if I could get Creed to accept more commissions from me. He promised to give commissions through me priority, and while he did seem like he valued his word, it wasn''t lost on me that he had distanced himself from me somewhat.


    No, I was not in the habit of self-delusion: Creed had outgrown me. I''d initially thought I could have a tinker on-call for years thanks to Newter''s initial kindness and our deal over Harvey''s, but he managed to surpass what I could provide him in a short few months.


    I wondered which it was. Had The GOAT reached out to Creed after our deal? Or had Creed acted independently before The GOAT reprimanded him? Ever since he''d made his association with the mysterious thinker public, he''d acted with a more heroic lean. That he had two catalogs was telling.


    Creed was a hero, or at least heavily influenced in that direction. Question was, where did that leave our relationship?


    I was brought out of my thoughts by a phone call from a familiar name: Coil. He''d called twice before, the first to ask for my services and the second to pass on a commission request to Creed. I''d refused the former and Creed hadn''t even considered the latter. The young tinker had been uncharacteristically emphatic about not forwarding any requests from Coil, no matter the promised price, and had suggested I too have nothing to do with him.


    "Faultline speaking," I said, voice firm and crisp.


    "Evening, Faultline." Coil''s voice was smooth, deep and buttery like a man trained to be an orator from a young age. It sounded a little too oily for a villain; no one in our line of work should sound so charismatic. "Congratulations on a job well done."


    "Coil. What can I do for you?"


    "I have a proposal for you."


    "I don''t take on jobs in the city. You know that already."


    "Nor would I ask that of you," he said smoothly. "I do have a different business proposition, Faultline."


    I rolled my eyes skeptically. Coil was every bit the snake he dressed as. He did however have deep pockets, as well as a professional demeanor about his organization that I appreciated. It likely spoke poorly of the city that Coil''s organization was the best of the gangs, but that chaos was part of why I moved here in the first place.


    "Go on then. What is it?"


    "I would like to purchase information from you. As I understand it, The GOAT is a thinker with designs on this city in the form of their proxy, Creed. I would like to know more about them."


    "That¡­ is not an unreasonable request," I admitted. In hindsight, it was a little surprising that it had taken a gang leader this long to approach me. I decided to press him on it. "What changed? You could have come to me when Creed first appeared. Why the sudden interest?"


    "Hardly sudden, Faultline. I like to consider myself a man who is well-informed of local powers so when a tinker with the resources Creed has appeared out of the blue, well, that was reason enough to begin digging."


    "But you''ve dug up nothing."


    "Indeed. Creed''s organization is exceptionally well-hidden. As Creed seems to have spurned my attempts at communication, I have decided to look for The GOAT directly."


    "You''re not alone in that," I told him honestly. It wasn''t as though I hadn''t tried to find more information myself. And like Coil, I''d unearthed absolutely nothing. It was enough to make me wonder if The GOAT existed at all.


    And yet, they existed. Beyond Creed''s own word on the matter and ridiculous "crime spree" that no sane villain would attempt otherwise, the fact that he was willing to split his catalog between heroes and civilians implied outside influence, not to mention the information alluded to on Creed''s first PHO post. It garnered an unusual response from Miss Militia of all capes, which indicated either a talented hacker who could access her personal files or a social thinker who could read the normally unflappable woman.


    The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    "Then you can understand the frustration. In the interest of full disclosure, I suspect The GOAT of being a powerful thinker capable of discerning the underlying mechanics behind powers."


    "How so? I hadn''t realized they''d given the game away."


    Quiet chuckles sounded through my phone. "They did. Are you aware that Kid Win finally found his specialization?"


    "The Ward? No, I didn''t know that. It''s good business for mercenaries like myself to stay away from the Wards."


    "True enough. Then allow me to share: Kid Win was given a set of LEGOs by Creed, perhaps because he felt his PHO post wasn''t being taken seriously. He discovered his specialization, modularity, that same day after playing with those blocks."


    "You''re certain? That sounds¡­ ludicrous¡­"


    "I am confident in my sources, yes," he said dryly. "Either Creed himself has a second thinker power, or The GOAT instructed him to assist Kid Win. I would like to know why."


    I quirked a brow in interest. That was unusual. Was The GOAT the type to hate being ignored? Most people were, thinkers especially. It was possible that they urged Creed to act when they realized the PRT wouldn''t follow through on that cryptic PHO thread. Or perhaps they never intended for the PRT to act on the original post and only posted a month in advance just to prove how great their power was?


    I scoffed. Thinkers. Egomaniacs, the lot of them. It wasn''t worth trying to wrap my head around their thought process.


    "That explains why you want the information, not why I''d want to dig deeper. As I mentioned, I''ve already failed on that front."


    "I am willing to provide ten grand per piece of useful intel, no matter how small, as a base. Twenty-five for any indication of The GOAT''s true motives. A full hundred for details on their power and location of their headquarters."


    I stilled. "That''s a lot of money."


    "I do not like unknowns, Faultline."


    "Unfortunately, I''m going to have to decline. As lucrative as this sounds, I wouldn''t know where to begin searching. I told you already, I''ve already exhausted my own network trying to find out more."


    "Not all of your network."


    I understood what he was getting at immediately: Creed. I could just ask him to put me in touch. In fact, I was probably the only person in the city whose request might not be rejected offhand. It was a tantalizing proposition, and not just because Coil had deep pockets.


    It wasn''t lost on me that The GOAT knew powers, and in a way that had stumped the PRT. If they could help a tinker like Kid Win figure out his specialization, what else did they know? Did they know where Case-53s came from? Or maybe they had a way of finding out a cape''s personal history? Or, dare I hope, some secret that might hint at reverting back?


    I shook my head. It was unlikely in the extreme. It was far more likely that The GOAT''s understanding of powers was narrow and applied only to tinkers, which would explain how they earned Creed''s loyalty so quickly.


    ''But what if they know more?'' a niggling thought in the back of my mind whispered. Could I deny that chance? Could I deny my family even the slightest chance at closure? If not Newter and Gregor, perhaps they could advise me on how to keep Elle more present? That alone would be priceless. Pressing Creed for a consultation could get me his enmity with nothing to show for it. ''Or it could change everything¡­''


    I wouldn''t have to tell Coil anything. No, the payout would be icing on the cake. Now that the idea was in my head, I couldn''t readily dismiss it. Creed was a valuable connection, maybe even a friend, but my goal has always been singular: the secrets behind Case-53s.


    "I''ll consider it," I told him finally. "No promises."


    "Of course. Good day, Faultline. Consider this a standing offer."


    The moment the call cut out, I called everyone to my office. They arrived a minute later. Gregor strolled in with his typical grace that bellied his size. As he crossed the door, Newter hopped to the wall and scurried along the ceiling before flopping down onto his favorite couch. Elle was comparatively more sedate. She carried a Rubik''s cube in her hand; having something to fiddle with helped her concentrate.


    This was my team, my family. Creed was a valued ally, but The GOAT could be a precious font of new information. I had to at least run the idea past them. "Everyone, I have a proposal for you all¡­"


    X


    Brian Laborn


    2010, November 17: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    I paced around the base, trying to clear my head. Things were getting hot, hotter than I was comfortable with. Yesterday, the news talked about a shootout between the ABB and E88 that ended with the arrival of Oni Lee and the deaths of a bunch of gangbangers. It was described as the proof of mounting tensions despite the best efforts of the Protectorate, tensions that we''d strained.


    I''d had my doubts about targeting Hookwolf''s dogfighting rings before but went ahead with the attacks on the boss'' orders. He had us attacking the Empire almost exclusively now. They were morally guilt-free targets, hell, basically a public service even, so what did it say that these jobs made me more anxious than anything else we''d done so far?


    "It''s exactly what you''re thinking," Tats, Lisa now that she was out of costume, said. She sat at the kitchen table, sipping some blend of herbal tea that was supposed to be good for migraines. I doubted it''d help, nothing ever did. She continued when I looked over. "Empire sent people into the area to scope us out. ABB didn''t take kindly to it. Oni Lee sent a message."


    "Thought the gig was too good to be true." Just because we vanished in smoke didn''t mean people couldn''t tell the general direction we disappeared to. Our hideout was technically near ABB territory; even the skinheads could put two and two together.


    She snorted. "A hundred bucks for each dog freed? Per person? Yeah, no shit, Brian."


    "So the boss is trying to what? Start a war?"


    "Probably? He doesn''t tell me everything."


    "Guess, then. Your hunches are usually right."


    "Aww, thanks, boss, love you too," she said with her trademark teasing smirk. As much as she liked to make light of it, stroking her ego really was the best way to get her to cooperate. It was like managing Aisha, but admittedly smarter and with less drug money involved.


    "So?"


    "So yeah, boss wants us to fight Hookwolf. Or get Hookwolf to act more blatantly."


    "He''s-"


    "He''s not selling us out or cutting us loose. But yeah, he''s making us goad the most violent faction in the Empire."


    "Why?" I spat. "We''re not a combat team."


    "Is anyone our age?" she retorted with a shrug. "As for why, one word: Creed."


    "He wants to start a gang war because¡­ because Creed said he''d come down on any instigators?"


    "He didn''t say that. He said he''d keep the balance, which isn''t quite the same thing. But basically, yes. He wants Creed to act. I''m guessing because he wants to know more about his new abilities. Guy''s been building, fast."


    That couldn''t be it. That seemed too¡­ simple? Or maybe too high-level for us? I didn''t know which but it felt like there should be more. "And where are we in all this?"


    "You know that already. We''re the match that lights the fuse. He''ll probably have us back off once the ABB and Empire are at war."


    "He''s stoking a Lung fight."


    "Maybe? I think he''d be happy with Creed taking on Hookwolf and Oni Lee. If Creed shows, and he wins, the boss gets a better idea of his tech. If Creed shows and dies, The GOAT loses their agent in this city. If Creed doesn''t show, then everyone knows his ultimatum was just hot air. No matter what happens, the boss gets to see some chinks in the ABB and Empire armor. He wins either way."


    "And now that Oni Lee got involved, Kaiser has to throw capes at the problem or he seems weak," I sighed. I was no thinker, but it wasn''t like I was ignorant of the city''s geopolitics either. Image was just as important as power and Kaiser, the man cared about image.


    "Yup. Even if he doesn''t do anything, Hookwolf will. He''s the impatient type and that means Stormtiger and Cricket will likely move with him. At this point, Kaiser can''t give orders he knows won''t be followed."


    "The boss is playing this city like a fiddle. All this just for Creed, huh?"


    "Not just for Creed. I''m pretty sure the boss wants to take over the city, sees us as investments. Weakening the gangs is the natural way to go. But yeah, pretty sure the boss tried to buy tech from Creed without any success."


    I let out a groan of frustration and walked to the corner. I kept a heavy bag and some weights here; they were good for stress relief if nothing else. Three jabs. Right cross. Left upper. I lost myself in the pace of my routines. As frustrating as it all was, the boss had all our numbers. By giving us a commission per dog, he turned it into a game for Alec. He didn''t care about animals, but he''d help to try to get a "high score."


    ''Kid wouldn''t know caution if it crawled up his ass,'' I thought. It sometimes felt like he didn''t take anything seriously, like life was all a big game to him until that final game over. ''If he was more serious, he''d try harder when I tried to teach him boxing.''


    And Rachel¡­ The boss had Rachel at the word "dog." He probably didn''t even need to pay her for her to participate but did anyway so she could keep her growing illegal shelter funded. Rachel was a remarkably simple girl in that sense; keep her dogs happy and she''d be as loyal as could be, just like a dog.


    Then there was Lisa. She seemed to do whatever the boss wanted, whoever he was. I didn''t know what he was giving her, but whatever it was, it was enough. She knew too much and shared too little, though I gathered that was just a thinker thing.


    It all left me feeling like I was the leader in name only. I couldn''t say no. Even if I wasn''t outvoted, there was Aisha to consider. The money I got went to making sure she had clothes, making sure I had a clean apartment I could present to caseworkers.


    ''Just a little longer,'' I told myself. ''If I can get an apartment set up, I can have Aisha move in with me.''


    Author''s Note


    Just something short to close out the arc and specialization. Mind the dates. Melanie''s interlude takes place two days after Kid Win''s.


    A mid-sized club or bar can spend anywhere from $6,000 to $13,000 per month on alcohol. In 2011, that would be roughly $4,400 to $9,600 after adjusting backwards for inflation. In that sense, Melanie''s Palanquin is doing quite well, as you''d expect of an alcohol vendor in a city as depressing as Brockton.


    Yeah¡­ Coil is interested in Creed for sure, but between a tinker who''s (sorta) a known quantity and a shady thinker in the background, he''s going to fixate on the thinker every time. Call it thinker-induced hubris, but he tends to think highly of people he views as similar to himself. And he sounds so darn reasonable, too!


    There was supposed to be a PHO addition to this but I decided against it when I realized I got a bit carried away. That omake is Spontaneous Duck, which is either in the index somewhere or in the separate omake thread (if you''re reading this from FFnet or Ao3).


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 4.1 Seal

    Seal 4.1


    2010, November 18: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    "Good hustle, Kiley!" Coach Miller called as I ran by on my sixth of eight laps. Two miles was nothing to me at this point so I just grit my teeth and chalked it up as some extra cardio. Maybe it was small-minded of me, but I couldn''t deny a pang of smug satisfaction as I blew past some of my classmates. My performance was mediocre compared to many athletic adults, but it was still tangible proof that my months of rigorous exercise were paying dividends.


    Coach Miller had pulled us from our regularly scheduled game of flag football for a "surprise fitness drill." Apparently, last night, a handful of idiots had tagged the Arcadia gymnasium. Not with gang signs thankfully, but it pissed off the coach something fierce. As typical of teenagers, no one came forward, not that I knew anything myself. And since the coach was ex-army, he firmly believed in collective punishment. Two miles, thirty pushups, thirty situps, ten chinups, and ten burpees for all. Joy.


    I heard him yelling at a trio of girls who''d slowed to a halfhearted jog. He threatened to extend our punishment to another two days. Whether it was the threat itself or the unanimous glares of everyone in class, they picked up the pace.


    Once that mess was over, I grabbed a quick shower and headed back out to world issues with Mrs. Currie. It felt weird, going about my school day normally like this. There was so much going on in the background: Amy was an emotional minefield. Sabah desperately needed help. Coil was doing¡­ something. There was a budding turf war between the ABB and E88. I needed to master the Crown Chimera, make Glyph''s costume, stockpile materials for my ship, actually design my ship, and more.


    And I was in school running laps because some chuckle-fucks tagged the walls. It felt remarkably petty? Sheltered, that was the word, like going to the "good school" meant we were by default isolated from the broader world.


    Then again, maybe that was the point. Maybe that was what I needed? A dash of normalcy to balance out the craziness of being Creed and help me keep the knives I was juggling in the air just a little longer.


    I was walking to class when I felt someone yank on my backpack by the handle, tugging me to the side of the corridor. I turned around to find a short, Japanese girl staring up at me with a cheeky grin. She''d dyed a hot-pink streak into her bangs and swept it to the side. "Yo," Grace said, "What''s up, Bryce, buddy o'' pal?"


    I quirked an eyebrow. Grace Kanda. We shared math class and she was dating Eric Pelham. She also had an iguana named Lung and brought it to school a few years ago for show and tell, officially making her the ballsiest Asian kid I knew. We knew each other, but more by association than anything. I didn''t think we were on casual speaking terms. "Hey, Grace. Nice bangs. Very anime."


    "Thanks. I''m not sure if I''m going to keep it or not. I mean, Eric dyes his hair blue but it''s a ton of work to maintain, especially since my hair''s dark and I need to bleach it first to get the color."


    I nodded agreeably. "Sounds like a pain. So what''s up?"


    "Oh, my iguana''s sick. He''s really hacking up a lung."


    "You''re really not as funny as you think you are."


    "Bitch, please. I''m hilarious. No need to raise a skink."


    "Puns are the shit-filled asscrack of comedy."


    "Puns are the highest form of humor and you are an uncultured rube," she scoffed. "Anyway, iguana ask you for a favor."


    I let out an exaggerated sigh. "God, fine. Anything to make you stop."


    "You play music, right?"


    "Yes¡­?"


    "Something portable? Like a guitar? Or a uke?"


    "Guitar. What''s up?"


    "Sadie Hawkins." I stared at her blankly. She stared back at me, realized I had no idea what she was talking about, and threw her hands in the air. "Ugh. This is why you''re lonely, Bryce."


    "Who''s Sadie? And I''m not lonely." Really, I just spent most of my time talking to my duck¡­ that I totally couldn''t show anyone¡­ If anything, I had far too many demands on my time.


    "The dance. It''s the dance where girls ask the guys."


    "And you''re¡­ asking me¡­? Did something happen between you and Eric?"


    "Ew! No!"


    "Okay, yeah. That one kinda hurt."


    "No, I mean, you''re cool but Eric''s one in a chameleon," she tried to diffuse with her terrible humor.


    "If he thinks you''re funny, he''d have to be."


    "Anyway, everyone knows you''re Amy''s squeeze."


    "Excuse me?" I squawked. Bryce Kiley wasn''t anyone''s squeeze!


    "Yea. You went to Homecoming with Amy Dallon. You''re like the only guy she hasn''t threatened to castrate."


    "We''re not-never mind¡­ What do you want, Grace?"


    "I want you to play the guitar for me while I serenade my man. Gotta start things off right, right from the gecko, you know?"


    "If I say yes, will you please stop making lizard puns?"


    "Psh, I''m a gem. Come on, Bryce, help your favorite gal-pal out!"


    "Favorite? Someone thinks highly of herself."


    "Mama Kanda always said I should have more confidence. Just gotta scale up to greatness, eh? Eh?"


    "Right¡­" I sighed but couldn''t suppress a smile. Grace Kanda had a way about her that was equally infuriating and endearing. Besides, it wasn''t as though it''d take any time out of my other projects. I could just bring dad''s guitar to school and play for five minutes at lunch. "When?"


    "Uhh¡­ How long would it take you to learn the chords to a love song?"


    "Depends on the love song."


    "''All of Me'' by John Legend?" I looked at her judgingly. "Hey, don''t knock my song choices!"


    "I said nothing."


    "Your face speaks volumes, buster."


    "Fine, whatever. It won''t take me long."


    "Monday at lunch?"


    "Sure."


    "Tegu so much!" she squealed, then promptly punched my shoulder.


    I rubbed it with a wince. That was probably a type of lizard? "Shorty can throw hands."


    "Second dan karate black belt, bitch," she said with a cheeky grin before skipping off. She called over her shoulder, "Thanks again, Bryce!"


    I shook my head and walked to class. Hopefully, Amy wouldn''t be going to Sadie''s this year. I couldn''t see her being the type anyway and, if I was being selfish, I wanted her in the hospital as often as possible so she''d treat Sabah''s dad. I''d told Sierra that Amy "spontaneously decided" to do a few tours of the cardiology ward and she promised to pass it on to Sabah. I''d done what I could, hopefully, something would come of it.


    X


    2010, November 20: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    The rest of the school week passed with little else of note. The eighteenth was Dean''s birthday, his actual birthday not his party, so Vicky led us in singing our best wishes for him at lunch. She''d also managed to procure a silly hat for him to wear, which he bore with good grace. The cloying sweetness of it all made me want to get checked for diabetes but I was too scared of Amy at the moment to ask. We did get to commiserate and practice synchronized eye-rolling so there was that.


    Thursday and Friday nights were spent designing a ship and making Glyph''s costume. There was a lot I could learn from the scale model of the Thousand Sunny I''d made, but I didn''t actually want a Thousand Sunny of my own. For starters, I didn''t think a seventeenth century pirate ship would fit in with the image I''d painted so far. Though maybe I could pretend to be a different tinker in "the organization?"


    Aesthetics aside, there were plenty of reasons for me to forego a sailing vessel, even one as magnificently crafted as Franky''s masterpiece. It did have a rear-facing cannon to launch itself, but that wasn''t enough. I wanted something that could float and fly.


    It''d take me much longer to build an airship that leaned more sci-fi than fantasy, and Air Gear wasn''t the best specialization for it, but I could sketch out a few designs. All ships had some basic necessities after all, like a command center, engine room, lab, training hall, canteen, storage, lounge, lodgings, and of course, sanitation. I kind of felt like I was playing Kingdom Hearts and designing a gummy ship again, albeit with a bit more practicality in mind. No dildo-ships here, no sir.


    In the end, I swallowed the pill and decided to give it to her for twenty grand. It was criminally low, I was practically robbing myself, but¡­ but I could do the most good this way. Like with the rich man and the Black Rhino, I decided to make an advertisement deal with her.


    The contract stipulated four additional conditions: First, the back of her new jacket would be embossed with my emblem, a stylized black "C" inside a cobalt-blue background and bordered by a sea-green hexagon. My name and Protect. Simple, clean, and more importantly, impossible to mistake as a Cauldron "C."


    Second, the source of her costume must be a matter of public record. I didn''t want the Guild to try to hide that she''d gotten the suit from a nominal villain.


    Third, she was to recommend my services to additional heroes with good records. Her end of this bargain would be considered fulfilled when I completed three initial consultations even if I dropped them for whatever reason.


    Lastly, she would have a month to test the suit''s capabilities before she would be required to complete a video review of my product for the catalog as an additional way to prove I''d sold to a hero and done so in good faith.


    I contacted her as The GOAT and made the transaction. It was all a bit more involved than I wanted initially, but I couldn''t deny that this would be better for me in the long run. More customers, more legitimacy, and an implicit understanding between myself and the white-hats.


    The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    When I wasn''t doodling designs of my eventual ship or Glyph''s new suit, I practiced the guitar for Grace, brainstormed potential Mirage Road tricks, and picked up some more capoeira techniques.


    Then I woke up on Saturday morning and my world had completely changed again. There were certain immutable truths about life: Humans age and die. Earth-Bet is a shithole and Brockton Bay is the deepest part of that pit. Matter and energy can neither be created nor destroyed, merely converted from one to the other.


    Never had that final rule, the first law of physics, loomed over my life so ominously. Rather than a law, it was more like the edict of a tyrannical king, an unconditional, inescapable Truth.


    Equivalent. Exchange.


    And just like that, my head was filled with ideas. Fancy gloves with the most intricate designs embroidered into the cloth. Unique prosthetics that connected directly to a patient''s nervous system. The manipulation of ley lines and "dragon veins" for use in healing and sympathetic "purification arts." The creation of new life at the sacrifice of countless others. The unspeakable horrors inflicted upon fellow man in the blind pursuit of knowledge. Fullmetal Alchemist was my specialization for the month and I truly had no idea how I should feel.


    On one hand, it made material collection trivial. So long as I knew and could envision the chemical and physical properties of any material, I could make it. Wapometal? Sure, why not. Seastone? Trickier, but definitely doable. Gold? Hahahaha, what was wealth? Edward Elric turned several train cars full of coal into solid gold. By the same token, everything I''d done, including the catalogs, meant fuck-all. There was so much junk in the Boat Graveyard that I could easily transmute anything I wanted¡­ with some study¡­


    On the other hand, this single specialization had managed to trivialize anything resembling a material pipeline and a part of me hated it. It felt like I''d wasted a shitload of time when I could have spent that learning new techniques. I''d also have to push back my designs on an airship for another month at least; the best I could do was build stockpiles of materials.


    ''That''s what I should do,'' I figured. ''I should learn some general transmutation principles, figure out how to customize some circles, and then spend the month mastering the Pledge and Mirage Regalias. Take a month to become a better-rounded martial artist.''


    Except¡­ Was that really the best choice? The alchemy I knew of was far more versatile than that. Even if I never learned "combat alchemy" like Roy Mustang or Louis Armstrong, I could still do a great deal by picking up alkahestry, rentanjutsu. Xing''s purification arts were nowhere near as comprehensive as Amy''s healing, but with it, I could maybe take a load off her shoulders.


    ''I can fix Sabah''s dad by myself.''


    It''d be hard. There were a lot of steps between points A and B. Not to mention, alkahestry wasn''t some one-size-fits-all solution to medicine. In fact, I could say with confidence as a former PA that much of what was in the manga was just plain wrong.


    Ed''s famous quote, "Water: 35 liters, Carbon: 20 kg, Ammonia: 4 liters, Lime:1.5 kg, Phosphorus: 800 g, Salt: 250g, Saltpeter:100g, Sulfur: 80g, Fluorine: 7.5 g, Iron: 5.6 g, Silicon: 3g, and 15 other elements in small quantities..." was wrong. Hilariously wrong. Never mind that he determined this amount for an adult of "average size" and not his mother specifically, the fucking midget added four liters of ammonia.


    No fucking wonder the transmutation failed!


    Then there was that time in Xing''s history when they lost three generations of imperials because they all decided to drink mercury like gatorade. Someone told them that mercury was the key to longevity and that person was either the most idiotic doctor in history or the world''s greatest assassin. And this was the parent country of alkahestry.


    I bolted up and booted up my computer before opening several Word documents. On each, I typed the names of different alchemists: Shou Tucker. Mei Chang. Tim Marcoh. Hohenheim. "Okay. First things first. I''m going to transcribe everything Amestris and Xing knew about human transmutation. Then I should be able to go through them with a fine-toothed comb and edit out all the incorrect bullshit. Anything I don''t remember from my time as a PA, I can probably look up online.


    "After that¡­ I''ll have to find out just what''s wrong with Sabah''s dad. Run some scans? Do I need to kidnap him? No¡­ The Pledge Regalia should be capable of getting me all the information I need. And then¡­ Then I need to actually learn alkahestry beyond just book knowledge¡­"


    SAINT materialized out of my computer to the tune of Pac-Man dying. Why he chose that SFX, I had no clue. He vibed with it so I let him be. "Pory?"


    "I''ve got a lot of work to do, buddy."


    "Gon. Pory-gon," he trilled, shaking his head. He dove back into my computer and my calendar popped into view with today''s date circled.


    "Oh, right. Dean''s birthday party."


    "Gon."


    "Yeah, I''m going to go. I guess that means I''ve got a lot of work to do before that."


    "Porygon. Pory¡­ Porygon?" He tugged on our bond and I briefly saw the image of an hourglass.


    "How long will it take until I''m good at human transmutation?"


    "Gon."


    "Ah, well¡­ Tim Marcoh alone had enough notes to take up an entire cabinet and then some. Same with Shou Tucker. Mei Chang didn''t have any notes as far as I know, but there''s an entire nation''s worth of literature to copy. The less said about Hohenheim''s shit the better. Even if a lot of basic information is redundant, that''s still way too much to type out. I''ll have to try out some formulas and whatnot while I do that so¡­ SAINT, wanna help me out?"


    "Gon?"


    "I need mice. Pests that no one will miss. Go to the Gullrest and have the fabricator build a cage. And then go hunting so I can jump right into experiments as soon as I''m ready. Think you can do that?"


    "Gon. Pory." He vanished into the internet. No doubt he was already halfway there to the laptop in my lab. Just then, I heard mom call Sierra and I down for breakfast.


    X


    I worked from eight to three in the afternoon. I stopped briefly for a quick ham and cheese sandwich for lunch but otherwise forced myself to slog through. I felt a bit like a court scribe listening in on a gruesome murder case, except I wasn''t getting paid for the mental trauma of recording this shit for posterity.


    It was equal parts mind-numbingly boring and soul-crushingly horrifying. I began with Tim Marcoh''s research as he was the one we saw working as an actual doctor after unsuccessfully retiring (fleeing) to the countryside. He was, by all accounts, a brilliant man who fixed many of the ills that came with a farmer''s rough living. But typing it all out, I was given a grim reminder that every ailment he treated, every injury he mended, he did so on the backs of countless bloody experiments.


    How long can a man live without a heart? Can you replace the heart with another material? What if you only collapse one chamber? What sorts of chemicals keep a body alive mid-vivisection the longest? Is there a way to chemically fool the nervous system into thinking all the right hormones are triggering? What quantity of blood can force a man to retain higher brain functions? What is a soul? Is there a variance between sexes? Age?


    I now knew the answers to those questions as well as Dr. Marcoh ever did.


    I knew of course that modern medicine was no different. There were some truly horrifying experiments conducted on people. Nazi wartime atrocities did advance science. By the end of the war, they likely knew more about brain anatomy than any other country. Milgram''s Shock Experiment taught the world about humanity''s willingness to blindly obey authority figures. Zimbardo''s Stanford Prison Experiment gave us a chilling look at ingroup-outgroup psychology. I learned about them in graduate school as part of my studies, but I''d always been removed from the experience. Modern practitioners reaped the benefits of these inhumane experiments while never having sown the seeds.


    Not so in Amestris. Tim Marcoh and others who worked to develop the philosopher''s stone were at the forefront of scientific understanding. My knowledge of his research came directly from his journals, the same journals Ed read. Copying it all down felt as if I was translating an autobiography with nothing sugar-coated for the masses.


    I couldn''t even pass the buck to SAINT. He knew what my specialization was but he didn''t actually have my power. He wasn''t the tinker of fiction; he couldn''t envision the research notes. And so I was stuck doing it all by hand.


    I separated the material into three categories: The first was garbage. Things I knew for a fact wouldn''t work, like introducing mercury into the bloodstream or simple daily observations Marcoh made regarding his lifestyle as a state alchemist. Some of those were interesting little anecdotes, but they were all useless for research purposes so I skimmed and didn''t even bother typing them out.


    The second was research that was questionable but could have outsized implications. Which hormone regulated a specific immune response? What amperage of electricity was best to stimulate the human heart? I didn''t know those answers off the top of my head so I jotted down his observations and made notes to go back and cross-check them with modern medical journals later.


    The third category contained information I either could not verify but had to accept as factual, or information I knew to be certain. Most of the former was in regards to alchemy. Which symbol meant what? Why? Why circles? Or triangles? Or some other polygon? How intricate did my writing need to be? Could I engrave it via laser? I was certain other alchemists had their own ideas, but all of this I considered to be valid for the most part; he was still an expert in his field after all.


    I felt like I''d gone back to my final year of grad school, back when I wrote my thesis on the multicultural causal and preventative factors of suicide ideation with regards to patients recovering from major surgeries. That had been both a fruitful and thoroughly depressing year. By the time I stopped, Dean''s birthday party seemed like a godsent distraction from the general shitshow that was alchemy.


    The worst part of it all was, after seven hours of solid work, I still had half his shit to get through. Then several more alchemists. Then cross-referencing and validating their research, both with each other and with my understanding of modern medicine. And then of course came the practical application of it all. Maybe I''d then go about forging Mei Chang''s little kunai so I could heal at a distance.


    Through it all, I came to one critical realization: Amy Dallon must never read my journal. Even if I brought her to the Gullrest again, I''d have to be careful with my information.


    Fortunately, Fullmetal Alchemist came with some interesting ciphers. Alchemical knowledge was a closely guarded secret, even among alchemists, and it wasn''t unusual for alchemists to develop their own ways of disguising their research. Many of them were incredibly complex and nearly impossible to decode for anyone who lacked the same frame of reference.


    Marcoh''s was relatively simple, a series of recipe books for what seemed like innocuous cooking recipes. Even that had taken the Elric brothers working together a full ten days to decipher. Ed disguised his research as a series of travel logs that were so intricate that not even Al, who traveled with him, could read it.


    Hell, Roy Mustang had an entire system that masked his research as names of women and dates he''d been on. It had made him infamous as the "playboy colonel," though Riza Hawkeye, his aide de camp and daughter of his alchemy instructor, was likewise fluent. It allowed him to chat in public about how pretty "Josephine''s" eyes were or what flowers "Stacy" liked best, all while carrying out clandestine missions.


    "Note to self," I muttered as I tucked Dean''s present in my backpack. "Make a cipher that''ll keep Amy from reading further out of sheer humiliation."


    X


    The Stansfields didn''t live in the good part of town. It''d be more accurate to say they built the good part of town. As the largest real estate development, management, and holding company in the state and one of the largest in New England, they quite literally owned a sizable chunk of the city. Oh, it was covered up using proxy property management companies, investment groups, joint ventures, and the like, but the Stansfield Holding Company was one of the entities at the end of the paper trail if you followed it long enough.


    Compared to that, Dean''s house was fairly mundane. It was definitely on the pricey end of things, with five rooms, a deck, and a sprawling backyard with a pool, but nothing I''d expect of a multi-millionaire. He lived in a gated community near the southern end of the city, about ten minutes away from the downtown area by car and only a quick drive to Boston.


    "Wow, and I thought we were well off," Sierra whistled as she waited for the gate guard to let us through.


    "We are. There''s a difference between upper-middle class and actually rich."


    "True that. Hey Bryce?"


    "Yo."


    "Thanks," she said with a soft smile. "I know Panacea didn''t just magically decide to visit the cardiology ward."


    "Sabah''s my friend too. Amy¡­ She still doesn''t do commissions or favors, not even for me. This was the best I could get from her, sorry."


    "No, you did good. Sabah was super-stoked. They have a monthly check-in with a cardiologist. I think she''s trying to get her dad''s appointment expedited."


    "Yeah¡­ Hey, Sierra?"


    "Yo."


    "If you could do anything. If you had godlike power, what would you do with it?"


    She snorted. "Pay off my college loans."


    It was such a Sisi answer. Not "kill the endbringers." Not "world peace." Just something small. Flippant perhaps, but¡­ but there was nothing wrong with small dreams, was there? Even post-Leviathan, Sierra had chosen to focus on the little things by taking in all the local orphans.


    I knew that couldn''t be me. I had access to so much potential now. If I studied and worked myself like a dog for just one month, I could render every material concern a thing of the past. I could set the foundation for absolutely anything I wanted to build in the future. Fullmetal Alchemist had the potential to be the source of my exponential growth as a tinker.


    "That''s fair," I told her with a smile. The reason I hadn''t told her about my power yet, the reason that made being Creed worth it, wasn''t it so Sisi could afford to have small dreams? My heart felt a little lighter. After recalling all the bullshit that came from Amestris, I really needed this.


    Author''s Note


    I thought the past few chapters were getting too serious ergo, Grace. Grace might be my favorite side character in this fic. Yes, she shares the same last name as Aaron from Spoon. "Kanda" means "god valley" but the name has no significance. This isn''t MHA where everyone''s parents were precogs with their quirk predictions.


    Have a biology fact in celebration of FMA: If you haven''t guessed, you do not have four liters of ammonia in your body. You only have about five liters of blood. As little as 30 micromoles per liter of blood (assuming adult) will get you diagnosed with hyperammonemia and is indicative of liver disease.


    It''s revealed in the manga that Ed did not bring back Trisha, but that''s probably a good thing. He''d just have given his mom a few brief moments of unspeakable agony.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 4.2 Seal

    Seal 4.2


    2010, November 20: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    I entered the house a little bit after my sister dropped me off. I''d timed my arrival to be about fifteen minutes past four. Hopefully, that''d be enough to give others time to arrive; I didn''t fancy being alone with the birthday boy.


    As much as I considered him a good person, I didn''t really click well with Dean, even more than other kids my age. I considered him a little too much of a white knight. That wasn''t a bad thing on its own, but the man was a little too naive, a little too regimented in his morals. We didn''t argue much about Creed''s role in the city over lunch anymore, but it wasn''t as though he''d completely changed his mind or anything.


    I had enough trouble trying to make Amy''s morals a bit more malleable, thank you very much. I had no interest in getting involved with yet another person who saw the world in blacks and whites.


    My dilly-dallying at home paid off. I was among the last to arrive. I was surprised at the number of people there were. Granted, I''d never been the type for parties, typically keeping my own birthday celebrations to family, but the house was filled with a lot more than our own lunch crowd. That made some sense in hindsight. I saw members of the student council, of which Dean was president, as well as several upper year boys from school.


    I walked up to a table laden with presents and placed my own among them. It was being watched by a pretty, middle-aged woman with sandy-blonde hair and green eyes. She looked a little bored but was friendly enough. "Hello, dear," she said with a happy smile. "Friend of Dean''s?"


    "Yes, ma''am," I said, cutting down on the snark. This was his birthday party. Wasn''t everyone? "I''m Bryce."


    "Oh, he''s mentioned you to my husband. He says you''re a very smart young man."


    "Thanks, I think he''s pretty cool too¡­"


    "Go on then, you don''t have to keep an old lady company," she said, shooing me off.


    I nodded and walked over to join my regular lunch group in the living room. Carlos, Stephanie, Chelsea, and Dennis occupied the sofa, the girls chatting among themselves as the two Wards played some co-op platform shooter on a massive TV screen Amy took an entire loveseat to herself and had a plateful of nachos balanced on her lap. She did the bro-nod when she saw me.


    "Yo, Bryce."


    "Yo, Amy. Steph. Chels. Dennis. Carlos," I greeted. "Where''s Vicky and the birthday boy?"


    "Probably sucking face on his balcony," Amy said with a disgusted scowl.


    "Lovely. So what''s everyone up to?"


    "Ehh, you''re welcome to join us and hang. There''re also a few guys playing water polo in the pool in the backyard if you wanna join them," Carlos said.


    "It''s November."


    "Pool''s heated."


    I glanced down at my arms. "Do I look like I can play water polo?"


    "Heh, you''re not that bad, Bryce. You want the controller?"


    "Maybe later. I''m gonna grab some snacks first."


    Dean''s parents had enough food catered to feed a small army. Rather than designate a set dinner time, there was a sign that read, "Cake at 7." Everything else was shoved next to one wall of the dining room in a buffet style. I smiled; if nothing else, they knew their audience. Most of the food was Superbowl fare: wings, a nacho bar, little meatballs on toothpicks, salad, and the like. Dinner, still being heated in a buffet tray, was some kind of pot roast in horseradish cream.


    I loaded my plate with wings, good wings were surprisingly hard to find in the Bay, and sat in front of the sofa so I could use the coffee table.


    "So, Bryce," Chelsea called.


    "Yo."


    "How was your Saturday?"


    I paused, a buffalo wing halfway in my mouth. Thoughts of Marcoh''s best and worst works flew through my mind. I could make an actual buffalo with wings¡­ It wouldn''t even be that hard¡­ "Umm¡­ I just finished up a writing assignment," I told her. "Kinda boring, honestly. How was yours?"


    "It would have been fine if someone didn''t ditch me to suck face with her boyfriend."


    "Hey, I told you about our date four days ago," Stephanie complained, shoving her friend with a shoulder.


    "Yeah, I know. I''m messing. I just helped mom take care of some errands at home. We''re getting all of our extended family coming over for Thanksgiving so mom had us go shopping today."


    "Nice, mine are usually small, just me and the fam. What about you guys?"


    "No one''s coming from out of town or anything, but most of my uncles and aunts live here so that''s not saying much. My uncle makes pernil, this slow-cooked pork shoulder thing. It''s sooo good," he said as he set his controller to the side. He''d lost to Dennis, again. He leaned forward to snag one of my wings.


    "Oi, get your own!"


    "Come on, Bryce. Food''s all the way over there."


    "Lazy bum," I grumbled.


    "How ''bout you, Bryce? What do you do over Thanksgiving?"


    "It''ll just be me, mom, and Sierra this year since dad''s¡­ passed. He used to be one of those guys who tries a new turkey cooking method every year, you know? Vats of boiling oil in the backyard and everything," I said with a bittersweet smile. Those were good times. Mom would demand a copy of whatever bullshit recipe dad pulled from the internet a week in advance. Then, if it didn''t pass her muster, she''d make reservations with a restaurant the day after "just in case" so we could have a turkey dinner even if dad''s experiment blew up in his face. The reservation typically ended up being a wise idea. "He almost burned down the house a few times. It''s why we have a firepit in the back actually; mom insisted he dig one in case of oil spills."


    "Huh, smart lady. Sorry for bringing up memories," Carlos said awkwardly.


    "It''s fine. I can''t not think about dad over the holidays. Too many memories, you know?"


    "Yeah¡­"


    "This year, we''re probably just going to skip the experimentation and eat at a restaurant. How ''bout you, Ames? What goes on at the Dallon house?" I passed the buck before it got too awkward.


    "We just meet up at Aunt Sarah''s," she said with a lazy shrug. "Uncle Mike might show."


    "Who?" Dennis asked.


    "Lightstar."


    "Ohh, nice."


    "He''s kinda meh. Recently got married. He''s as much of a hardass as mom."


    I tuned them out in favor of seeing what I remembered about the man. Unfortunately, it wasn''t much; canon had very little to say about the guy. Mike was in his mid-thirties, worked with the cops, and had a power that let him make slow-moving, concussive light balls. He was a bit like Flashbang in that regard, which said everything about how much time Wildbow spent on creating his character. A duplicate of an already minor character¡­ yeesh¡­


    He had an estranged relationship with his older sisters. Honestly, I was surprised he''d show for the holidays at all, not that I was interested in asking.


    The six of us chatted on our own for a bit until Vicky and Dean came down the stairs. If Dean''s normally immaculate button-down shirt was a little ruffled, no one commented on it, though I did catch Amy shooting him a disgusted glare. We shot the breeze for a few hours, taking turns playing video games and when that got boring, switching on a movie.


    I wasn''t sure what I was expecting out of a high schooler''s birthday party, but I probably shouldn''t have been surprised. Dean bounced between our group and the group out in the back, playing the gracious host and making sure everyone was happy. He was good at that, and not just because of his power. Seeing emotions could only get you so far after all; there was an art to holding conversation without things getting awkward and he''d clearly worked to learn it.


    Eventually, after all of us had our fill of the buffet, his mom gathered us for cake and presents. Dean sat at the head of the table as she brought out a large, chocolate cake.


    "Right, thank you all for coming to my son''s birthday party. Do you think we should sing the song first or open presents?" she said with a cheery clap.


    "We really don''t need an emcee, mom," Dean said, a blush crawling up his face. He tried to hide it, but his mother''s mothering was getting to him a little. His usual placid smile was a little strained. Based on how often he let Dennis drag him to the arcade, he seemed the sort to want what we''d been doing, a casual kickback sort of deal rather than a semi-official event.


    It was honestly kind of refreshing, seeing the unflappable president embarrassed. Judging by the looks on everyone else''s faces, I wasn''t the only one to think so.


    We sang the customary song, ate cake, and cleared out the table so Dean could open our presents one by one. His father wasn''t around, business trip in New York or something, but had gotten him a full, fourteen-piece golf set. It was a joint present from his mother too apparently.


    We guests went after that in no particular order. Vicky got him a pair of winter gloves with her initials embroidered onto the edges. Carlos and Stephanie got him a year-long subscription to an online movie service. Amy got him a hat that matched Vicky''s gloves, though she didn''t look particularly enthused about it. Chelsea got him a set of air fresheners for his car.


    Dean shook Dennis'' gift. "Seems solid."


    Dennis did his best to look offended. "What? You thought I''d get you another gag gift?"


    "You got me a box of ramen last year, so yes." He tore open the box to reveal¡­ another box, perfectly sized to fit inside like a Russian nesting doll so it wouldn''t shake. "Of course. How many layers are there?"


    "Hey, give me some credit. You have any idea how long it took to find perfectly sized boxes?"


    "You''re impossible, Dennis." Six more layers and a lot of paper waste later, Dean held out a ring box. He opened it to reveal¡­ "It''s a mood ring. You got me a mood ring."


    If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    Carlos, who''d brought a glass of coke to his lips, started to choke on the drink. Mrs. Stansfield looked at the ring, then at Dennis with a disapproving frown. I wondered when she found out about the Wards, or if it was just these three. Was there some sort of Wards-PTA? Or was that just the Youth Guard?


    Stephanie clapped her boyfriend on the back. "You alright, babe?"


    "Y-Yeah, sorry, coke went down the wrong pipe."


    "You sure? Want some water?"


    "I''m good. Dennis, what the hell, man?"


    The resident clown laughed. He dug around in his pocket to produce a gift card to Pixel Palace, his favorite arcade. "I''m kidding. Of course I have a normal gift. I mean, I was going to go for the real stuff, gold and all, but Vicky would twist me into a pretzel."


    "Damn straight," Vicky said with a laugh. "Still could''ve done without the gag gift."


    "Hey, comedy''s an art, lady."


    "Whatever. Who''s left?"


    "I think just Bryce from our lunch table."


    I slid mine over and put up the innocent doe-eyes. "Yeah, man. Happy birthday, Dean. Vicky told me you were a huge fan of the Wards so I went to one of their signing events. Hope you like it."


    Dean''s smile turned brittle. He knew what was in the box. He looked into my eyes and saw the shit-eating grin on my face. What did he see in my aura? Happiness? Laughter? A bit of teasing? I''d seated myself to go after Dennis for that reason.


    He looked around, searching for any excuse to avoid the in-joke but could find none. I could see the moment he resigned himself to being the butt of Victoria''s little prank. With a resigned smile, he reached for my box.


    "Oh, wow, that''s actually really well-made," Chelsea gasped.


    "I know, right?" I said proudly. It really was. Its outer shell was gleaming metal, aluminum so it wouldn''t block a damn thing, but still. It could easily be part of a winning costume at a comicon. "Took me a bit to find the perfect one, but Vicky said Gallant''s your favorite so I had to get this for you. See? He even signed it."


    "Thank you, Bryce. I love it," he said woodenly. Next to him, Vicky, Dennis, and Carlos were doing their best not to bust out laughing at his expression. Even Amy cracked a smile.


    I zoned out a bit after that. A combination of good food, friends, and people I didn''t give a damn about left me clapping politely while my thoughts wandered. It was about eight when Sierra came by to pick me up. Carlos offered me a ride but he was already dropping off Stephanie and Chelsea so I didn''t want to impose.


    X


    2010, November 22: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    It was grueling, tedious, and macabre, but I finally finished copying down Marcoh''s notes. I then pulled an all-nighter to validate his information with modern medical knowledge. I''d wanted to head out into the sea each weekend but decided to reschedule in favor of mastering medical alchemy as quickly as possible. I planned to spend a few days working with rats until I could practically apply everything I''d learned from Marcoh''s notes before moving on to Mei Chang''s alkahestry. Hopefully, that would give me some basic skill in medicine by the end of the week.


    I''d like to think I could skip straight to manipulating Mr. Azimi''s heart, but that was unfortunately far too risky for me to consider. Though the creation of alchemical circles, written language, and scientific knowledge could all be copied from prior minds, the truth was that alchemy was as much an art as it was a science. It was not unlike learning the tricks from Air Gear or mastering Pokemon moves. Harnessing the energies inherent to the practice would take me a while, tinker of fiction or not.


    According to Marcoh, Amestris'' brand of alchemy used the circles to channel the massive energy generated by the shifting of the earth''s crust. It differed from alkahestry in that Xing''s variant used ley lines, "rivers of power," that flowed in the earth. They sounded the same to me at first glance but there was a big enough distinction that when Father blocked the capital''s access to tectonic energy for a time, Scar and Mei Chang were able to continue using alchemy while Ed, Roy, and the others were not.


    All of that left me scrambling to learn to manipulate two different forms of energy. More, it raised some interesting questions about whether or not I could substitute a different source of energy to transmute. If I kidnapped Sundancer, could I make her my personal alchemical battery?


    Regardless, alchemical mastery wouldn''t be something I''d accomplish in a few days.


    I allowed my mind to drift idly, thinking of stupid questions as I doodled in Mr. Kalil''s algebra II class. I drew various cyclic polygons, equilateral shapes inscribed so all its vertices touched the circle. Or, I tried; drawing a perfect circle was honestly kind of difficult, as was drawing a perfectly inscribed polygon. I didn''t mind who saw; it was distant enough from tinkering that no sane person would ever think what I had was a blueprint for fucking the laws of chemistry up the ass. I''d probably use the fabricator to engrave circles for me, the less I had to deal with my own subpar art the better, but I was bored.


    When the lunch bell rang, I slung dad''s guitar over my shoulder and wandered off looking for Eric to serenade. He wasn''t like his cousin in that he didn''t "hold court" at a specific lunch table like a little queen bee. Though he did have a core group of friends he often hung out with, it wasn''t uncommon to see him wandering amongst different social groups. It was probably why he was so popular, that and the whole "real life superhero" thing.


    He wasn''t too hard to find. Semi-nomadic or not, the guy had bright blue hair. He was sitting with a solid mix of drama club and basketball team members, with Grace leaning into his side. She caught sight of me as I began to pull my guitar from its case and nodded.


    I pulled out a plastic pick and began to strum. E-minor. C. G. D. Three downstrums per chord; the song wasn''t hard to learn even slightly out of practice as I was. All eyes fell on me as I began to play the intro to the song. Grace got off her boyfriend and fell to one knee as she held out a hand to him.


    Eric''s eyes widened in panic as he glanced at me, then Grace. Dots connected and he looked like he was considering floating off somewhere to avoid the incoming embarrassment.


    Grace couldn''t have that. She took hold of his hand with her own and grabbed a celery stick to use as a mic. With a shit-eating grin that Jack Slash would''ve been proud of, she began to sing:


    What would I do without your smart mouth?


    Drawing me in, and you kicking me out


    You''ve got my head spinning, no kidding, I can''t pin you down


    What''s going on in that beautiful mind?


    I''m on your magical mystery ride


    And I''m so dizzy, don''t know what hit me, but I''ll be alright


    As the first verse came to a close, this part of the cafeteria fell silent to watch the crazy lizard-girl. I saw more than one camera and I knew Eric wouldn''t be living this down for months. Shameless as ever, that only seemed to encourage her.


    My head''s under water


    But I''m breathing fine


    You''re crazy and I''m out of my mind


    As the lead into the chorus began to play, some of the drama club kids began to hum or mumble-sing along.


    "Oh, god, I can''t believe you''re doing this," Eric groaned. He looked an even mix of resigned and pleased; the guy enjoyed attention in his own way, had to with his life the way it was.


    ''Cause all of me


    Loves all of you


    Love your curves and all your edges


    All your perfect imperfections


    Give your all to me


    I''ll give my all to you


    You''re my end and my beginning


    Even when I lose, I''m winning


    ''Cause I give you all of me


    And you give me all of you, oh-oh


    I circled back into the chords of the verse only for Grace to shoot me an awkward smile. "How many times do I¡­Mhmmm¡­ something something¡­"


    "You forgot the lyrics, huh?" Eric said with an exasperated smile.


    "Ehehe¡­ shut up¡­"


    "You know you didn''t need to do this, right? This about Sadie''s?"


    "Damn it, Eric, you''re supposed to wait until I ask you before bringing it up."


    "Then you shouldn''t have had such a long lead up to it."


    "Yeah, but this is more fun." She turned to me. "Thanks for playing, Bryce. You''re pretty good at the guitar."


    "Yeah, no problem. Embarrassing Eric''s always nice."


    "Oi!" the hero protested.


    "You two have fun. I''m gonna go get lunch now."


    "You can stick around, you know. Hang around others of your kind once in a while."


    "Others of my kind, huh?"


    "Heh, yeah, you know, freshies."


    I returned the guitar into the case and considered it. It really didn''t matter who I ate with. Chelsea dragged me off to her table at the beginning of the year, then I just sorta made it into a habit because I didn''t care. I shrugged. "Sure, why not. I still need to go buy lunch. Watch my guitar?"


    "Sure. Can I play with it?"


    "Go ahead, but be careful. It was my dad''s."


    I returned a few minutes later with a slice of cheese pizza and a little plastic cup full of peas, the state lunch veggie option. Eric had passed my guitar to one of the drama kids who was strumming it to the tune of Avril Lavigne''s "Complicated." The song was meant for the electric guitar so it sounded a tad off on the acoustic. He looked like he knew what he was doing so I left him to it and dug into my lunch.


    "So Bryce, how long have you been playing guitar?" one of the boys asked. I didn''t recognize him in the slightest, which probably said more about me than him to be honest. He was tall, freckled, and wore a basketball jersey so I could only assume he was on the team in some capacity.


    "Off and on since I could walk. Dad played a lot so it started as something to do while hanging out with him, you know? He used to play in an amateur band when he was younger apparently."


    "Damn, he must be pretty great then."


    "Was. He died this summer."


    "Oh, shit. I''m sorry."


    "Don''t worry about it, not your fault. Which is why I''m asking you guys to be careful with the guitar. It was my dad''s," I said a bit louder so the one trying to tug the guitar out of someone else''s hand could hear. He smiled apologetically and withdrew.


    "Alright, no more depressing talk. Bryce, spill," another student demanded. This one was a short, waifish redhead with inquisitive gray eyes.


    "Spill what?" I asked.


    "Jenna, shut up," Grace grumbled.


    "What? I''m just asking," Jenna defended.


    "She thinks she''s the freshman gossip queen."


    "Ah," I nodded. "I still have no idea what she''s talking about."


    "She wants to know who''s going to the dance with who. And where the afterparty is for seniors."


    "And I''d know that because¡­"


    Jenna rolled her eyes. "Come on, Bryce. You sit with Glory Girl. Of course you know."


    "You''d be surprised."


    "They have to have mentioned something."


    "I''m sure they have," I said, taking a big bite of my pizza, "but you''re not taking into account how few fucks I give about that. Vicky''s going with Dean and Stephanie with Carlos since they''re dating. Beyond that, I honestly have zero clue."


    I was even being honest. Considering the other boys at the table were Wards and one of the girls was Panacea, they probably considered themselves too busy for things like an afterparty. Amy would rather be in the hospital or at home reading trashy young adult novels. Dean, Carlos, and Dennis were either spending time with their respective girlfriends, patrolling, training, or doing some shitty PSA about saying no to drugs or something. Really, the only one who was likely to care about anything outside our little circle was Chelsea.


    "Ugh, you''re no help," she grumbled in disgust.


    "I''m proud of my social cripple-ness, thank you very much. It takes a lot of work to give zero fucks," I nodded sagely. Truly, the best way to deal with high school at my age was to ignore everything and hope for the best.


    X


    I wanted to head back to my lab immediately so I could get to work but I had responsibilities both in and out of costume. To start, I met up with my third tutoring student, an Irish boy by the name of James O''Melveny.


    I found him at the principal''s office of Lafayette Middle School like all the others. He had black hair left to grow into a mullet, pale skin, and enough freckles that I could almost imagine he had a tan from a distance. He also had enough pimples that I confused them with freckles at a casual glance.


    "Hey, James, right? I''m Bryce, your new tutor."


    He shrugged and offered me a fist-bump. "Sup, man, nice to meet you. We doing this at my house or the library?"


    "I''ve reserved one of the study booths here. Walk with me."


    "Right, so¡­ I just kinda need help with math."


    "Alright, anything specific? I read your file. You don''t strike me as the kind of guy who needs a tutor."


    "Ah, umm¡­ You know I''m a GaTE student then?"


    "Yup." GaTE, or Gifted and Talented Education, was a national effort to identify and encourage gifted students starting from fourth grade. Kids could take honors classes in middle school to be put into AP tracks in high school right from freshman year. I knew because I was part of the program both lives. In reality, like with most national programs, it had its ups and downs. Lafayette and Arcadia definitely handled it better than schools in my past life. "You''re in advanced pre-algebra, right?"


    "Yeah, and I''ve just not been doing too hot. I don''t know what it is either. I did well, math was easy, and then¡­ it wasn''t. I just wanna do well in the finals so I can stay in the program, you know? Mom''s never gonna stop chewing me out if I fail out."


    I nodded. That sounded about right. It sucked, being labeled "gifted" and then finding out that you didn''t actually know how to study all that well because you cruised by on your natural intellect. It happened to pretty much every honors student at some point, usually in college but sometimes sooner.


    It sounded like James actually wanted to learn something, which already made him miles better than Hannah. I could teach study habits. I couldn''t teach a desire to learn.


    "It sounds like you''ve never had to study too hard before," I told him honestly. "You''re smart, got placed with all the smart kids, and then realized the pace gets a lot faster when the teacher doesn''t have to slow down for the dumbest kid in class anymore."


    "Yeah, I guess."


    "So here''s what we''re going to do. We''re going to review all the notes and formulas for the semester final coming up. Then I''m going to teach you how to take notes so this doesn''t happen next semester. Cool?"


    "Cool."


    Author''s Note


    "All of Me" was honestly the very first love song I thought of and didn''t feel like spending too much time on it. I don''t know why either; I can''t name a single other song John Legend sings, but this one came to mind.


    Animal fact? Sure. Female ferrets will die if they don''t mate while in heat. This is because they remain in heat permanently until they mate, causing a persistently high level of estrogen in their bodies. High levels of estrogen will suppress their bone marrow functions, one of which is the creation of red blood cells. Obviously, any animal that doesn''t replenish its blood cells isn''t going to live long.


    This condition in which the body doesn''t produce new blood cells is called aplastic anemia. So yes, there are animals that will literally die without dick.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 4.3 Seal

    Seal 4.3


    2010, November 22: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    Tutoring James netted me an awe-inspiring sum of¡­ forty bucks¡­ Truly, I was the embodiment of wealth and prosperity¡­


    Sarcasm aside, it was refreshing to have someone who was willing to listen and didn''t brush me off like some kind of chore. I promised myself I''d put in the work for him.


    As much as I wanted to jump right into alchemy practice after mom and Sierra fell asleep, I could not. This time, it was my own conscience that convicted me. I didn''t want to become a monster like so many researchers in Amestris. SAINT had acquired plenty of rats, even fed them and kept them in individual cages mass-produced through the fabricator, but it was ultimately my responsibility to treat them humanely. I didn''t doubt most of these would die, but that didn''t mean they ought to suffer needlessly.


    Which was how I found myself riding across the Brockton skyline, completely invisible to the world below.


    I was out to commit some larceny, but not for my own gain. I was after a chemical compound called xylazine hydrochloride, a commonly administered anesthetic used by vets and researchers. Thirteen milligrams per kilo of rat would be enough, which meant about four milligrams per rat since they seldom weighed more than .35 kilos. As far as reasons for theft went, research ethics and animal welfare seemed like pretty good ones, at least not one Amy could condemn out of hand.


    To avoid fucking with vets, I even headed straight for the biggest pharmaceutical supplier in the city: Medline Pharmaceuticals. Not only did they supply hospitals and pharmacies, they also acted as the distribution arm for many varieties of animal medicine, which presumably included xylazine HCL. That they were the distribution arm of Medhall and their president just happened to be James Fliescher, also known as Krieg, made them a particularly guilt-free target.


    This wasn''t a "Creed" job; I sure as hell hadn''t told Amy where I''d be tonight. Paradoxically, that meant I needed to bring more of my gear with me, not less. I didn''t want a reputation for theft so I had everything with me, from my invisibility shroud to the bug-box I''d made for Faultline, the Pledge Regalia, and of course, SAINT.


    Finding Medline''s headquarters was as simple as a quick google search. I alighted on the roof and decloaked before calling SAINT to my side. He popped out of my helmet cam with an eager trill.


    "SAINT?"


    "Pory?"


    "Please stop humming the Pink Panther theme song."


    "Pory¡­"


    I leaned down from the roof and pointed out a security camera. "See that? I need you to go down and enter their security network. Disable all cameras then replay a loop of the footage so nothing seems amiss."


    "Gon."


    I waited atop the building for a few seconds before SAINT reconnected with my suit. I then skipped down to the rear entrance. It was secured with a mechanical lock so I deployed the Pledge Regalia. Information flooded my sensors as the seven cross-shaped amplifiers expanded around me, all easily visible to the naked eye.


    They were the main reason I needed the cameras offline. Despite my best efforts, my invisibility module didn''t encompass most things away from my person. Keeping the tombstone-like regalia shrouded while it wasn''t deployed was the best I could manage.


    The regalia let out a series of soft vibrations that pervaded through the door. By analyzing the way sound interacted with the air, it created a 3D model of the lock''s internal mechanisms. After that, I had the lock open in a matter of moments. I was no locksmith, but since I already knew the lock had six tumblers and I could see the internals in real time, I just replicated a raking pattern using compressed vibrations until all the pins slotted into place. No fingerprints, no signs of forceful entry.


    I collapsed the Pledge Regalia and reactivated the cloaking function. I whispered into my internal mic, "I''m inside. You can drop the loop, SAINT."


    A helpful floorplan posted next to each elevator pointed out the records office. The locks here were more sophisticated, requiring an electronic pass to enter. Paradoxically, that made things simpler for me. Instead of busting out the Pledge Regalia again, I just had to slip a bug-box onto the lock and wait a few seconds as it ran through combinations on a proxy server.


    From there, I had SAINT go through their files and locate the xylazine HCL. Apparently, Medhall didn''t directly manufacture it. Instead, it was one of the chemicals imported from out of town. I had SAINT fudge all records to indicate that the chemical had never been ordered in the first place. So long as SAINT followed the electronic trail to edit the logs on the other end, it''d hopefully be chalked up as a clerical error.


    Having located what I wanted, I headed back out to a Medline supply depot before breaking into that one as well. Within two hours, I had enough anesthetic to drug the Pied Piper''s whole entourage.


    I wasn''t done with my little outing however. Before I could start experimenting on rats, it''d help a great deal to know just what Mr. Azimi was sick with. If it was something like a slightly misshapen pacemaker or maybe a constricted aorta, fixing it should be relatively simple. But if it was something genetic with underlying causes that would resurface in a year or two no matter what I did, I feared only Amy could help him then.


    That was why I snuck into Brockton Bay General Hospital at one in the morning, though "snuck" was a bit harsh for what I did. I just trailed a patient and used them to mask my entry into the ER. After that, going to the records room was just a matter of stropping into the stairwell.


    "SAINT, go. We''re looking for a Hamza Azimi, late-thirties to mid-forties in age. Male. Iraqi," I told him. While I sent him off, I headed back up the stairs and ducked into a supply cabinet to nick a syringe and a set of needles. I needed a way to administer the anesthetic after all and medical supplies hadn''t been big on my list of priorities during the Hillside Heist.


    I returned home after my less than legal escapades. SAINT was off in the lab, drawing a transmutation circle for organic matter based on a picture I''d shown him. Circles were a lot easier to draw on MS Paint than by hand with chalk. He''d have the lab ready for me so I could hop right to it right after school.


    All told, not a bad way to start the Thanksgiving week.


    X


    2010, November 23: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    I looked over the organic transmutation circle one more time. It looked rather different from inorganic transmutation, which in turn looked different from Roy Mustang''s gaseous transmutation.


    The circle before me had been engraved by one of Big Rig''s construction drones into a sheet of metal with exacting precision. It consisted of a set of concentric pentagons and circles, with each circle formed by connecting the corners of each pentagon. This was the formula used by Marcoh and his associates in the creation of a philosopher''s stone, but could also be adjusted for healing and the like.


    I put on my costume, I forgot to grab an apron, and pulled a rat from the cage. Now that I knew what was wrong with Mr. Azimi, I could work on my own control, slowly refining the process until I could reconstruct a heart.


    Unfortunately, that meant I''d need to find rats with the same condition. Or, as it turned out, make rats with the same condition.


    "I''m sorry," I whispered as I sank the needle into the rat. It squeaked in distress for a moment but its protests quickly died out as the drug kicked in.


    I laid it out on its back and shaved its belly fur so I could cut it open. Then, with a reluctant sigh, I reached in and grasped its heart between my fingers; it was about the size of my thumbnail. A part of me wanted to ask SAINT to do this instead, to give each rat crippling heart damage so I didn''t have to, but I couldn''t.


    Equivalent. Exchange.


    There was always a price to pay. In life. In alchemy. In the pursuit of knowledge. I wouldn''t feel right if I asked SAINT to do something I couldn''t.


    The heart squelched in my fingers and I suppressed the desire to vomit.


    "Right. Heart reconstruction alchemy: test one. Begin," I stated clinically for the recorder.


    I pressed my hand onto the metal sheet and channeled my aura into it. Unfortunately, Fullmetal Alchemist was frustratingly vague about the mechanics of alchemy and what about it made it a science as opposed to "sorcery with chalk." Yes, it was the manipulation of tectonic energies, but how did a person use chalk outlines to access and shape that energy?


    That vagueness also ended up my saving grace. I didn''t know if the chi Mei Chang talked about was at all like aura from Pokemon, or if my power simply decided they were one and the same so I could use it, but I had no trouble catalyzing the alchemical circle.


    My aura flowed into the circle and reached out, connecting with something below, a massive pool of energy born of the planet. It was indescribable. A part of me expected it to feel like roiling magma, or maybe the immense grinding force of tectonic plates. It was dense and heavy, warm, with the promise of unstoppable violence lying beneath the surface.


    I tugged upward, drawing it out like one might water from a well. Tectonic energy filled the circle, flowing through the markings as if they were irrigation channels and I was watering a farm. In a way, I was. There was an expense, a price to pay in the form of energy. The rat wasn''t magically getting better.


    I marveled as the rat''s heart slowly reformed. Tiny muscle fibers that looked like bits of string came together again. The heart inflated like a balloon and, for a moment, I thought I''d succeeded.


    I could officially add "bumbling alchemist" to my admittedly pitiful list of accomplishments!


    And then the rat exploded. It was as fascinating as it was revolting just how much fluid was in a single rat.


    I sighed. On the plus side, I had a power washer I made using a soda engine way back when I first sluiced out the hold to use as my lab. Cleaning wouldn''t be any more complicated than the first time. On the down side, I had rat intestine splattered on my helmet.


    X


    2010, November 25: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    I let out a dejected sigh as Lily #... I lost count¡­ died on the operating table. I had the day to myself before I had to attend Thanksgiving dinner, not that that was a hardship.


    I didn''t know how many rats I''d gone through, but I did know SAINT had restocked the holding cages more than once. For my own sanity, I chose not to confirm the numbers. Even in grad school, dissections were the absolute least favorite part of my curriculum, and what ultimately convinced me to switch from the surgical track to pediatrics. Kids didn''t usually need slicing open, and if they did, they were the problems of someone far better paid than I was.


    Despite my distaste, I''d made a lot of progress. For starters, my rats weren''t exploding into meat confetti anymore. I''d gotten to the point where the rat would survive for a time, only for its heartbeat to progressively weaken and expire.


    I wasn''t entirely sure what it was. I''d narrowed things down to some sort of chemical imbalance as opposed to mechanical error. The formula was right; the heart was physically perfect. My understanding of anatomy and physiology was, frankly, a hell of a lot better than Edward Elric''s, arguably better than Marcoh''s too. Maybe I was missing something, a signal that reminded the brain''s systems, "Hey, you have a heart again. You can stop shutting down now."


    If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    For only a few days of work, I was mostly satisfied with how far I''d come. Because the formula was already verified to work, and because I could throw in medical knowledge from my past life and Google, operation of the circle was an exercise in control and focused imagination as much as it was technical know-how. Which was likely why I needed to actually practice this rather than simply build a single model and be done with it.


    I picked up the rat carcass and tossed it into the trash to dispose of later. The bay was great for that. The phone rang so I wiped down the circle, what I''d been calling a transmutation slab, and checked the caller ID: Amy, which meant this could be good or bad.


    I tapped the voice modulator in my helmet and answered the phone with a blubbering sob. "P-Please, I have the money¡­ Just let him go!"


    Amy''s nose scrunched up in confusion before she barked out a laugh. "Ha! Alright, I needed that. What''re you up to right now?"


    "Dumping a body into the bay. How''s turkey day going?"


    "Sure you are. I''m getting ready to head to the hospital. Was home. Vicky''s going to be here in a few minutes to ferry me there."


    "I thought you skipped major holidays?"


    "I do, just not this time. Check the news, alright? I think Creed might need to make an appearance."


    I frowned. She''d only called me to act once, but if she thought it was worth me moving¡­ "Is that an order, oh mighty GOAT?"


    I could see the worry on her face. Whatever this mess was, she thought it could get bigger. "No, not yet. I just¡­ It''s complicated and I want to talk about it after, okay? Keep a line open for me?"


    "I always do."


    "Yeah, later."


    "Later."


    Curious now, I had SAINT pull up the local news on my HUD. A burly man in a fitted suit stood outside what could have been a small apartment building, or perhaps a scaled down office space that doubled as a storage depot that was common in the Docks. Whatever it used to be, it was all rubble now. A cordon had been set surrounding the disaster. I could spy six patrol cars and four ambulances. More were arriving as the reporter spoke into the camera.


    "-ht, Hookwolf raided what has now been confirmed to be an ABB brothel. This attack was met by Oni Lee and the two capes engaged in an explosive battle across the street, completely demolishing the brothel and killing more than a dozen people by the most current count. This is the latest in a string of gang violence between the two biggest gangs in the city.


    "What''s worrying is that this is a clear escalation from their usual posturing and occasional firefight. So far, every conflict has been incidental as two parties met on the street. This is the first time in months that one gang actively struck out against one of the other gang''s affiliated establishments."


    I frowned. That certainly explained why Amy was called back to the hospital. The body count seemed low too; brothels weren''t exactly known for having alert defenders. I couldn''t imagine the ABB would sit still after this, they''d lose way too much face for that, which meant I could expect more violence, maybe even Lung stepping up himself, exactly what I was supposed to stop. Amy wasn''t stupid; this was probably what she meant when she said Creed might have to make an appearance.


    Question was, why? Why did Hookwolf hit a brothel of all places? What did he gain out of it? Money? No amount of loot he could have gotten would have been worthwhile. Women? No, Hookwolf wasn''t the type as far as I knew. He sure as hell wasn''t doing it for the sake of women''s rights.


    I thought back to the things that had been happening so far. Did¡­ Did Hookwolf think the ABB were responsible for hitting his dogfighting rings? Surely not¡­ He had to know about Bitch; her lizard-rhino-dogs weren''t exactly subtle.


    But¡­ But it''d be good enough to use as justification anyway¡­ I knew little about Bradley Meadows as a man, but he was ultimately someone who lived for the fight. He truly enjoyed the violence, enough to consider the Slaughterhouse viable employment. Paper-thin as it was, I didn''t think Hookwolf needed much of a reason.


    I tried to insert myself into Kaiser''s shoes. I imagined that I had a battle-hungry lieutenant who could potentially act out if left unsatisfied. I imagined that said lieutenant had his holdings attacked, something he took as a personal insult. I imagined that his men would think the same, that Bitch''s actions were a direct callout against the Empire.


    As far as the Empire was concerned, they weren''t the ones who escalated. Whether the Undersiders were working with the ABB or not was irrelevant. By harboring them in their territory, the ABB made themselves targets.


    I could see Hookwolf''s twisted reasoning and I hated it.


    "Porygon. Pory," SAINT trilled. He opened up the Brockton Bay PHO, often as reliable a news source as any traditional media.


    I ignored the wasteland that was the cape-fic section and moved on to the news. And there it was, blowing up at the top of the thread, someone with footage of the cape fight. I watched as Hookwolf made zero pretense as to his purpose in the brothel, charging in mid-transformation. There was a lot of noise, more screaming than I was wholly comfortable with, and not enough people fleeing.


    Then, almost a minute later, Oni Lee appeared, grenades already primed. The fight was mostly off-screen, Sergeant_Cricket had enough sense not to go into the fucking brothel with a murder-blender and a teleporting terrorist.


    Whatever happened in there, the building didn''t last long after that. But what caught my eye was another thread, one that had nothing to do with the ABB.


    Topic: Guys? I''m afraid of the dark.


    In: Boards ? United States ? New England ? Brockton Bay


    Making_Orphans (Original Poster)


    Posted On Nov 25th 2010:


    So... To add yet another to the pile of reasons to consider moving, [this] is going on outside my house. I heard gunshots in a building across the street. When I looked outside, that giant column of smoke covered everything. The smoke''s been getting larger and wider and I can''t see the building anymore because it now covers a good third of the block.


    You''ll also notice the eerie silence... I don''t know if that worries me more or less.


    Anyone have a clue what the fuck''s going on? Preferably while my sanity''s intact please?


    (Showing page 1)


    ?Cock_My_Doodle


    Replied On Nov 25th 2010:


    Cape shit. Cape shit is going on.


    ?Making_Orphans (Original Poster)


    Replied On Nov 25th 2010:


    No shit, fuck-nugget. Anyone with something to contribute? Because shit''s seriously freaking me out.


    [Smoke] is spreading. It''s getting close to my apartment and I''m not sure if I should evacuate or hole up.


    ?White Fairy (Veteran Member)


    Replied On Nov 25th 2010:


    Personally? The silence would creep the hell out of me too. For the record though, you''re probably not in much danger, at least not from the smoke. The only smoke-using cape in the city is Grue of the Undersiders. They''re a gang of petty thieves that started out in July.


    [Here''s] his wiki page for reference. Keep low and avoid the windows and you should be fine.


    ?Making_Orphans (Original Poster)


    Replied On Nov 25th 2010:


    General shooter protocols, got it. Thanks, Fairy. Good to know I''m not going to get gassed to death in bed or something. Still, what the fuck are the Undersiders doing near my house?


    ?Acree


    Replied On Nov 25th 2010:


    Dunno, where is it?


    ?Making_Orphans (Original Poster)


    Replied On Nov 25th 2010:


    Bayview Drive, near Coral Cove Park if you know it. Sorry, but I don''t really want to list my specific address on the internet.


    ?Acree


    Replied On Nov 25th 2010:


    Understandable, sir. Do you know who the Undersiders are fighting? They''ve been fairly low-key in terms of violence so far.


    ?Making_Orphans (Original Poster)


    Replied On Nov 25th 2010:


    I mean, this is technically Empire territory? Kind of the outskirts though so I can keep my head down and be left alone for the most part. But come on, there''s no way they''d fight the Empire, right? They''re not Lung.


    ?White Fairy (Veteran Member)


    Replied On Nov 25th 2010:


    Who says they had a choice?


    ?Making_Orphans (Original Poster)


    Replied On Nov 25th 2010:


    Shit... I''m going to pretend I saw nothing.


    ?White Fairy (Veteran Member)


    Replied On Nov 25th 2010:


    You do that. Stay safe, Orphan.


    End of Page. 1


    I let that sink in. The only reason I could think of for the Undersiders to be in Empire territory right this moment was that Coils was using Hookwolf''s own raid as a distraction to get the Undersiders a clean score. Was it a dogfighting ring again? Or maybe a drug distribution point? Firearms? I didn''t know, but it didn''t really matter in the end. They were intentionally fanning the flames.


    I was reminded that reputation was a double-edged sword. I''d been using Kaiser''s reputation against him while stoking my own as a mercenary rogue. Now, that same reputation forced me to act or I''d be labeled a paper tiger.


    I waffled on what I should do. No matter what I told Amy, I wasn''t a precog; I didn''t actually have all the answers. When forced to confront situations like this, I had nothing to draw on save for my own questionable intelligence.


    In the end, I tabled the subject and headed home. If nothing else, I could expect a call from Amy, today if she wasn''t burnt out after the hospital and tomorrow if she decided to head straight to bed. We''d go over our options then and perhaps putting our heads together would give us a solution.


    This night ended with more questions than answers. Just about the only upside to Thursday was that I''d programmed the fabricator to make me sets of throwing knives and had begun to read into the Xing Empire''s notes on alkahestry to augment my experiments. It was cold comfort not knowing what might be going on in the background.


    X


    2010, November 26: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    As I''d thought, Amy didn''t call last night, likely exhausted from running damage control. I took a shower, grabbed a Pop-Tart for breakfast, and threw a banana into my backpack before heading out to the lab for the day. On the way, I opened up my phone and browsed through the PHO threads I''d followed the night prior.


    Nothing from Amy, but I had two private messages, one from Faultline and another from the GiverofGifts. Naturally, I checked out what Faultline had to say first.


    Creed,


    I''m sure you''ve heard the ruckus tonight. I''m also sure you''re aware of how I feel about getting involved in this city''s affairs. Please keep that in mind and know that I do not enjoy being used as a messenger by the ABB.


    Yes, the ABB. No, it''s not your fault in the strictest sense, but I would appreciate it if you made some other means of contacting you available. You have a PHO account, but your inbox has been full to bursting since your debut and you have already built a reputation as being nearly unreachable save to capes who catch your interest.


    As neither Lung nor Oni Lee have accounts, one of their unpowered lieutenants felt that using me to pass on a message to you directly would be the fastest way to catch your attention.


    In short, Lung would like to inform you that he has placed a bounty on the Undersiders. He would like them brought to him alive so he can make an example of them for their actions. He will offer $30,000 per member. Should that be infeasible, he is also willing to pay a consulting fee of $10,000 for the location of their hideout should The GOAT be capable of discerning such. He also promises favors, protection, and future prospects.


    I don''t have to tell you what will happen to them should they be taken to him.


    I admit I am somewhat grateful to you as without your presence as an independent mercenary, Lung may have seen fit to press me to act. I would not have regardless, but your presence saves me the inconvenience. Still, you have taken it upon yourself to be the keeper of the balance of power within this city. Now you must make a choice.


    On another note, I too would like to speak with you concerning The GOAT. Rest assured my query is independent of the current chaos in the city. I would appreciate an introduction with your enigmatic sponsor and would be willing to pay a consulting fee for the chance.


    If you don''t see this until tomorrow morning, call me back in the afternoon; I''ll be awake by then.


    Regards,


    Faultline


    PS: Labyrinth really enjoys her shawl and would like to say thank you again. The bug boxes and expanded bags have likewise made our jobs much easier.


    I hummed in thought as I continued walking. On one hand, that Lung of all people reached out to me through Faultline implied he took my claim seriously. Or at least, he didn''t want to deal with whatever nuisance I''d cause for him if I decided to attack on top of the Empire. Considering the lack of capes loyal to him, this wasn''t entirely unexpected.


    On the other hand, Faultline was clearly annoyed with me. She had warned me against being too flashy and felt I''d bitten off more than I could chew. It wasn''t even strictly about my ability to fight either; as she''d made clear in her letter, interfering here would mean influencing the lives of the Undersiders, maybe to cut them drastically short.


    Then there was her final note. She wanted to meet The GOAT?


    For the briefest moment, I considered giving Amy a voice modulator and setting her up on a phone call with Faultline. Then I stabbed the idea to death and buried it in the furthest reaches of my mind. Letting the two meet could only end in disaster.


    Or, they might actually get along and decide they both needed to keep a leash on me.


    I wasn''t sure what possibility scared me more.


    Still, I did respect Faultline a fair bit. She''d been the one who first guided me as a cape. She dealt with me in good faith when she held all the cards. I felt I owed it to her to answer.


    At the very least, it was easy enough to tell what she wanted. She only really cared about one thing, finding the truth behind Case-53s. I supposed she could be reaching out for some thinker help on an upcoming job out of the city, but seeing how The GOAT''s exact powers were a mystery, that was unlikely.


    On paper, it was a noble thing, what she was doing. She wanted to find answers for her friends, the family she''d adopted. Problem was, I couldn''t give them to her. I knew where Case-53s came from. I knew who was responsible. And if I told them, that information would get them all killed.


    I''d have to lie to her as The GOAT for her own good.


    I skimmed the second message I received, this one from the GiverofGifts. She was Othala, I''d verified that back in September. Seeing how it was already compromised, it made sense that the Empire would use the account to contact me.


    The details differed slightly, but the proposal was in more or less the same vein as Lung''s. Krieg, who''d adopted Othala''s account for the purpose, called the Undersiders "instigators" and "disruptors of the balance." He then offered $45,000 per head, alive or dead, as well as facilities and resources for my cooperation, claiming that working together was the fastest way to return things to the status quo.


    As if their help wouldn''t come with a noose around my neck.


    No, neither path was right, morally or for my own continued security. With the beginnings of a plan going through my mind, I set myself to work.


    Author''s Note


    You know, I still have no idea what to call whatever the fuck the Pledge Regalia does. Is it still "sonar" if it lets the user view the internals of the human body and complex machinery like an x-ray machine?


    I decided that any fantasy energy source is going to be compatible with aura from Pokemon. Bleach''s reiryoku? Fine. Naruto''s chakra? Great. Dragon Ball''s ki? Super (heh). I don''t care because keeping track of half a dozen different "mana pools" is silly. That also means Bryce''s control exercises and constant sparring against SAINT helps out immensely, even if that wasn''t my motive for consolidating it all.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 4.4 Seal

    Seal 4.4


    2010, November 26: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    I tried to work, to be productive. I thought I gave it a solid effort considering everything on my mind. Then the endbringer alarms went off. Seeing how the city sirens hadn''t gone off, I allowed myself a relieved sigh. Had Behemoth or the Simurgh appeared here early, I would have been forced to find Sisi and mom and dip town, no matter what that did to my identity.


    As it had been explained to me by Vicky, the one who took college-level parahuman studies classes, the PRT had a multi-tiered approach to endbringer alerts. Oh, lots of things happened at once, but the alerts had been streamlined thusly:


    Tier zero, the first to hear about any attack, was Dragon. It didn''t surprise me that she was the lynchpin to the whole thing, which made it all the more idiotic that Cauldron let Saint and the Dragonslayers live. She was responsible for sending the alert to every world leader and jumpstarting the logistics process.


    Tier one was not in fact Protectorate heroes. It was a network of powerful movers, those who could cross continents. Strider was the most famous of these in the current climate, but before him, there was Kirin White of the Sentai Elite, Warptek of Geartown, Gatekeeper from MS-13, and others. They each had their own areas they were responsible for, and by working together, they were responsible for getting all volunteers to the city under siege.


    Then came tier two, the Protectorate and Guild heroes, the brave, suicidal fools who had volunteered to participate in endbringer battles. Lesser movers would ship them off to gathering points like Houston and New York for tier one movers to ferry to the site. Occasionally, when parental permission could be obtained or when parents were absent altogether and the state could sign off guardianship, Wards were permitted to travel outside their cities as well, as Weaver had in New Delhi in canon, but those tended to be somewhat rare.


    Then, finally, came tier three, everyone else in staggered waves. Organizations such as the Elite and some of the bigger gangs around did participate in endbringer fights, though with spotty membership for obvious reasons. The Empire always sent at least a small team. Othala and Victor won a lot of goodwill for the gang by acting as healer and triage after battles despite being unrepentant Nazi trash.


    Dragon notified tier three capes primarily through a series of verified accounts on PHO. There was no other way to reach the thousands of capes who weren''t part of the Protectorate-Guild network otherwise. This, more than any other reason, was why villains were allowed on the site, and why capes were seldom banned permanently.


    Which explained my pokenav blowing up to kingdom come. I''d received notifications as both Creed and The GOAT.


    The notification sent to Creed was generic: Seismic activity consistent with Behemoth''s previous appearances was detected near Damascus, Syria. Considering Behemoth''s tendency to target infrastructure over people, it was thought that his target was the Arab Gas Pipeline that ran east of the city.


    Capes in New England were expected to gather in several waystations for transport via Strider, the closest being Boston. Brockton Bay capes could expect transport to be provided from the local PRT headquarters.


    In contrast, the notification sent to The GOAT was far more personal.


    Dragon: The_GOAT, I hope this finds you well. Behemoth has targeted the Arab Gas Pipeline near Damascus, Syria. I understand you are not a combatant, but as a thinker with proven insights, any information you can provide on the endbringer would be greatly appreciated. If you or anyone in your organization require transport to Damascus, I will personally arrange a vehicle.


    I should have seen that coming. Ambiguity protected me, but it also drew the eye. From their perspective, since I was able to analyze Kid Win''s specialization without ever meeting the boy, they were naturally wondering what other information I might have about powers. It was a hail mary on their part, tinkers and endbringers weren''t anything alike, but asking cost them nothing.


    Which begged the question: What did I want to do about this?


    Behemoth. Hero-killer. First of Twenty, not that anyone else knew that. Even for me, an endbringer was a big deal. A part of me wanted to stay out of it completely. It was a douchey thing to think, but the Syrians weren''t my problem. I wasn''t responsible for them, nor did I swear to uphold "liberty and justice for all" or whatever tripe the heroes swore to do.


    I¡­ I didn''t want to go. No, to be honest with myself, beyond all thoughts about morality and the human condition, I was scared. The thought of going there left a pit in my stomach that refused to leave.


    I was stronger than Taylor in canon. Or at least, I had much better protections: the Expansion Suit, force field, TMs for Recover and Protect, and the Crown Chimera for mobility. Unless Behemoth struck at me directly or I was stupid enough to enter his kill aura, I''d likely be fine. There were countless other capes who were willing to go who had less than what I had.


    But fear gripped me anyway.


    I had to admit it in the here and now: Taylor Hebert was a braver person than I and any talk about this "not being my problem" was just my attempt at absolving myself of responsibility.


    I loved reading the endbringer fights, both in canon and fanfictions. I thought that Wildbow did a wonderful job of depicting the human experience in all its rawest emotions. The despair and fear, the willingness to fight on for that tiny glimmer of hope, it all spoke to me when those scenes were words on a page.


    No matter what I told myself, it wasn''t about responsibility. A part of me, that tiny, childish part that still idolized the likes of Superman and Spider-Man, wanted to see that visceral struggle for survival, wanted to be part of something so unambiguously noble.


    In the end, self-interest won out. I wouldn''t attend the fight. There was simply too much to lose. If something happened to me, I''d effectively out myself to Sierra and mom at best, maybe the world at worst. It could mean getting injured and letting Amy touch me to find out about my gravity child experiment.


    And all for the zero gain of¡­ scuffing Behemoth''s paint job. I couldn''t do a damn thing to the endbringer as I was.


    But that didn''t mean I couldn''t help. I didn''t have to go right this instant; there would be multiple waves of capes. Aid workers worked for days or weeks to get things in order after an attack. In fact, I could probably do more good if I never saw Behemoth at all.


    I looked to the near wall, just above my desk. There was a magnetic clip there, with a set of ornate throwing knives made just this week. I made them more for the sake of completion than anything, and because putting the plans into the fabricator cost very little on my part. They were Mei Chang''s throwing knives, the very same used for alkahestry. I didn''t need them right this moment, but they reminded me of how alkahestry came to be.


    I could heal. I''d been improving all week. And¡­ And wasn''t this the perfect chance to test my skills on humans? Wasn''t this the perfect time to get Amy to help me refine my art?


    Amy wouldn''t be attending the main fight either. Of course not. Carol was a bitch but not even she would push a teenage girl to commit elaborate suicide. But she''d likely attend the cleanup alongside Victor and Othala.


    If I joined them, I could ask her to check my "proprietary technology." And if I got good enough to treat major injuries, I could fix Sabah''s father on my own.


    It would have been horrifically traumatizing if "Creed the mercenary" randomly kidnapped her dad, but¡­ but if "Creed the cape who healed at a Behemoth fight" volunteered to do some work at the hospital¡­ that little nudge might give me what I needed to approach Sabah.


    Thusly decided, I reached out to Dragon:


    The_GOAT: Dragon, I apologize for making you wait and I''m sorry to say I will not be making an appearance today. However, I did spend some time on this and I can indeed provide insights that may be helpful to you. Endbringers are like onions. No, not because they make people cry, because they have layers. The first layer of an endbringer''s skin is as dense as aluminum. The next is twice that, and twice that, and so on.


    The_GOAT: An endbringer''s density defies physical laws. Its weight remains manageable despite this because its anatomy is spread across multiple overlapping dimensions. This "dimensional folding" allows it to exist without collapsing into a singularity.


    Dragon: That is¡­ disturbing. I will pass on your information. Is there anything you can tell us about Behemoth specifically?


    The_GOAT: Getting to that. Endbringers have a core from which all mass is extruded. It is what gives the body shape and regenerates any damage. If it is broken, the destabilization will cause an explosion that is likely to wipe out the local theater of operations. Behemoth''s core is buried somewhere near its throat.


    The_GOAT: His kill aura has a radius of approximately thirty feet, but I think you knew that. I''m sorry, there is little else for me to say. Please keep me abreast of when the battle ends. There is some healing technology I would like to debut through Creed following the fight.


    Dragon: Thank you. This gives us a target to focus on. Excuse me, my mechs have arrived in Damascus and I must take direct command from now on.


    Was I stealing Lisa''s thunder? Absolutely. But this was information that could maybe save lives.


    Damascus was seven hours ahead. It was ten in the morning right now, which meant the attack happened at five in the evening there. How long would it take for Behemoth to be driven back? The Simurgh usually went in and out, but that was because anything longer than half an hour was considered a loss for the defenders. Khonsu took three days as he teleported around the world. Leviathan and Behemoth were somewhere in the middle, but how long was that?


    The specifics didn''t matter; I had to prepare. I set up the alchemy slab and got ready to work. I needed to refine my technique as much as possible, finish polishing it until Amy would have nothing to complain about. While I did that, I had SAINT make a miniaturized version of the same alchemy circle onto my gloves, the beauty of having an AI assistant and a fabricator.


    Before that though, I needed an excuse to attend. If the battle ended in a few hours, I should at least stay overnight. I dialed mom, a regular phone call, nothing video obviously.


    "Bryce? What''s going on?"


    "Hey, mom, can I stay over at a friend''s house this weekend?"


    "Why?"


    "Because¡­ It''s Thanksgiving weekend?" I tried.


    She said nothing but I could practically hear the suspicion in the silence. "Bryce, sweetie¡­ Do you even have friends?"


    "Wow¡­ Oww¡­ Love you too, mom."


    "That''s not what I meant and you know it."


    "Yeah, fair, I''m not exactly a social butterfly." She wasn''t wrong. Dean''s birthday party was the first birthday party I''d attended in years, not counting Sierra''s. "But that''s why you should let me. I''m making friends like you wanted."


    "Over Thanksgiving weekend."


    "It''s a holiday miracle?"


    "Bryce, who are you staying with," she said in that warning tone all mothers Pavlov''d us into fearing then held over our heads for the rest of our lives.


    "Umm¡­"


    "Bryce."


    "It''s not what you think. I''m not going out to party or get laid or whatever else you think I''m doing, mom."


    "Then what are you doing?"


    ''Using a socially acceptable environment to conduct human experimentation while putting pressure on Panacea to perfect my work,'' I didn''t say. Instead, I leaned on the excuse I came up with. It made me feel manipulative as hell, because I was, but I didn''t see any other way. Even if I outed myself, she wouldn''t just let me fuck off to Damascus at the drop of a hat. "It''s¡­ Look, I''m just going to stay with a friend tonight. Maybe tomorrow night too."


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    "Why? Who?"


    "I¡­ don''t want to say."


    "Bryce, is it a girl?"


    "No, god, that''d make things so much easier."


    "I can tell you''re serious. Please tell me there''s an adult."


    "Umm¡­ no.. No parents¡­ Won''t be for a few days," I said leadingly.


    "What are you¡­ Oh¡­"


    "I''m just saying, some people get to play the big damn heroes, and other people have to cope with getting left behind."


    She was silent for a long moment. "Keep your phone on."


    "I will."


    "You need money? Get your friend something nice."


    "I''m good, mom. Don''t worry," I reassured her.


    "Okay, sweetie. Just¡­ I''m proud of you."


    "I know. Love you too, mom."


    I hung up the phone with a guilty sigh. She didn''t deserve that. Mom was¡­ She was a good mom. She cared and loved me and did everything a mom was supposed to do. Back when I was a kid, she put her career on hold because she and dad agreed that Sisi and I should be able to come home from school to a mother who''d make us snacks.


    I felt like shit lying to her. This, more than the late nights or the business or the fighting, was my least favorite part of being Creed.


    And I wasn''t done; I dialed Amy. She picked up on the second ring.


    "Brockton Pediatrics. You beat ''em, we treat ''em," came Amy''s acerbic voice.


    That got a surprised bark of laughter out of me. "Wow¡­ That was dark as fuck. And that''s coming from me. You need a shrink."


    "Get bent, Bryce. What do you want? I''m busy."


    "What''re you doing right now?"


    "Trying to sleep before I get called to go to Damascus. They''ll call me once the battle ends. I was supposed to do a Thanksgiving run but I need to prepare for a weekend of this shit. Then it''ll be a few all-nighters. Don''t expect me in school on Monday."


    "That''s fair. I''m proud of you. Are your-"


    "Yes. Mom, dad, Uncle Neil, and Aunt Sarah are gone to do search and rescue. Crys, Vicky, and Eric are going to go after the battle to help out with me but Aunt Sarah made us promise to wait until Behemoth left."


    I let out a breath I didn''t know I''d been holding. It was a relief to hear. We weren''t close, but Eric was my friend and I knew what happened in canon when he did face an endbringer. Guy didn''t have a good track record against one of those. "Good. I need a huge favor."


    "What?"


    "Let me know when you head to Damascus. I''ll join you."


    "You''re going?"


    "Yup, that''s what Damascus needs, Creed''s brand of chaos."


    "Bryce."


    "Why do you sound like mom? Don''t sound like mom," I complained.


    "Have you considered, maybe, that it''s not a coincidence?"


    "Ames, I''m serious. I''m going."


    "Oh really? What''d you tell your mother?"


    "That I''m staying the weekend with someone who''s parents are capes so they don''t have to be alone."


    "Wow¡­ You''re a douche."


    "Agreed, but for good reasons. I can help."


    "I know, it''s just¡­ It''s not a game, Bryce."


    "You think I don''t know that?" I asked, a little hurt.


    "You treat being Creed like a joke sometimes, like it''s all one big joke and you''re just out to have fun roller blading around town and fucking with random people. Endbringer fights, even the aftermath, they''re not like that."


    "I know, Ames. It''s why I need to go. I have healing tech-"


    "You? Healing? You''re a biotinker."


    "Figures you''d zero in on that. I''m an everything tinker, with some conditions. But yes, I have healing gloves. I can do a lot to help people, Ames."


    "I¡­ Fine¡­ Are you sure you can heal?"


    "You can check the first few if it''ll put your mind at ease."


    "It''s really not as fun as it''s cracked up to be, you know," she warned. "Being a healer. Having people need you. It sounds great, like you belong somewhere, and then you realize how exhausting it is. And endbringer fights are the worst."


    "Well now I''m doubly sure I''m going," I told her gently. "Can''t have my best friend go through that alone, can I?"


    "Dick."


    "How?"


    "Corny, cheesy dick."


    "I think dick-cheese is called smegma. Are you calling me smegma? That''s very rude, Ames."


    "Fuck off, Bryce."


    "Heh, I''ll see you later."


    I ended the call and took a deep breath. That was everything squared away. Now it was time to work. I put on my gloves and dosed the rat before cutting into it. The alchemy circle on the back of my hands glowed dully as flesh began to knit back together. When Amy called, I''d be ready.


    X


    It was two in the afternoon when I received the message to head out. Between the week''s worth of practice, my past as a PA, and research notes from the master alchemists of Xing and Amestris, I felt reasonably sure I could translate my work from rats to humans with minimal complications. There was always the risk of course, I couldn''t account for every variable, but that was why I was doing it now. This was my chance to build my reputation and receive Amy''s help, publicly, for the world to see.


    Things would change. Amy probably felt a dozen conflicting feelings knowing I was a biotinker. The cape community would recognize that there was a third healer in the Bay. Most of all, Creed would no longer be a local power. People outside the city would now take notice of me as more than just a novelty.


    More attention would be a mixed blessing. Maybe Uppercrust would finally see fit to answer my messages. Or, Accord would decide he didn''t want to leave Brockton to Coil after all.


    I took a deep breath and steadied my heart. There was no use worrying about what might yet be; I''d made up my mind to attend and that was that.


    The bulk of these preparatory hours were spent testing out my new gloves, but I did have some time to make several thermoses full of coffee, all laced with enchanted honey. I also double checked to ensure that my helmet was fully soundproof from the outside when I switched the mic off, just in case I needed to chat with SAINT in private.


    Ten minutes ''til pickup, I strapped the still unnamed Pledge Regalia to my back and headed out. I hadn''t initially planned on taking it, but SAINT reminded me of the in-depth biometric scan it was able to provide. Given its range, he suggested I use it for search and rescue and he was right. By using the vibrations to scan beneath rubble, I ought to be able to pick up the heartbeats of those who were still living.


    Unlike my usual MO, I didn''t bother to cloak as I approached the PRT building. I could see that I was the last to arrive.


    Truce or not, there were clear lines drawn between the factions. Armsmaster, Dauntless, and Velocity made up the Protectorate heroes. Next to them stood Gallant, Clockblocker, and to my surprise, Kid Win. My fellow tinker didn''t look any different, then again, it had only been a few weeks since he figured out what his specialization was. It wasn''t as though he intended to rebrand or anything. He also had that teleporter thing in canon so I didn''t count him out.


    Standing with them, and sending suspicious glances towards the Empire contingent, were the Newest Wave. Every one of them wore resolute expressions, having steeled themselves for what they''d see when we got there.


    On the villains'' side, the Empire contingent was made up of only three people: Othala, Victor, and Rune. That was more or less what I''d expected. They sent a team either to or after every endbringer fight to prove the "superior race" would fight for humanity, but the composition and quantity varied wildly based on where the attack occurred. Damascus? Brown people? The bare minimum would be fine: Victor for triage, Othala for healing, and Rune, probably to accompany her cousin than for any specific purpose.


    No, what really caught me by surprise was the woman in a welder''s mask and an orange lizard-boy leaning against a street sign. Seeing how I wasn''t officially invited to sit with the heroes and the Empire was the Empire, I opted to join them.


    "Creed, just in time for the party," Newter offered me a fist bump. He glanced in askance at the man-sized tombstone on my back. "I didn''t know you were religious."


    "I reckon we''re a few hours late actually," I replied. "I didn''t expect to see you two here. And I''m agnostic, but that''s not what this is."


    "Ehh, fair enough. Charity''s good for business once in a while. It''s good advertising."


    Faultline inclined her head in a professional nod. "We''re a business. Everything is a message. I think Newter can do a lot of good pacifying civilians and I will be joining the hazard management team to help clear rubble."


    I paused at the way she said that. She''d never cared enough to show up before. Melanie Fitts wasn''t heartless, far from it, but she was nonetheless a viciously pragmatic person. You were part of her crew, friend, client, obstacle, or a nonentity; I didn''t think she gave a damn what civilians in Damascus thought of her, and only marginally more about the PRT''s opinion.


    Everything is a message, which meant, in this case, this was a message for me. "You knew I''d show."


    "I could guess. You''re not someone who can resist making an appearance."


    "You make me sound like a diva."


    "Are you not?" she spoke calmly, but I''d interacted with her enough to hear the light teasing in her voice.


    "I''m not, I just happen to have some tech that might come in handy. Like you said, it''s free advertisement."


    "Ugh, is it always about money to you?" Victoria glared. She hovered a foot into the air. With her arms crossed and aura flaring, she cut an imposing figure. "People are dying and you think it''s a chance to make money?"


    Her revulsion washed over me like the rising tide. I didn''t think I could remain stoic without the face-covering helmet. It stung a little; Vicky was a friend. She was a horrifically flawed person, but also someone who really believed in being a hero. If there was something Carol did right, it was instilling a sense of justice in her daughter. The accusatory glare she sent me made me feel like garbage.


    Then I allowed a weak Thunder Wave to surge through my body, zapping me back into focus. The aura was still there, but the jolt was enough to reorient my focus, remind me that this feeling wasn''t real.


    "Please mind your aura, Glory Girl," I chided firmly. I couldn''t be her friend, not now, not here. "Others might consider that an attack."


    "You''re lucky we''re under truce. I''d twist you into a pretzel."


    "Enough," Armsmaster barked. "We are attending a humanitarian mission. The heroes will not be the ones to break the truce."


    "The Empire abides by the truce, even to uplift lessers," Victor scoffed. Behind him, Rune shuffled nervously. She didn''t look happy to be here but stuck close to Othala anyway.


    "Can I trust the mercenaries to understand the terms?"


    The three of us nodded. Faultline spoke for us, "We''re mercenaries; our word is our law. We are defined by the contracts we make, and the least likely to break it without cause."


    The leader of the Protectorate studied us closely but nodded. It wasn''t his place to deny help, no matter how much distaste he held for villains. He looked between me and Faultline and decided she spoke for me.


    I knew what she was doing: Faultline associated me with her organization. Like she said, everything was a message. In attending, in responding for me, and in me not correcting her, she was telling the world I was her ally, and that our interests were aligned closely enough that she could speak on my behalf.


    It should have annoyed me, but it didn''t. She''d done a lot for me and I did consider Newter a friend. Just as important, this was a message to me as well: She''d been chiding in her previous letter, rightly so considering Lung turned her into a messenger, but was reaffirming our alliance. Or maybe she was reminding me that we were allies at all. We hadn''t interacted in a while after all.


    Then Strider appeared and I shelved thoughts of cape politics and implicit messages. He looked as he always did, like a hotel concierge or pilot with his expanded luggage. He did look a little tired though. I didn''t know what toll his power took with repeated usage, but it couldn''t be nothing; Shards just weren''t that nice.


    "Hey everyone," he greeted. "Ready to go?"


    "We are," Armsmaster took charge. "What can you tell us about the situation?"


    "There are three groups right now: healers, rescue, and hazard management. I don''t know much about that though, I just drop people off. There''ll be people to get you sorted there."


    "Understood."


    "Good, then hold hands for a moment and we''ll be off."


    X


    2010, November 26: Damascus, Syria


    Strider''s teleportation was surprisingly uneventful. I wasn''t sure what I was expecting. Maybe those streaks of light that sci-fi movies always used to denote warp travel? Or maybe feeling like being squeezed through a tube like with Harry Potter''s apparition? There was none of that. One minute, we were standing outside PRT HQ holding hands in the most awkward kumbaya I''d ever experienced, and then it was dark outside.


    Then a wave of vertigo struck us, forcing most of us into a queasy crouch. Armsmaster remained standing, but I was fairly certain it was his armor''s exoskeleton doing the work.


    A quick use of Recover put me back on track.


    I looked around and the city was¡­ in one piece¡­?


    A man in military fatigues and a sky-blue helmet walked over to us with a clipboard. "Capes form Brockton Bay, right?" he asked.


    "Yes. Armsmaster, Miss Militia, Dauntless, Velocity, Kid Win, Clockblocker, and Gallant from the Protectorate and Wards. Laserdream, Shielder, Glory Girl, and Panacea from New Wave. Victor, Othala, and Rune from the Empire Eighty-Eight. Faultline, Newter, and Creed are independent mercenaries," Armsmaster introduced us, gesturing to each as he spoke.


    The man introduced himself as Lt. Torres of the Guild''s non-cape arm. He passed out a bracelet to each of us. These lacked the bombs for Simurgh battles, but were otherwise the same as communicators used during the fights. After a quick tutorial, he began to describe the situation.


    "Landing Zone-Delta, here, has been established a half-mile from Behemoth''s trail of destruction so as to be close enough to coordinate relief efforts while remaining away from irradiated areas," he explained as he ushered us away. "There are three groups: medical, rescue, and hazard management. The latter two will be provided with hazmat suits. If you can locate or stabilize people, you belong in rescue. If you can remove obstacles or put out gas fires, you belong in hazard management. If you do not know how to help, speak to one of my assistants; they will sort you out. Otherwise, please separate yourselves accordingly."


    As they did that, I flagged down an aide. I shrugged off the Pledge Regalia and lodged it on the ground. I unhooked the pokenav from my costume and held it out to him. Given the circumstances, I felt it was best to loan the Pledge Regalia. "Please bring me a Guild cape on search and rescue. Or an unpowered aid worker is fine too. I have tech that belongs there but will be joining the medical team."


    "I can help," Kid Win volunteered. He looked at me with a complicated expression. It wasn''t animosity, not quite, but there was an intensity there.


    "Not a chance. No tinkers. I don''t trust one of you to try and fiddle with the settings or enter a fugue in the middle of operations to try and dismantle my work."


    "We''ll find someone," the aide said. He spoke into a mic for a moment. "Is Wieldmaiden acceptable?"


    I nodded. "That''s fine. She has a solid reputation."


    We hung around for a bit while Wieldmaiden got back to us. She rode a motorcycle that looked like it had been taken from someone local. Not all capes were movers.


    Her costume had obvious Nordic or Celtic influences, though I wasn''t cultured enough to say which beyond "vaguely fantasy barbaric." She looked more or less like the valkyrie twins, but with more layers. There was a haunted, bone-deep exhaustion in her body language but she did her best to offer me a tired smile.


    "So you''re the one Glyph''s been on about, huh?"


    "Hello, Wieldmaiden. I''d like to join the medics so let me brief you on how this works," I said in a no-nonsense tone. Brockton Bay knew me as a bit of a joker, a troll, and I was happy with that, but this wasn''t the time or place. I activated the hologram on the pokenav and interfaced it with the Pledge Regalia. A map of the local surroundings appeared. Slapping the tombstone, I said, "This is the Pledge Regalia. It''s a high-end scanner that should be able to detect the heartbeats of those buried under rubble. I trust you to direct rescue efforts accordingly."


    "Sounds good. How do I use it?"


    "Activation phrase is ''Pledge Regalia: Access.'' It will then unfold and scatter, forming nodes to amplify its sensory capabilities. Say ''Pledge Regalia: Collapse,'' to bring it all in again. Heartbeats will appear on the map here."


    She nodded gratefully. "Good, easy to use."


    "Please be advised that if you attempt to tamper with it, you will be locked out and incapacitated," I warned her. Then, shutting off my mic, I spoke to SAINT, "Go with her and filter the data for her. Stop anyone who tries to study it."


    "Pory."


    That settled, I skated to catch up to the medical team. It was finally time for a little bit of aggressive experimentation.


    Author''s Note


    People were asking what happened to Behemoth. Well, here he is. And yes, that was a Shrek meme. Would Bryce give up the chance to make a Shrek reference?


    Sky-blue helmets are unique to UN peacekeepers. I doubt they exist in the same capacity on Earth-Bet since Leviathan more or less ended globalism, but I thought it was a nice homage.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 4.5 Seal

    Seal 4.5


    2010, November 26: Damascus, Syria


    Brockton Bay''s medical contingent consisted primarily of villains: Othala, Victor, Newter, and myself. By contrast, only Panacea and Clockblocker represented the heroes. All the others had gone to the hazard management or search and rescue division, including, to my surprise, Shadow Stalker.


    She had apparently insisted on attending the fight, not just showing up after the fact like us prey animals, so she could see the best predators in the world in action¡­ or something¡­ Regardless of her motivations, it was just about the only unambiguously good thing I''d ever heard of her doing, so out of character in fact that I actually forgot she attended this in canon, if this wasn''t some weird butterfly effect.


    When I caught up to the others, they were in the midst of receiving another explanation from a different volunteer who spoke in a thick accent.


    "Behemoth emerged thirty miles from the pipeline and walked due east through the city," he said. Once he reached the pipe, he traveled north, breaking everything for another twenty miles before the heroes drove him off. A series of medical stations have been set up framing his trail without entering the irradiated area."


    "Where does that leave us?" Victor asked.


    "You will be working at medical station B-3 and rotate with the team there. If your power needs special preparation, tell the volunteers at the station."


    Things moved swiftly after that. The station the guide mentioned was the picture of organized chaos. The lobby of a conveniently located hotel had been stripped of all furniture in favor of laying out more beds and portable dividers for triage purposes. Volunteers hauled everything from pallets of water bottles to extra blankets and bandages. Medics shouted for one thing or another but were drowned out by the groans and screams that made up the general drone of the atmosphere.


    There, one of the tired nurses recognized Panacea and rushed over. "Oh, thank God you''re here, Panacea," she said with a relieved sigh. "We''ll get you a station immediately. Do the rest of you know what you should be doing?"


    "I can do anything," Victor said smoothly. "Triage, surgery, doesn''t matter. Othala can grant low-level regeneration and will assist me."


    "Very well. Bilal! Come here!" she yelled. A young man who couldn''t be older than twenty rushed over. "Get these two space. Surgical tools. Room for two beds."


    Clockblocker stepped up next. "I can stop time for whoever I touch, but I won''t know when they''ll unfreeze. Can be thirty seconds or ten minutes. They won''t get worse, but no one else can treat them either."


    "Go back to the front. Tell them Mariah sent you for emergency triage. Explain to them what you can do. They''ll put you to use. And you, orange boy."


    "Ah, I put people to sleep. If you touch my sweat, it''ll knock you out for a few hours. No side effects."


    "Tested against medication?"


    "All the common ones in America," he confirmed. I believed him; Faultline was thorough if nothing else. "Actually, do you have a jacket? So I don''t rub my arm against anyone on accident?"


    "Yes, stay. I will lead you to the beds and you will put them to sleep. Then go join the clock boy outside. Maybe I can hear myself think then. And you, sentai boy?"


    Amy spoke up for me. "He''s with me. Says he has healing tech. I''m going to make sure he doesn''t kill anyone then send him back to you."


    "Good. Good to work with you again, Panacea. Now let''s move!" She rushed us to a corner occupied by a conventional trauma nurse of some stripe. "Samuel! You''ve been working too long! Panacea is here to take over, get out!"


    The nurse, a bleary-eyed blonde with a German flag on his lapel, nodded. He dropped the sutures where he was and allowed Mariah to manhandle him out of the partitioned room.


    Amy turned to me with her typical scowl. She tapped the man who''d been getting sewn up on the spine, sedating him instantly. She then proceeded to rip up the sutures with careless disregard; it didn''t matter anyway now that she was here. "Alright. Cliffnotes. What the fuck is ''healing tech?''"


    "Alchemy. Turning one thing into another thing. Transmuting someone''s injury into regular flesh and bone," I said hurriedly. "As long as all the pieces are still here, I should be able to put it all back together. I can''t regrow anything though. I''m also uncomfortable doing brains."


    "Good. You should be. Heal him."


    I studied the patient on the table. There were multiple lacerations on his body, from what, I didn''t know. I hated blood back in my old life, but the knowledge I gained from Marcoh and other fleshcrafting alchemists took over. I quickly diagnosed him to the best of my abilities; I didn''t need to fix everything, just fix enough to keep him alive. I put my hands on his chest and began to draw the energy from the earth''s core.


    Funny, that the lava monster who caused this mess and the power to heal him came from the same place.


    The back of my right glove began to glow with a silver light. Overlapping circles and pentagons, each inscribed with script too small to see, came to life and acted as channels filled with the planet''s energy. How this shit wasn''t magic was beyond me, but according to Fullmetal Alchemist, it was science, with clear laws and principles that had to be obeyed.


    As we watched, the man''s wounds began to stitch themselves together. In a matter of seconds, he was whole again.


    Amy took her hand off the patient. "Okay, that, that was fucky. But congratulations, you can fix lacerations. You didn''t do anything about his liver, I noticed."


    "He had a bad liver?"


    "Drinking. Shit''s not our problem. You need to be told what the problem is? No super-Google to diagnose for you?"


    "Gave that away for search and rescue," I said with a shrug.


    "Dumbass."


    "Nah, it''ll save more people out there. Besides, it''s too big once unfolded to fit here."


    "Fine, whatever." She peeked outside and yelled. "NEXT!"


    Two volunteers rushed in and picked up the man. They must have run out of gurneys because they just grabbed him by the arms and legs and hauled him out of there like a sack of rice. Another pair immediately came back, this time with what looked like a piece of a fence rammed through his chest cavity.


    Amy touched his head. "Brain death hasn''t set in yet. Fix him."


    I nodded. There was no time to argue. I ripped out the fence post as gingerly as I could and began. "Collapsed right lung. Sternum broken. Coastal ribs, third, fourth, and fifth shattered." I continued to examine and recite the wounds. It took me a minute. Without Amy keeping him stable, there was no chance in hell I would have saved him in time. "Did I get everything?"


    "Yeah. Now do that glowy thing. All the pieces are here."


    "Okay¡­ Inflating lungs¡­ Connecting blood vessels¡­ Nerves¡­ Restructuring muscles¡­ Bones¡­"


    "Good. You can remake organs and bones."


    "Yeah, that''s all I''m comfortable doing. I could eliminate diseases and cancers too," I told her. Diseases and cancers were easy. Just find the cells that didn''t belong and convert it all into red blood cells. Or constituent compounds. Or any number of harmless chemicals the body can process on its own. "I''d need to be told where and what''s wrong though."


    "If they bring you someone without an arm, can you close the wound?"


    "Yeah, I can. I can build them automail later."


    "What? Never mind; it doesn''t matter. Burns?"


    "Yes. Poisons too."


    She nodded and rushed out again. "Mariah! Creed''s good to go! Give him someone to triage for him!"


    I walked out with her. The chaos hadn''t died down any, but the lobby was infinitely quieter. Or maybe not, but it seemed that way without all the screaming.


    I was quickly given a separate bed next to Amy and told to get to work. We had no time to talk; my first patient was already being rolled in. She was a cape of some stripe with an eye-searingly yellow leotard. That it had been melted to her skin didn''t exactly make it any more endearing.


    A medic stepped into the room to greet me. He set a walkie-talkie onto a shelf. "I''m Patrick Wilshire, a paramedic from Britain working with the Suits. I''ll be outside to prognose incoming patients. You''ll hear it through the walkie-talkie as they come in to save us some time."


    "Thank you. Creed. Glad to have you," I spoke as I alchemically separated the cape''s costume from carbonized skin. Her suit was still a lost cause and the regenerated skin was as pale as my Irish ass, but she''d live. "Done."


    "Gotcha. NEXT!"


    And so my day passed in a blur of patients. It was exhausting. I was once again reminded why I''d avoided the surgery track in school. Maybe because this fifteen year old body wasn''t as used to the all-nighters of grad school, but I didn''t remember my ER rotation being half this bad. Then again, my world didn''t have endbringers.


    They didn''t completely trust Amy at her word. Panacea or not, world''s best healer or not, we were rushed and power testing in under ten minutes would be unreasonable at the best of times. Throughout the day, they brought in a variety of different patients, each with unique injuries ranging from conventional trauma to radiation poisoning. The only two rules they kept in mind were "no brains" and "all the pieces must be here."


    I forced the bile back down my throat and continued to work. I''d adapt. It was amazing what the human body could get used to. Entrails now out-trails? That''s fine. Shove it back in and move on. Electrical burns leaving fractals that weep blood and pus? Just fix the internals and leave them with a sick scar to show off. Move on.


    I didn''t know how many people I saw by the time my shift ended five hours later. It could''ve been only a few dozen. It could''ve been thousands. They all blurred together until they became as featureless as Truth.


    I failed a couple times. No, more than a couple times. Sometimes, I was too late and they''d already succumbed to their injuries. Other times, both Patrick and I missed one critical injury or another that continued to fuck them up even as everything else was fixed. Alchemy wasn''t Shaper''s miracle biomancy, no matter how many times people compared me and Amy. It relied on my knowledge, not some eldritch alien whale-fragment.


    Those were the hardest to accept. Those were the ones I could have saved. If I had more knowledge, more experience, I knew some of those people would be alive. Had Behemoth attacked even a week later, I would have gotten fully through everyone in Amestris, maybe even started on Hohenheim and Father''s knowledge base.


    But he attacked now. Today. And time was one of the few things I couldn''t bend with alchemy.


    ''On the plus side, at least they''ll get to look pretty for their funerals,'' I thought tiredly. Then I immediately felt like scum for thinking it. There was something about this bone-deep weariness that seeped into my head and brought out the worst in me.


    I stayed on shift for five hours. Then I went back to Amy''s section and watched as she damn near brought someone back from the dead.


    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    She was about to stick her head back out to call the next guy when I jabbed her in the side with a weak Thunder Wave, just enough to give her an unpleasant jolt. I grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and began to drag her out of the hotel.


    "What the hell, Creed?" she yelled.


    "Nope. We''re taking a break. Mariah! Patrick! We''re gone for an hour!" I called.


    The head nurse? Operations director? She just nodded and waved us off. "Water''s to the left. Got some granola bars and coffee too. Bathroom''s to the right. Good work, kids."


    Amy hung limply in my arm as I skated along. Her arms were crossed in an annoyed pout but didn''t actually struggle. Personally, I thought she wanted it this way, wanted someone else to understand the experience, and for that person to still tell her, "Enough." Because then, it wouldn''t be some nobody. It''d be someone who knew what this was like.


    I was still tired, mentally as much as physically, but I allowed myself to feel a little better about today knowing I''d gotten a bit closer to breaking through to my best friend.


    I ignored the refreshments and led Amy to the resting area set aside for the volunteers. Halfway there, she started to walk back.


    "Amy-"


    "Bathroom. Or are you going to follow me inside and make sure I don''t start healing people''s period cramps in there?" she bit back.


    "Fine, but don''t you go back to work. One hour."


    "Ugh, I''d say you''re as bad as mom, but we''d both know I''m lying. You''re worse."


    "Good. Because I''m sure your sister would do the same here," I said. Was it emotional blackmail to namedrop Vicky? Absolutely. Did I care? No.


    A few minutes later, Amy joined me as promised. The resting area was a small coffee shop set aside next to the hotel lobby. It hadn''t been stripped down when the lobby was converted into an impromptu hospital because the booths were too heavy and even medics needed to sit down once in a while. The cafe was filled with people from our shift who''d likewise decided to take a break for a bit.


    The two of us probably looked a little strange, one of the most respected heroes in the world getting forced into timeout by a self-professed villain. Granted, most people had better things to do than pay attention to us, but I felt like it''d get on that we got along a bit too well. Panacea and Creed weren''t supposed to know each other.


    "Thank you," I said, a tad louder than strictly necessary. Amy raised an eyebrow in unspoken question. "For agreeing to validate my healing tech. I owe you for that, as does every person I saved today."


    "What are you talking about? It''s truce. That''s what I''m supposed to do," she scoffed.


    "True enough, but this is about more than the truce. You know how rare healing powers are. Yourself excluded, healers almost always do so incidentally, as a side effect or unorthodox application of their powers. Today has opened up a market I could not capitalize on. People would naturally be suspicious of any form of biotinkering. But with your validation and this trial by fire¡­"


    "You''re a greedy son of a bitch."


    "I am a mercenary. This is business."


    "Is that why you came? To meet me? For a ''business opportunity?''" she interrogated. There was real hurt in her eyes and I realized I was laying it on a bit thick.


    I tapped the table with a finger. When her eyes trailed to my glove, I pointed subtly at the people who were watching. "To meet you? Yes, I suppose that''s one reason for my sudden bout of charity. There is a great deal I can gain from events such as this that cannot be bought with money."


    Amy gaped like a fish. Her mouth moved up and down but no sound came out as she connected the dots: Bryce Kiley and Amy Dallon were friends. Creed and Panacea? The merc and the single most altruistic cape alive? Logic said we ought to be at each other''s throats.


    "What do you want," she growled, a little less overtly hostile now that she knew what I was doing. Her annoyance was still very much audible.


    "To express my gratitude," I said again. I dug around in the expanded bag on my hip and pulled out a sandwich and thermos before offering them to her. "Want one? I owe you a fair bit more than a meal, but this is a start."


    "What''s in it?"


    "Pastrami, swiss, grilled onions, sauerkraut, and horseradish-mayo on a ciabatta roll."


    She eyed the parchment-wrapped bundle as if it was a pipe bomb. Still, she knew the food was fine. Even had I not been a friend, poisoning Panacea at an endbringer cleanup would be the single fastest way to get on everyone''s shitlist.


    Just as well, because I happened to know this was her favorite sandwich. "Fuck. Fine, yes. Thermos?"


    "Coffee. Enchanted honey mixed in, should give you a lot of energy. Drink sparingly."


    Amy narrowed her eyes. Clearly, she''d put together that this was technically a biotinkered creation but was too drained to bite my head off over it. For the moment. I figured that now, when she was tired and had already accepted my bullshit alchemical healing as being an objectively good thing, was the best time to force open her doors just a bit.


    Besides, she clearly needed the drink.


    She poured out a few drops onto the table. Then, as if it was a puddle of lava and not sugary caffeine, she stuck her pinky in it. Her eyes flew open with naked surprise. "What the fuck did you make?"


    "It''s coffee, as promised," I said, allowing my voice modulator to carry a bit more of my usual smugness.


    "You made a complex sugar that wraps around itself, sheathed it in an enzyme that regulates its access to free-floating water molecules, and arranged it so that it dissolves over time to extend the sugar rush for hours. There''s also an enzyme that keeps the body from getting desensitized to it. This complex sugar is a chemical chain of hundreds of simple sugar molecules. How?"


    "Is it dangerous?"


    "Creed, how the fuck did you make this?"


    "Is. It. Dangerous?"


    "I-No. It''s not, it''s just an insane energy boost. With a crash that isn''t any worse than from a normal sugar high. You¡­ How long have you had this?"


    "It''s a tinkering aide," I said evasively. I wondered just what Shaper felt seeing this. I hated to rely on a Shard''s goodwill, such a thing didn''t actually exist, but hopefully, seeing this would make Shaper nudge Amy in positive directions. "You know, for late nights."


    She poured some out into the cap and raised it gingerly to her lips. It was like she didn''t trust her own power. No, not like, that''s exactly what this was. She didn''t trust herself to have missed something that might fuck her over later.


    I pulled down the chin guard of my helmet, wrapping it around my throat like a gorget. I then reached over and took the thermos before taking a nice gulp. The comforting aroma of coffee filled my nose as the intense sweetness of the honey sank in. I''d only included a fraction of a teaspoon for this entire bottle, but the flavor of the enchanted honey, manmade but processed using royal jelly harvested from vespiquen hives, still came through.


    Amy eyed me carefully, probably to make sure I wouldn''t turn into an alchemical monstrosity like Lab Rat. When nothing happened, she took a tentative sip. Her face lit up. For the briefest moment, so fast I would''ve sworn I''d imagined it, she smiled. Smiled. At a biotinkered concoction.


    I couldn''t keep the smug, self-satisfied grin on my face. I''d done it, something almost as impressive as healing. I made Amy appreciate a biotinkered creation.


    Then she saw my smirk and the smile vanished like the morning dew. "Shut up."


    I raised my hands in defense. "I said nothing."


    "Fuck you, you were thinking something stupid."


    "I am grateful that you have validated yet another marketable product."


    She raised a middle finger and pulled the thermos to her side with a scowl. "Fuck off. This is mine now."


    "Of course, please enjoy your lunch."


    X


    I then got up and began to serve the other volunteers on break from the spare thermoses I''d brought, a cup per person. Eventually, halfway through her sandwich, Amy saw that she was the only one with a full thermos and grudgingly began donating her share as well.


    I slid two paper cups to the Nazi pair.


    "Oh? Are you done networking with Panacea?" Victor asked smoothly. His voice struck that delicate medium between respectful and amused. I wondered if he''d stolen the skill from an orator of some sort or if he''d always been this naturally smarmy.


    "I have. Tinkered coffee, verified safe by Panacea. Tad sweet. Don''t drink it if you''re diabetic. Otherwise, it''s an effective energy boost," I said with a professional nod.


    "I''m surprised you would offer us your products. We''ve tried to reach out and you have been¡­ silent."


    "Don''t get your hopes up. Like Faultline said, the truce is a form of contract."


    "And we can expect the mercenary to respect the contract. Of course, how professional of you. Speaking of contracts-"


    I held out a hand. "No. my pipeline is rather full at the moment. There is much left to do to refine my healing tech and several professional obligations I must juggle."


    "Pity. May we know what those contracts are? Or perhaps who holds them?"


    "The GOAT. All the rest are confidential," I said flatly. I began to walk away, "If you''ll excuse me, I owe Newter and Clockblocker the same."


    X


    I found the pair outside, leaning against the hotel''s fountain and pointedly not looking at the incoming patients. Their work wasn''t physically draining, both could activate their powers with a touch, but it couldn''t have been easy for the two most jocular capes in Brockton to be here.


    Clock had his faceplate off, revealing the freckled ginger I ate lunch with. His only nod to the unwritten rules was a domino mask that was more about the message than any real attempt to hide his identity. He had a granola bar in his mouth and was doing his best to joke with the merc as if this was a normal outing.


    For his part, Newter looked almost as drained as Clock. There were a handful of volunteers laid out around him, their minds somewhere off in outer space.


    "Do I want to know what happened to them?" I gestured to the volunteers as I skated over.


    "We''re on break and we can all use a little relaxation," Newter said with a nod. He flicked his tail at me. "Want a lick?"


    "Pass. I came to give you drugs of my own, actually," I chuckled. I quickly explained what my coffee did and handed both capes a thermos and a sandwich each.


    "I swear, man, you make something new every time I see you," Newter grumbled goodnaturedly. "Seriously, what the hell is your specialization?"


    "Bullshit. My specialization is bullshit. I can make anything so long as at least one cape around me would look at it and say, ''Fuck, that''s bullshit.''"


    "Wait¡­ Is that possible? I don''t actually know how specializations work."


    Clock shrugged. "Don''t look at me. I''m not the tinker on my team. Actually, about that, Kid Win has the biggest man-crush on you. Or The GOAT. Or he wants to kill you. I''m not sure which anymore. Just thought I''d let you know."


    "Ehh, that''s fine," I shrugged. "It was bound to happen. KW''s got the potential to be one of the greatest tinkers, alive and dead. He deserves a bit of a leg up."


    "Why? I mean, don''t get me wrong, I''m happy you helped him out, but doesn''t helping the heroes hurt you?"


    "Not as much as you''d think. I''m all about selling tech and keeping the balance in the city, remember? I''m thinking that if the heroes get a little stronger, the gangs will be that much less likely to start shit."


    "Makes sense. Say, about your healing¡­"


    "Yes?"


    "You take jobs, right?"


    I frowned. Did Dennis have anyone he needed healed?


    Then I remembered. He¡­ He did. His trigger. He got his power when he felt helpless to save his dad. His dad had¡­ cancer? Something like that. Dennis wanted to fix his dad but got a power that only lets him stop the situation from getting worse for a few minutes.


    I felt like an idiot for forgetting. The worst part was that I vaguely remembered thinking about this at some point. It was in my notes somewhere, had to be, but that didn''t help if I didn''t review them often.


    In the end, I decided to let him speak. I could speak over him. Or maybe receive a "call" from The GOAT using the voice modulator to increase the mystique of the thinker persona, but that didn''t feel right. Dennis was a friend. We weren''t close, but he tried his best as a hero and had gone out of his way to help me make an exercise plan when I first became a cape.


    I owed it to him to hear the story from his mouth.


    "I do," I said, "and with Panacea''s greenlight, I suspect I will be able to charge a premium."


    "How much? How much would it take to cure someone''s cancer?"


    "That depends on the person. I take it this is someone you know?"


    He nodded shakily. "My-Sorry, I can''t say exactly who¡­ He''s someone important to me. This power¡­"


    "Say no more. I get the gist." If I remembered correctly, Amy would fix his dad following Leviathan''s arrival. Except, that wasn''t a future I could count on anymore. "Have you not asked Panacea? She is the better healer between us, and will always be for that matter."


    "She doesn''t take requests," he said with a sigh.


    Fear. That''s what it was. He was terrified of rejection, of finding out just how much their friendship was worth to Amy, of her deciding that it wasn''t worth more than her personal creed after all. I wondered if he''d seen something similar play out before. He''d known Amy long enough for that.


    Maybe, maybe he was afraid of what he''d do, the things he''d say to her when she said no.


    And she would say no, just like she rejected helping Sabah''s father directly. Canon Amy had slowly begun to break down her moral walls. Her respect for Dennis as a hero had likewise grown following an endbringer. But the way she had been a few months ago? She would have definitely turned him down.


    I''d help; I wasn''t heartless, but I did have an image to maintain. I hummed quietly as if in deep thought. Finally, I raised a single finger into the air. "One. One life, one favor. You won''t know what this favor is. My only promise is that it will not be illegal. It may be unpleasant, humiliating, or even morally wrong despite its legality. However, you will do it."


    "I-"


    "Yes or no, Clockblocker. There are rules I abide by, my creed if you must. The foremost of these is reciprocity. There must be an equivalent exchange."


    "Fine. Yes," he said with an explosive sigh. He muttered something about a deal with the devil.


    "Then send this person''s hospital room number to my PHO account. I will handle the rest within a week of our return to the states," I promised. I didn''t have a favor locked down, for him or Glyph, but I had some vague ideas, things I couldn''t do on my own. I''d simply have to learn to prioritize.


    "I¡­ Thank you."


    "It is a transaction, no more and no less."


    Newter chimed in at that. "So¡­ Do we get the same deal?"


    "Can you speak on behalf of Faultline?" I asked him in turn. "She has already expressed the desire to meet with me after."


    "Yeah, that''s fair. But she''d probably like a deal like this."


    "I am open to such an arrangement." I could see the hunger in his eyes. It wasn''t hard to figure out what he was thinking. I had to pop that bubble. "However, I am incapable of fixing Case-53s as I am. Your atypical biology will likely require case by case study on my part."


    He looked disappointed. Could I make him a new body? There was an alchemical circle for soul transferral after all. Alphonse Elric. Barry the Butcher. It''d been done before.


    No, that was a terrible idea. As much as I didn''t want to disappoint him, bodies actively decayed and went mad when inserted with a soul that wasn''t their own. I knew that for a fact from back when they found Barry''s original body. There had to be a way though¡­


    Just one more project to add to the pile¡­


    Author''s Note


    Yes, I know Sophia attended the Behemoth fight. Yes, I did forget. Shoutout to Euth on Pat-re-on who pointed it out to me.


    Radiation isn''t like a virus. Someone who is poisoned by radiation isn''t himself radioactive. The material will continue to be radioactive, but so long as he''s not bringing that into the hospital, it''s fine.


    I''m sure that''s not really how the body processes sugar. Please don''t crucify me, nutritionists. As always, I don''t need to be accurate with my technobabble, just good enough to sound plausible to a middle schooler.


    On another note, how many of you forgot that Bryce made this weird honey-thing during his very first month?


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 4.6 Seal

    Seal 4.6


    2010, November 27: Damascus, Syria


    We didn''t go home that night. After our hour-long break, we jumped right back to treating the wounded, physically energized thanks to the honey but still mentally exhausted. When Mariah retired for the day, she was a local and had been one of the first to respond, Victor stepped up and replaced her as the operations director of station B-3, slotting into the role annoyingly smoothly.


    There must have been some communication between the stations because rather than die down, the stream of incoming patients only seemed to pick up. Panacea had arrived so it was natural that the worst cases got sent our way. The presence of myself and Othala only made that tide worse.


    We worked until three in the morning local time, roughly two five hour shifts from when we arrived. I''d long since run dry of coffee despite the expanded bag and had neither the time nor materials to make more.


    On the plus side, finding a place to sleep was as simple as grabbing some keys from the concierge desk, heading upstairs, and claiming a room. Patients got shipped from where we were to a number of refugee camps after they were treated, but there wasn''t anyone willing to tell us we couldn''t sleep on-site. The station being a commandeered hotel, several of the search and rescue teams also came here to rest, kind of like bees coming back to the hive.


    They kept us sorted according to our location for convenience, our hotel was mostly filled with Brockton and Boston capes, but had the presence of mind to separate the villains and heroes. Truce be damned, some of the capes were eyeing Victor, Othala, and Rune with less than friendly intentions, not that I blamed them.


    After our shift and a hasty dinner of cup ramen and protein bars, we sat around waiting for our separated companions to return from their own shifts.


    First came Glory Girl, Laserdream, and Shielder, floating in and still somehow looking like they''d popped out of magazine covers.


    Then came Rune, reclining on a comfy-looking office chair she''d picked up somewhere.


    The Protectorate, led by Armsmaster, came in as one group, shepherding the Wards with a gentle hand. They offered Gallant and Kid Win proud smiles before dismissing them to their rooms. Though I couldn''t see their faces, the two had a haunted gait about them and barely reacted to Clockblocker''s admittedly weak attempts at lightening the mood.


    Then my UI sparked to life as the best duck in the world returned to me. I quickly muted my external speakers. "SAINT?"


    "Pory!" he trilled excitedly. Through our bond, I felt relief and happiness wash over me. I realized that this was the first time we''d been separated for so long.


    "Good to hear from you, buddy," I said, sending back the same. "How was Wieldmaiden?"


    "Pory-gon. Pory. Porreee."


    A series of images and expressions followed. Some arrived through the bond, mostly emotions like respect and admiration, while others came in the form of pictures that popped up on my HUD. "Someone tried to take the regalia?"


    "Pory," he denied.


    "Someone asked to examine it?"


    "Gon."


    "And she refused."


    "Gon."


    "She didn''t try to fiddle with the settings?"


    "Gon," he shook his head in denial.


    "Good. What do you think? Is she trustworthy? Or should I find someone else to loan this out to tomorrow?"


    "Porygon." There was a sense of approval. It seemed Narwhal had an eye for integrity as well as talent. Or maybe she had the basic common sense not to fuck with tinkertech. Either way, she seemed safe enough.


    "Alright, I''m glad you approve. Tell me about your day, bud. What was it like being on search and rescue?"


    We chatted amiably as more people came in. Weld of the Boston Wards, Bastion, head of their Protectorate, and more drove through. They''d apparently met up with Faultline somewhere along the way and had opted to give the striker a ride. The steel-like Case-53 seemed happy to chat with Newter for a time, but Bastion called him back for something or other.


    There were others, such as Chain Gang, Morticians, and Thee Impersonators, as well as smaller groups of gangs and independents that lacked the members to warrant a group name. I found it funny that this lobby was as friendly as capes got with so many different factions in the room. There was no real goodwill here; we were all just too tired to pick fights.


    After a time of admittedly halfhearted posturing, people began to retire for the night. Because of secret identities that had to be respected, I saw a few choose to find their own accommodations. Even when they chose to remain in the building, they made sure to demand their own rooms.


    Which was how I found myself in one of the hotel rooms in the early hours of the morning. Back home, it''d be about nine at night, nowhere near late enough to be bedtime. There were two beds and two, cheap, faux-wood desks with matching swivel chairs. I wasn''t sharing; the only person I''d be comfortable bunking with was Amy, which would raise some hilarious questions if I tried. I did have Faultline and Newter in the room across the hall though.


    Or, they were supposed to be. Newter was currently making a mess of my unused bed. Faultline sat on the corner, careful not to touch her subordinate directly.


    "So, why are you both in my room?" I asked the mercs with a stifled yawn.


    I was tired but could not force myself to sleep. So instead, I''d been performing checkup and maintenance on the Pledge Regalia. There wasn''t much that needed doing, it wasn''t as though she''d gotten into a fight with it or anything, but it was something to keep my hands busy.


    SAINT was off doing¡­ something. I''d asked him to help sort the health records of missing persons while no one was looking, figuring that Dragon''s eyes would be on more immediately impactful tasks and, like SAINT, she couldn''t fork. He knew how to keep himself hidden and knew to withdraw immediately if he suspected he''d been noticed. I wasn''t sure he could beat Dragon in cyberwarfare, but he should be good enough to at least leave.


    Anyone else? Not a concern.


    "You don''t look like you''re ready for bed," Faultline observed with a wry smile. She''d gone for a domino mask similar to Clockblocker''s, there was someone giving them out to capes who wanted one, revealing her high cheekbones and hawklike brown eyes. Rather than whatever pajamas or nightgown she typically wore to bed, she''d settled for a comfortable set of sweats. "Is the time difference messing with you?"


    "Yeah. I''ll get over it. How about you? How were things out there?"


    "Chaotic. Exalt from Houston stuck around and coordinated us from the air with Dragon. She wants to talk about that scanner you gave her friend by the way."


    "For good reasons I hope?" I''d heard it all from SAINT but it didn''t hurt to make conversation.


    "Yes. Wieldmaiden was able to find dozens buried under the rubble we might have missed otherwise thanks to you. There would have been more but they were long dead."


    That was a sobering thought. I, and I was sure Newter as well, noticed that a great many people were coming in with radiation poisoning, burns, and crushed limbs after a while. Everyone in Behemoth''s path died, but his kill aura actually had a fairly small diameter. Outside his aura, blasts of fire, lightning, and concussive force collapsed buildings on top of helpless civilians.


    A decent chunk of the people we treated were probably people Wieldmaiden and her team dug up. Just that small fraction was enough to leave us feeling like shit. I couldn''t imagine what the scene looked like out there.


    "I see. That must have been awful. Sounds like search and rescue wasn''t exactly a walk in the park either."


    "Hazard management in my case. I mostly just helped cut down rubble to more manageable pieces so we could clear the roads. But no, it wasn''t pretty."


    "Yeah, I saw a fair bit of the output come my way. So, how can I help you, Faultline? I didn''t think you''d be the type to show for events like this."


    "I''m not. There''s no money in being here and though I agree there is worth in charity, I have my own concerns that take precedence. No, I''m here for you."


    "I figured as much. Well, message received. You''re a friend and I appreciate that you value our relationship enough to step up just because you thought I might."


    She nodded magnanimously. "You''re welcome. I''d like to speak to you about your organization."


    "Oh boy¡­ Where do I begin?"


    "At the beginning would be nice," she said with a small smile. "When Newter first found you in the junkyard, you did not seem particularly powerful. You quickly became a force to be reckoned with and I can only assume this is through The GOAT and whatever organization they represent."


    "It is," I confirmed, leaving out the obvious, that I was my own organization. I didn''t even have a name for it yet. "I understand you want answers, but I''d prefer to do this some other time when we''re not all dead on our feet. Our arrangement stands if that''s what you''re concerned about. Can''t we pick this up sometime over the week?"


    "That''s good to know, but we''re already here. This isn''t just about The GOAT; this is about your role in the city and what you intend to do about the gang war brewing between the Empire and ABB. Have you had time to consider what you want out of the Undersiders?"


    "I thought you didn''t care."


    "I didn''t until Lung decided to use me as his mailman," she said with a pointed frown. And, I understood. Her original intent was to use the city''s chaos as a smokescreen; no outside party could just barge in to chase them down because of the delicate balance of power between the heroes and villains, and so long as she refrained from taking jobs inside the city, the local powers lacked the bandwidth to attack them on their own initiative.


    And then the kitten Newter adopted turned out to be a tiger. I''d initially been a tinker she could have on-demand, a useful resource. I was still that, but I turned out to be far more powerful than she expected, and from her perspective, because a hitherto unknown party snapped me up. She was doing her due diligence; I could respect that.


    Seen in this light, her dislike of thinkers in general made a whole lot of sense.


    "I''m sorry about that," I said sincerely. "It wasn''t my intent to drag you into this city''s affairs, even indirectly."


    "I know. Look, Creed, you''re not a bad kid, not a villain, not really. You''re a rogue, if that. It''s clear to anyone who looks that you have heroic inclinations. I don''t know if this is due to whatever arrangement you have with The GOAT, but you''re sending mixed signals to all of the factions in the Bay and I wanted to know your objectives moving forward."


    "Yeah, man, things are getting a bit hot in the Bay right now," Newter joined in. He picked up one of the spare pillows and tossed it between his hands and tail. "You''re my friend, you know? I mean, I know we haven''t hung out in a while, but I don''t want you to just die off or anything."


    "However, that isn''t to say we''re going to be sticking around. I intend to accept a job out west for a few weeks to let the heat here die down. I felt we should have this conversation before I left, see if there is anything we can do to make things easier."


    "So you''re here to learn more about The GOAT and give me some advice about how I should handle being a not-hero?" I summed up.


    It was¡­ Cowardly? No, that wasn''t right. They didn''t sign up for my shit and Faultline would always put her team first. The team lacked heavy hitters without Labyrinth and she was a tossup at the best of times. Still, I couldn''t help but feel a little bitter about it. I''d known they avoided conflict in the city, but I''d hoped to have them in my corner if push came to shove.


    "That''s right. Behemoth attacked at the opportune time for the city and you. The truce puts cape activities on pause for a few days, but I suspect things will return to business as usual by Tuesday or Wednesday. And that means that like it or not, you''re going to have to make a decision regarding the Undersiders."


    "How is that a decision? I''m not going to give them to Lung. Besides, if I do, the Empire will assume I''ve sided with the ABB. They offered a similar contract, but with more money."


    Faultline nodded expectantly. "I assumed as much. Congratulations then. You''ve officially painted yourself into a corner. I must point out that had you taken the path of an independent hero, you would not be asked to face these moral quandaries."


    "I know, but being a rogue gives me freedom to act and retaliate without restraint. It''s better for the city. Or at least, I thought it''d be better."


    "On paper perhaps. People seldom behave rationally in reality. Life can''t be broken down to realism, deterrence, and game theory."


    "So I''ve learned," I muttered. In an ideal world, the ABB and Empire would stay in their territories, Lung lacking the numbers to push and Kaiser lacking the power to contend with Lung. But an ideal world didn''t have Coil. "I turn the Underisders in to either gang, they''ll die. Worse, I know that both contracts are just ways to start leashing me into their camp."


    "I''m glad you''re aware of this. So what are your options?" she asked pointedly. Faultline was apparently a fan of the Socratic method of teaching.


    "With the Undersiders? Handing them over to a gang is out. Taking them down myself and turning them in to the PRT isn''t ideal either. They''ll either get killed off in custody or be out within the week because the PRT leaks like a sieve. At best, the PRT is good for a stay of execution, but removing the Undersiders at this point wouldn''t end the fighting because Kaiser can''t afford to look weak."


    "Correct. Hookwolf will likely act with or without Kaiser''s permission, and the more violent elements in the gang will flock to his banner. Kaiser isn''t a fool; he will not give orders he knows won''t be obeyed. Lung won''t stand idle for similar reasons. Capturing the Undersiders is likely to discredit your status as a mercenary as you''ll have shown that you are actively ignoring contracts in favor of siding with the law."


    The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    "And a merc''s only law is his word," I finished for her. Somehow, I doubted my usual excuse of "The GOAT made me do it," wasn''t going to cut it this time.


    "Overly dramatic, but yes."


    "What if I target Coil?"


    She blinked in surprise at the apparent nonsequitur. "Hmm? What does Coil have to do with this?"


    "He''s the one who''s bankrolling the Undersiders. I have enough information on them to know none of them wanted to start a gang war. He''s a thinker. His power, he''s a precog who can run two parallel simulations to observe two different outcomes. He selects an outcome he prefers and his power puppets his body to enact it. Because he retains knowledge of both simulations, it looks from his perspective as if he can split time into two branches. He used this power to gain leverage over the Undersiders."


    "The GOAT has been busy¡­"


    "Yes, they have. Coil is the primary destabilizing force in the city, despite the apparent size of his organization."


    "That''s valuable information, and confirmation that The GOAT''s knowledge extends to more than tinkers. Are you sure you were supposed to tell me this?"


    "I don''t see why not. Call it a sign of trust."


    "Those don''t mean as much when a thinker is involved," she said wryly, "but I''ll take it as it was intended."


    "Right. Back to the point, I''m thinking about just breaking Coil''s organization. Releasing his power, connections to the Undersiders, that sort of thing."


    "Why would that matter? I am now not going to meet with him in person for obvious reasons, but that wasn''t something I would have done without significant precautions anyway. Those who were already cautious will simply acknowledge his short-term predictions and remain cautious. Those who were opportunistic would consider allying with him because he seems easier to control than Lung or Kaiser respectively. You would turn him from a nonentity into a potentially valuable asset in the eyes of the gangs.


    "The Undersiders can all be made up of poor orphans just trying to steal to keep their ailing siblings fed and it wouldn''t change anything for the same reason having them arrested wouldn''t end the fighting. This isn''t about them anymore. At best, I suspect that Coil will need to act more carefully due to increased PRT oversight. At worst, it''s his word against yours and you''ll have strengthened an enemy''s position with little gain."


    "Yeah, dude, and you look shifty as hell," Newter joked. He thought about it for a bit longer and said, "I mean, you''re a mysterious tinker representing a mysterious organization headed by a mysterious thinker from out of town. And if you do manage to knock Coil off, then it could be seen as you deflecting, or making a power grab of your own in the middle of the chaos."


    I grunted in annoyance.I didn''t like it, but the ambiguity I''d purposely cultivated was coming to bite me in the ass. It''d been useful to make the gangs cautious, but I was starting to wonder if it''d served its purpose. "You''re right, I do look pretty shifty from the outside. Coil''s still on my list for starting this shit though. I might deal with him first just so he doesn''t make things worse."


    "Oh?" Faultline hummed. "Are you going to start a second gang war against Coil''s faction? It''d certainly be one way to avoid the contracts."


    "I don''t know. I''ll have to talk to The GOAT. Coil''s¡­ bad news¡­"


    "Anything I should know about? You seem extraordinarily wary of him, more than you are of the two bigger gang leaders."


    "No? Yes? Nothing that''s a threat to you. He''s just a much bigger deal than anyone gives him credit for, and a lot more willing to do things that would be considered a violation of the unwritten rules."


    "Enough that The GOAT thinks he is a priority."


    "Yes."


    "Fine, I''m leaving the city anyway. I don''t have the right to tell you how to handle things here while I''m gone," she said with an explosive sigh, washing her hands of it.


    "You''re still a lot more experienced than I am. What do you think is the best way to stop the fighting?"


    "That ship sailed the moment you declared yourself the balance-keeper."


    "I never said that."


    "But everyone heard it. You appeared to stop the fighting, protect civilians, then proceeded to go out of your way to commit nonsensical crimes to distance yourself from the heroes. Actions speak louder than words, Creed, and though you may have never voiced it, the fact is that you''ve taken the role of Great Britain in European history."


    "Huh?"


    "Not a fan of historical geopolitics I take it? It''s fine. I''m not going to give you a lecture on European history, but to oversimplify a millennium of conflict, Britain was a fickle ally. As a maritime power, its interests were best served when there was no continental hegemon in Europe. So, it sided with whoever was weaker, lending its navy to best fight against whichever country was most powerful at the time. France? Spain? Prussia? Didn''t matter. Britain wanted a divided Europe and, more often than not, they got it."


    "And you''re saying that''s me. And The GOAT."


    "That has been the impression I got. I suspect others have come to similar conclusions."


    "Fine, no good options. So what''s the least shitty option?"


    "Stop with this ''technically a villain'' nonsense. Choose whether you''re a hero or villain because one way or another, you''re too invested into the city to not get involved in the fighting. I understand why the ambiguity might have been useful, but it''s not anymore. If you decide to become a villain, take over territory. Recruit. Get your backers to send you mooks and powered subordinates. Use that territory as a buffer between the Empire and ABB. Give them a reason to stop fighting.


    "Start with the Merchants. Clean house and expand. Be brutal and overwhelming, but ensure that everyone knows that you follow the rules. If you do this, lots of people are going to get hurt. Dozens will likely die from the fighting. But it''ll be brief. The city will settle into a new normal in which you become the third gang, one with enough real power to make the others not want to leave themselves open."


    "How very realpolitik of you," I said wryly. I remembered the Bakuda incident from Canon, how the Undersiders and Empire worked with each other to get rid of the mad bomber. "Like ripping off a bandaid? You''re assuming they won''t form a united bloc to deal with me."


    "That is a possibility, yes, but only if you go too far. That line is somewhere between the Teeth and the Slaughterhouse. For the various factions in the city to unite against you, you would have to cause widespread chaos and civilian casualties the likes of which would warrant an A-class response from the heroes. Are you going to be as bad as the Slaughterhouse?"


    "Of course not, but I still don''t think this is the right answer," I said, not least of which because I simply lacked the manpower Faultline thought I had. If I just fucked of to do nothing but create, if I really embraced my biotinker side, I could probably finish the zoan fruits, use alchemy and the biological knowledge of Amestris to make it a fully functioning zoan, not just a SMILE.


    I could then give it to the disenfranchised, the hungry and desperate. There were plenty of those if I so wished.


    A part of me wondered if I should hire the Dockworkers and homeless people, start giving them armor and have them act as a neighborhood watch, make them zoans so they can fight capes on even ground. But that was obviously fraught with problems, both in the security sense and reputational sense.


    No, if I ever empowered someone else, it''d be in small amounts. I didn''t know what might get Cauldron to intervene in the Bay, but an independent power broker would be likely to force their hand. I wanted their attention even less than Coil did.


    I wouldn''t mind a lieutenant, but it''d have to be someone I could trust. Or someone I could control¡­


    My thoughts immediately swerved back to the Undersiders. I could control them, flip their loyalties. It wasn''t an attractive option, but it was an option. Lisa would be a bitch and a half to manage, but it was doable, especially if I promised her Coil''s head.


    Brian was easy, altering records to legitimize his income stream while dolling up caseworkers'' reports to make him seem like a more attractive caregiver wasn''t beyond SAINT''s abilities. I feared SAINT encountering another tinker, not conventional security. Considering the gold I''ll soon be able to make at will, funding the Laborn family wouldn''t even be expensive resource-wise.


    Alec¡­ He was a hedonist through and through. Keeping him happy was as simple as hiding him from his dad and giving him video games. For the low, low price of a few grand per month, I could adopt my own basement-goblin!


    And Rachel¡­ She was simultaneously the easiest to understand and hardest to care for. Dogs were expensive, but the resources weren''t what worried me. So long as the dogfighting rings were operational, she''d feel compelled to attack Hookwolf. Which brought me straight back to square one: Conflict.


    Not for the first time, I wished I could just put them all in timeout, slice up the city into different territories and wall them off.


    In the end, it came down to the simple fact that I didn''t like them. They were fraught with problems and though I could control them with a dozen different leverages, both social and physical, I just didn''t want to bother. They weren''t worth the hassle of micromanaging them.


    Faultline saw the distaste on my face. She sighed and continued her analysis. "If you don''t like the thought of becoming a warlord, be a hero. Take down Hookwolf, Cricket, and Stormtiger when they continue to rampage around the ABB territory. You won''t be holding territory so it''ll be less resource-intensive, but it''ll also put you in the line of fire more often.


    "You''re going to have to take on capes from both gangs, arrest them without resorting to lethal force, protect civilians, and ensure that they will not simply walk out of prison to try again. I don''t need to tell you that holding back is far more difficult than fighting all-out. If you go down this path, any resources or connections you may have been cultivating with the gangs will likely go up in smoke.


    "But there are advantages to becoming a more established hero. It will make negotiating with the PRT easier. You may even get more customers for your catalog if people are confident they won''t be funding a villain. You''ll likely have an easier time working with Panacea in the future, should you ever desire to again."


    I nodded slowly. Faultline had a gift for breaking things down. Hearing it all laid out like this made it seem more manageable. The simple truth was that there was no clean answer to my problems, but I did feel like I knew what I had to do now.


    I wanted peace in Brockton Bay. The easiest way to do that was to be so powerful that no one wanted to mess with me. More importantly, I needed to get to that state without being labeled an S-class villain, as would definitely happen if I started making chimeras in Piggot''s turf. I wanted safety and comfort for my family.I wanted Amy''s help, and to help her in turn. I wanted lots of money and prestige so I could tinker as I pleased without a dozen paranoid idiots screaming how I''d start the apocalypse.


    In the end, none of these things were possible as I was now.


    "Well, I have no plans to become a warlord, so I guess I''m a hero now. Please remind me to send you a consultant''s fee of some sort," I told her with a wan smile. Whether it was expected of me or not, it was a tangible sign of my appreciation, a message of my own if I wanted to use Faultline''s parlance.


    "Good. Always a pleasure doing business with you," she said with a satisfied smirk. "And speaking of business, I heard a great deal of praise about your new healing abilities. How much?"


    "If you mean to purchase the gloves, they''re not for sale. It''s not that I don''t want to give them to you, I actually think either Newter or Labyrinth would make fine medics given their terrain control and maneuverability. It''s just a lot more complicated than anything I''ve shown. Training isn''t really on the table either."


    And wasn''t that a pity. I genuinely wouldn''t have minded giving a set of gloves to Faultline. In fact, I technically only needed one glove, just like Scar and Mustang only needed one hand to use their own techniques. It cost nothing on my end to embroider both gloves and my OCD kicked in, that was all.


    Unfortunately, even if I gave Newter a glove right now, it wouldn''t change anything. He lacked access to aura, which was what I''d been using to bridge the gap between the alchemy circle and the geothermal energy it drew upon. I didn''t think this was how alchemists in Amestris did it, but aura was me, what I used to facilitate much of what I did. Not to mention, while the gloves let me fix almost anything biological, they didn''t tell me what was wrong in the first place. I wasn''t sure I was ready to part with a regalia.


    "That''s too bad. How much per healing then?" Faultline asked, pivoting seamlessly to something she could reasonably ask for. I liked that about her. When she couldn''t get something she wanted, she didn''t throw a tantrum; she found the next best thing. "How does ten grand per session sound?"


    Unfortunately, I''d have to deny her again. "I don''t think that''s going to help. Let me explain¡­" I tapped the Pledge Regalia. "This thing? This wasn''t originally made to scan through rubble. I didn''t just have something so perfectly suited to search and rescue lying around. It was made to scan people, and usually at close range."


    "What does that have to do with healing?" Newter asked. "Weren''t you doing fine without it?"


    "I was, but that was with a professional EMT shouting out prognoses before I saw the patient. And even then, there were some patients that I just couldn''t save. The gloves let me manipulate organic matter, but everything else is on me. Scanning. Diagnosis. Manipulation. Proper structure and chemical balance to prevent complications. The whole thing. It''s why I can''t just give them to you; you''d be more likely to turn Faultline''s heart inside out than actually help."


    "Oh¡­ And Gregor and I¡­"


    "Yeah¡­ Not really ideal. I mean, I''m not going to drug myself touching you or anything, but by the same token, I don''t have a clear understanding of your biology."


    "But you could," Faultline cut in. "That''s a problem for every doctor, parahuman or not. If Newter and Gregor were willing to submit to medical examinations to establish a baseline, would your answer change then?"


    I thought about it. Of course I''d say yes; that wasn''t the question. The question was what I''d ask in return. Not money¡­


    I looked at Newter. He fidgeted nervously; getting a doctor must have been tricky being a Case-53. I didn''t want to rip him off, but Faultline wouldn''t accept charity; she just wasn''t that kind of person.


    Then I realized something: Wasn''t the exam itself payment? I could do so much with a sedative as powerful as Newter''s. In another time, Skitter would dip one of her bugs in his sweat, only to jab said bug into Lung''s eye. That miniscule amount, traveling directly from his eye to his brain, would be enough for Lung to take a second L to Skitter.


    She then carved out his eyes like the psycho she was, but that was another matter.


    Point being, Newter''s sedative was powerful. And I didn''t doubt that Gregor had similar marvels hiding in that body of his. If I could get permission to experiment freely on samples, then maybe zoans weren''t off the table after all. Not mass-produced, I wasn''t crazy, but maybe something in reserve?


    "I want the right to experiment on and attempt to replicate Newter''s physiology. Gregor''s too," I said. "In exchange, I''ll forgo all payment."


    "Woah, woah, what does that mean?" he exclaimed.


    "It means your sedative is extremely potent and I want to learn to make my own."


    Faultline frowned. "I understand the appeal, but do you know what you''re asking?"


    "Yeah, I know I''m asking for a lot. Considering Case-53s probably came from some biotinker, I can see why you''d be leery about it, but it''s not like I won''t have access to this information if I do the checkups anyway. I really just want your permission."


    "I''ll leave that to Newter."


    The boy looked conflicted. On one hand, free healthcare. Great healthcare. On the other hand, he probably felt all sorts of insecure about what a biotinker might do with the data. Finally, he nodded. "You can''t make a clone of me."


    "I won''t; one Newter''s enough for this world," I said jokingly. Even a zoan wouldn''t be a clone, more of a powered template people could switch in and out of at will.


    "Then fine. I''m trusting you. I better not see any mini-mes around."


    "You got a deal."


    Things settled into more comfortable conversation topics after that. We ended up just shooting the breeze for another half hour because none of us could do much sleeping, what with Faultline and Newter working a nightclub and this being their usual operational hours and me being the unfortunate victim of jetlag. Teleportation lag? Tele-lag?


    That.


    I learned a fair bit about the woman, like how she preferred whiskey to wine but liked a very particular brand of brandy, because she was classy like that. She and Newter had some interesting stories about their jobs. A lot of the identifying information had been obscured for confidentiality''s sake, but I was fairly sure I could pinpoint some of her clients if I wanted, not that there was any worthwhile payoff for me to make the attempt.


    When they finally left, I put up a quick post on PHO announcing my newly confirmed healing abilities and a raffle for the residents of Brockton Bay. Two of those prizes were spoken for already, Sabah and Dennis, but this would be a good way to disguise my relationship with them.


    Now that the excitement of the day was over and done with, I found myself gravitating towards the whole reason I came here: Healing. Or more specifically, healing Sabah''s dad. Maybe because it was something I could do in the moment, maybe I really didn''t want to know what I''d dream about tonight, but I felt it needed to be done, to come full circle today. As awful as today was, it was without a doubt a big step forward.


    Author''s Note


    Long chat with Faultline. She''s an interesting foil for Bryce I feel, not because she''s evil or morally at odds with him, but because she''s so much more experienced and unlike him, knows what she wants and isn''t afraid to chase her objectives. Bryce sees himself in her in many ways. When he started out, she was the kind of cape he wanted to be; respected and beholden to no one. Now that he''s actually powerful in his own right, he''s finding that her style of intentional isolation isn''t good enough for him.


    Amy''s changing him just as much as she''s being changed by him, and it''s most apparent when he compares himself to who he once wanted to be. We''ll get to more of the Behemoth aftermath, but I see this chapter as an important "return to start" moment for Bryce, that moment when the high-level hero comes back to the starting village and looks back on what he was.


    Remember, I decided that instead of keeping track of aura, haki, and alchemy, it''d just be simpler if Bryce used aura for everything. It''d be kinda weird if his power wasn''t compatible with itself is what I''m saying.


    Animal fact? Umm¡­ Autocannibalism is a thing and most famous in snakes. The Greek image of the Ouroboros, the serpent biting its tail, is the best-known example. It''s supposed to symbolize eternity and the cyclic nature of things, but the truth is that snakes eat themselves when stressed.


    This seems to be more common among snakes that eat other snakes, which suggests that another cause for autocannibalism is a snake simply mistaking their own tail for prey. They can get quite far too, to the point that their own digestive fluids can begin to dissolve their tails.


    It''s also a thing in humans, but that''s a whole different can of worms (snakes).


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 4.7 Seal

    Seal 4.7


    2010, November 27: Damascus, Syria


    We woke up at ten in the morning after a restless four or five hours of sleep, which meant about three back home. I didn''t know if someone on the Syrian side was making a joke about us being Americans or if it really was what they had available, but breakfast was a few boxes of frozen waffles heated in the microwave for speed. At least there was some simple syrup from the bar to go with it.


    We got dressed, ate, and rushed to relieve the night shift. I took a few extra minutes to track down the Canadian camp so I could give the Pledge Regalia back to Wieldmaiden. SAINT went along with her just to make sure she didn''t try to pass it off to anyone, but she seemed like the trustworthy sort. Just the fact that she worked for the Guild as opposed to the Protectorate made her more trustworthy in my eyes.


    Then, when I returned, I was greeted by one Luke Jameson of the PRT who was responsible for communications between different medical centers. It was clear that he didn''t typically spend his time on humanitarian missions abroad. The man was rail-thin, pale, and looked like he was being carried by a metric fuck-ton of coffee.


    I respected him more for being here.


    "Creed of the¡­ Creed?" He asked, stuttering a bit when he realized The GOAT and I technically never named ourselves.


    "That''s me. How can I help you, Agent Jameson?"


    "Ah, we''d like you to move to medic station C-1. We usually like to keep people from the same cities nearby, but with your healing tech and Panacea already being here¡­"


    I frowned in my helmet. Getting assigned elsewhere would kind of defeat the purpose of doing this alongside my best friend, but I could see their logic. If there were two effective healers, it was natural to spread us out so we could maximize the number of patients treated and decrease the distance they had to be ferried.


    "I understand. Come on, I want to tell Panacea I''m gone," I ushered him towards the buzzing volunteers. "Tell me more about it. Where is C-1 and who''s in charge there?"


    He pulled out a map for me to look at. On it, a long gash had been painted cutting through Damascus, reaching east to the pipeline, and then cutting sharply northward. Three colors, labeled A, B, and C, marked the three different sectors.


    "We''re in B-3, here, and about smack-dab in the middle. C-1 is here, on the far outskirts of Damascus. It''s directly adjacent to the largest refugee camp and is being overseen in a joint venture by the Syrian Republican Guard and the New York Protectorate. Arsalan and Ursa Aurora are the respective capes in charge," he began to fill me in. From what I could tell, C-1 was a solid twenty-four miles away in a straight line, if I didn''t mind going through irradiated areas. "I guess the higher-ups figured one of you could handle the refugee camp and take a load off that end of the theater of operations. We heard you were mobile, yes?"


    "I am. I''m not familiar with Arsalan though. And wouldn''t the one in charge of the New York delegation be Legend?"


    "Arsalan is the head of the Lionguard, one of several powered divisions of the Syrian Republican Guard. Their primary mission is to resist foreign influence, particularly from Mossad, the Israeli intelligence service. If you think of them as a more militarized version of the Protectorate that handles internal investigations within the government of Syria, you wouldn''t be incorrect. They''ve got a lot of power around here. At the moment though, they''ve all been called up as security.


    "As for Arsalan himself, he''s one of President al-Asad''s most trusted field commanders and has a similar prestige as the Triumvirate in America. Or perhaps Myrddin or Armsmaster. As for Legend¡­ He was injured during the battle with Behemoth and is recuperating in New York. I heard he''s still busy helping streamline the logistics of all this."


    "I see. Thank you. I''m going to have to circle around the irradiated areas, but I should be there in ten minutes. Please let them know."


    I took off after telling everyone where I''d be. I also had someone from the Guild pass on my location to Wieldmaiden so she''d know where to return my gear.


    I still had no idea how Germa fibers would deal with radiation so I instead skipped into the air. The quiet hum of Crown Chimera as it processed water vapor into a solid surface beneath my feet filled the air. However brief, the thought of racing through the sky again brought a smile to my face. It was a welcome distraction from what promised to be another nerve-wracking day.


    With a hard kick that sent a plume of mist behind me, I climbed into the sky and headed westward so I could circle around the irradiated area altogether. When I was far enough away, I popped Agility, holding back just enough to stay within the sound barrier.


    X


    There was no way to be kind about it: The spontaneously sprouted tent city looked like a chaotic mess.


    It wasn''t just the people who''d been in Behemoth''s path who had to be evacuated. Such a large swathe of destruction also caused significant damage to the city''s infrastructure such as roads, power lines, and water and sewage mains. That led to widespread rioting, both powered and unpowered crime, and a host of other issues exacerbated by human factors. Despite the capital city not being the primary objective of Behemoth''s attack, it nonetheless had an outsized effect on the population.


    The north end of the camp, nearest to Behemoth''s trail, had been converted into station C-1. As one of the largest refugee camps, it made sense then that there was a lot more going on than just medics trying to treat people fished up from the ongoing search and rescue efforts.


    One area, a sprawling dirt lot, was clearly set aside as a supply depot to distribute necessities like blankets, water, food, and vital medications. A series of giant bulletin boards had been set up in another and a man was shouting over the crowd with a megaphone in Arabic, probably about pertinent news or a list of missing persons who had been recovered. A third area that looked to be a bit more put together was guarded by armed soldiers bearing the Syrian flag, presumably where the console and command center were. All told, I arrived at a picture of barely contained bedlam.


    I chose to drop down near the medical tents. Unlike B-3, there were no readily available buildings to use on the outskirts of the city so hastily constructed tents would have to suffice. My arrival wasn''t exactly subtle; a column of mist swirled around me as I alighted softly onto the dirt road.


    Immediately, I heard people shouting in Arabic. Half a dozen soldiers pointed their guns at me, though none of them violated the truce by firing. Still, I kept the hem of my cape close and my aura ready to flare into a Protect.


    I held up my hands, palms out to show I wasn''t armed. I then pointed at myself and introduced myself. "I am Creed, a tinker with healing tech. Is there anyone who speaks English here?"


    After a bit, a familiar face came running. Patrick Wilshire, the medic I''d worked with yesterday, had likewise been reassigned, probably so I wouldn''t have to get used to anyone else. He and an interpreter said something to the soldiers that got them to relax.


    "You really know how to make an entrance, Creed," he said. "I heard you were assigned here too and figured you''d be coming on a jeep or something."


    "Sorry about that. I skate faster. So, how are things here?"


    "I don''t know much either. I actually arrived five minutes ago, but I can take you to the coordinator in charge."


    I was about to follow Wilshire when I heard several sets of heavy, grinding footsteps. I turned to find a tall, tan man in armor made of grayish-brown sandstone. In full regalia, he stood about seven feet tall and the sandstone around him was shaped into a lion so the jaws opened to encircle his face. He also had a mane of dark-brown hair and beard that fit his motif. In one hand, he carried an oversized scimitar with a large emerald embedded into the pommel. His other hand was clad in an oversized sandstone gauntlet that ended in claws reminiscent of Wolverine.


    Behind him were a series of sandstone statues, all shaped like lion-men of course. They had a similar build as him and marched in lockstep. Then, as one, they stomped the ground and arrayed themselves into neat columns. I counted twenty-four. Though they held no weapons, they were an impressive sight.


    "What''s going on here?" the lead lion-man asked in thickly accented English. He had a bit of a husky growl to his words, though one I was fairly sure was affected rather than natural. It made him sound like a teenager trying to emulate a smoker.


    "I''m Creed, a tinker with healing tech. I just arrived to get sorted," I told him.


    "I am Arsalan, captain of the Lionguard. I am in charge here."


    "Hello, captain. It''s a pleasure to meet you."


    "Yes. You are healer, yes?"


    "I am. You should have received notice from the PRT over in B-3."


    He shouted something back in Arabic. Someone said something else and he nodded. "Yes. Boy in gray and orange wearing silly cape. That is you."


    I nodded agreeably. I wasn''t the one in a fursuit made of sand, but that was no reason to make an enemy today. I had to remind myself that I was a hero now¡­ sorta¡­ "That is indeed me. Where is my station, captain?"


    "Go with the medic. We will send you patients."


    His piece said, he stomped the ground and did an about-face. His stone soldiers copied him with perfect synchronicity. It looked like something out of a military parade.


    I turned back to Wilshire. "So that''s why they''re called the Lionguard, eh?"


    "So I''m told," he said with a wry smile. "There are other members, but I guess the captain got to name the unit. I saw a few more but I think they left to patrol the camp. Come on, I''ll show you where we''re set up. Same deal as yesterday?"


    "That''s right. He seemed kind of stiff though."


    "Yeah, though we can''t blame him too much. He did just see his city get razed to the ground."


    "Point. Needing to look professional is probably his way of coping. I also heard something about New York here?"


    "Ursa Aurora, Prism, and three Wards led by Jouster."


    I frowned. "They''re a bit young, no?"


    "And you''re not?"


    "I could just be a really short adult."


    "Not a chance. It''s in how you act around Panacea and that orange, lizard-boy."


    "Fair enough. Let''s get to it then."


    X


    Lily Tondo


    2010, November 27: Damascus, Syria


    "This blows," Jouster, Ethan, muttered darkly as we hung out on the roof of the distribution center.


    The distribution center was one of three set up in the makeshift tent city so aid workers could pass out food, water, medication, blankets, and the like without getting too overwhelmed by people. It occupied one of the few buildings that were available. If what I saw now was supposed to be just a third of the people who needed help, I didn''t want to think about how many were already crammed in this camp.


    This one where my teammates and I found ourselves was the closest to the command and medical centers. The other two were watched over by members of the Lionguard and Ursa Aurora and Prism respectively.


    "It does," I hummed in assent. It was better to let our captain talk his frustrations out than the alternative.


    Jouster was a great leader, but a tad too gung-ho. As his power suggested, really. He was a lancer, a charging knight who really only knew how to handle his problems one way: by lunging at them until they stopped being his problems. He wasn''t stupid or anything, just very straightforward. I thought that was both his best and worst trait.


    Unfortunately, this under-the-breath griping was the result whenever he encountered a problem he couldn''t skewer on his lance. Such as our current marching orders.


    I didn''t hold it against him though; I got it. We were all stuck here beneath the Syrian sun after all, and it was lost on none of us that we''d been given the "safe" depot once again, the one closest to reinforcements. Jouster thought he was being coddled even so far from home, but I didn''t mind as much.


    If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    "It''s hot."


    "It is."


    "And dusty."


    "Yup."


    "Why are we up here?"


    "We volunteered for this."


    "You two can come down anytime you like," Andrew, Shelter, grumbled back. "Seriously, Joust, I made us a shaded dugout to keep watch from. You''re the one who decided to go up on the roof."


    "I came out for a smoke," our grumpy leader muttered.


    "You shouldn''t be smoking anyway. And I''m here for the view. The skyline''s really quite pretty. I''ve never been in the Middle East before," I added.


    The city had a lot of mosques, which meant stone towers, domes, and other architectural features that weren''t exactly common in New York. Or maybe they weren''t mosques? Was it racist to assume all domes and towers here were from minarets? Either way, they were interesting to look at, especially with the rising sun framing the skyline, and I wished I''d come at a better time to tour the place.


    Besides, it helped for us to be seen. Parahumans in Syria weren''t really "superheroes," at least not as I was used to seeing in the states. Most of them were part of the Syrian Republican Guard. A few were criminals. Others were social dissidents? Revolutionaries? Something of a nature I didn''t feel qualified to comment on. All I knew was that there was some tension and that our presence was expected to smooth things over, at least for a time.


    After a moment of silence, Shelter spoke up, mostly to pass the time. "So, I''ve been thinking; after we''re through here, I want to try working with Kid Win again."


    "Who?" Jouster asked. "Sounds familiar."


    "Brockton Wards. He''s that guy with a hoverboard. We met him briefly during the joint training exercise over the summer."


    "Ohh¡­ Hey, isn''t he that kid that was super into Hero-themed stuff? Paints all his stuff gold?"


    "Heh, yeah. He was new to the hero thing then."


    "Why him?"


    "He''s been messaging practically every tinker in New England saying how he found his specialization and wants to try collaborating again. We tried that for a bit, but he didn''t really know what he was good at so it kinda fell apart then. Now though, I''m thinking about giving it another shot. Think the bossman will go for it?"


    "Definitely," I added, "you know how big they are on cooperation. What''s his specialization?"


    "Modularity. It''s a good one."


    "That''s¡­ Sorry if I''m wrong, but isn''t that like replaceable parts?"


    "At its most basic, sure. Rather than replaceable, ''interchangeable'' is the better word, I think. Parts he makes for one thing can be rearranged or slotted into another thing to fit the situation. I messaged him a few days ago and he was working on a teleporter that automatically warps his tech to him from his lab in prearranged configurations. It''s fascinating stuff."


    I hummed with interest. I wasn''t particularly tech-savvy, despite the Asian stereotype, but I did have some interest in the subject. The arbalest resting against my thigh was tinkertech after all. It wasn''t great tinkertech, nothing like Armsmaster''s halberd or Dragon''s million-odd mechs, but it was made for me. Besides, with my power being what it was, some basic understanding of physics went a long way to increasing my effectiveness as a heroine.


    "That sounds neat. I''m glad he found his specialization, but what does that mean for you?"


    "You know how I make hardlight generators? What if I made a bunch of little generators and teleported them onto the battlefield? Instant castle. Or dugout. Or bridge. Whatever we need, and done in a way that lets me change the environment on the fly. Right now, I''m stuck carrying around a battery and only a few generators so I can keep them all charged."


    "That''d be really useful, actually," Jouster said, our chat bringing him out of his griping. "It''d synergize well with me and Flechette. Funnel people so they can''t escape me. Or just give her a camera on a drone and let her shoot through walls."


    "Exactly! I mean, I can''t carry that many and my armor''s bulky enough as it is. But if I can get a teleporter set up from HQ? It''d be game-changing for me. And I think I can give Kid Win a few tips on how to funnel energy into shaped-"


    Whatever else he was about to say was interrupted by the sound of raised voices. Soldiers and aid workers were always shouting at the crowd to do one thing or another, but this was different.


    Jouster and I looked at each other and nodded as one. We quickly headed down from the warehouse roof. I stepped over the edge and charged my boots and gloves. They made contact with the wall and left noticeable divots into the stonework as if the wall was made of clay. Gently, I loosed my hold on my power and allowed myself to slide down the wall. Doing this always reminded me of Mufasa dying, as morbid as that was.


    For his part, Jouster simply leapt down, the point of his lance angled towards the ground and glowing softly. There was a reason he was the captain of the Lancers, New York''s rapid response team. He could imbue the point of his lance with a seemingly unending variety of effects. Elements like fire, ice, and lightning were fair game, as were explosive kinetic force, disintegration, and even suction or repulsion. He even had a mover power that gave him short-lived bursts of speed.


    His lance met the earth and bent slightly, the metal and plexiglass body absorbing the force. His power discharged as he turned his skewering maneuver into a swing and bounced forward like a pole vaulter.


    I hopped down the last few feet and kicked off before completely removing the friction on my shoes, sliding forward to catch up. Jouster was faster than me in short bursts but I could keep up over longer distances because I didn''t exhaust my own stamina sprinting after him.


    We followed the noise until it led us to the partially unloaded truck at the far end of the makeshift parking lot. There, four aid workers had set up stations to pass out things like thermal blankets; people had been forced to evacuate with nothing but the clothes on their backs and Damascus could get surprisingly chilly at night.


    These workers were guarded by six armed men carrying assault weapons and bearing flag patches I didn''t recognize. They looked angry and were loudly shouting at the people, though their weapons stayed firmly pointed at the ground thankfully.


    A middle-aged man with a full beard and a receding hairline came forward. He shouted something in Arabic that had the workers hand him a vacuum-sealed blanket. He held out his arms in a clear demand for more. None of us spoke a lick of Arabic, but the urgency in his eyes was unmistakable.


    Jouster reported back to console while I stepped over to see if I could help.


    "What''s going on?" I asked them.


    "He needs eight more blankets," an aid worker yelled back. "He has six children and two nephews. He''s refusing to leave without them."


    The man yelled something and tried to snatch a sealed blanket from the box. The aid worker slapped the hand away and yelled back in Arabic, gesturing to the angry murmurings of people behind him.


    Before this could continue, a soldier stepped forward. He held his rifle horizontally and used it as a bar to shove the man back into the crowd. The other soldiers followed his lead and took up the same posture, standing shoulder to shoulder to create a human barricade against the desperate.


    This sucked. Shelter would have been better to deal with things like this, but his dugout was deployed next to the pharmaceuticals and water, the supplies we thought we needed to guard carefully. Things like blankets had been taken to a separate area to make another line so the crowd would be easier to manage.


    The soldiers stood firm but that only riled up the people behind them more. I wasn''t sure what was said, but there was additional shouting.


    "What do we do?" I asked the worker. He at least seemed like he understood what was being said.


    "I don''t know! We''re going to run out in an hour if we just give them out in batches like that!"


    "Shelter, can you make something to separate them?" I yelled back into my mic.


    "Not off the cuff!" he yelled back. "Why do you think I want Kid Win''s teleporter? Give me five minutes. I can relocate."


    I groaned. "Don''t do that. Stay where you are."


    We really weren''t cut out for this. Jouster handled rapid response. Shelter was too slow. Me¡­ My power had no business being pointed in a civilian''s direction. It wasn''t like we could be the first to swing either. Faced with a problem we couldn''t fight through, we were reminded that at the end of the day, we were just a bunch of kids.


    Jouster got off the phone and looked at me. I knew that look. It was the "I know this is stupid but I''m going to do it anyway because I don''t know what else might help in this situation," look.


    My captain could be annoyingly expressive sometimes.


    He channeled his power until his lance glowed with a blue light. Ice, which¡­ might help here¡­? Then, with a shout, he leapt into the air. People hurried to make room for the descending cape. When he came down, it was on the other side of the human barricade, point-first as he was wont to do. Seeing no better options, I took an armful of those sealed thermal blanket packets and ran out to join him.


    A wreath of icicles sprouted from the ground in a small circle around him as people backed up in alarm. His power took hold and froze the ground further out, creating an impromptu ice rink. It made a few people stumble but the density of the crowd meant they just leaned against each other rather than take a bad fall.


    I quickly shoved a packet into each person''s hand and began to push them outward, forming a ring. "Get the crowd under control!" I yelled back to the aid workers. I didn''t know what I wanted them to do, but anything was better than nothing.


    Then the man who''d been up front was there. He grabbed me by the arm and snatched as much as he could from me. That ended the brief reprieve Jouster had managed for us. Suddenly, everyone was swarming and pushing and pawing at me. I heard words I was fairly sure weren''t nice to say to young girls. My world became a confusing mess of bodies and hands.


    Someone grabbed me by the hair and yanked painfully. I panicked. Instinct took over. I lashed out, a practiced elbow behind me at what should be nose-height for most people. I felt the crack of cartilage breaking and took momentary satisfaction in it as the fingers entwined in my hair loosened. Then I immediately felt like crap because I remembered they were civilians just trying to keep their families warm.


    My head whirled on a swivel. I saw one of the soldiers slap someone back with the stock of his rifle. He was a boy, about our age, maybe younger, but he collapsed to the ground with a broken nose. That only seemed to enrage the others. The press of bodies was stifling.


    Before I knew it, someone tried to snatch the blanket from another person''s hands and the whole crowd erupted into a brawl with me and Jouster in the middle. It was like being in a mosh pit at a concert, only with more sand and no one willing to look after the injured.


    "Flechette!" I heard Jouster yell desperately.


    Before I could say anything in response, I heard a man shout in pain. He was the boy I''d seen take a rifle stock to the face. He''d scampered to his feet and was now stuck between the soldiers, Jouster''s ice, and the press of hundreds of bodies.


    Shadows began to encroach on my vision. I saw my captain go down out of the corner of my eye, then the darkness claimed me.


    I dreamt of a sea of dazzling stars and some great creature that swam through the sky like the ocean depths. It spun and swirled into an impossibly elegant spiral. With every spin, it spawned countless stars that glittered in the night. I saw the stars fall to the earth like a meteor shower, each descending to hear the plea of a desperate soul. It was the most hauntingly beautiful thing I''d ever seen.


    And when I awoke, I remembered nothing.


    X


    Andrew Carr


    2010, November 27: Damascus, Syria


    "Fuck! Jouster! Flechette! Come in!" I swore. I was far enough away that I hadn''t been caught up in whatever that was, but that left me too far to help. Then my training kicked in and I barked into the mic as fast as I could. "Console, Jouster and Flechette are down. Cape activity likely. Some kind of master effect."


    This was the worst. The depot was too spread out. There were only so many hardlight generators I could keep on my person, they were slow to deploy and dismantle, and they stopped working when they were fifty feet away from me. I was the exact opposite of Jouster: Terrible at offense or mobility, great at holding a position.


    Jouster had me build a dugout near the food depot because that was where he thought we''d be needed most. It was also the place where over the counter medications like insulin were being passed out, the kind that people couldn''t do without for even a few days.


    Turned out, Damascus got colder than we really knew and those thermal blankets were in heavy demand. Sure, insulin was critical, but only to a few, while blankets? Everyone wanted those.


    Which meant I was left scrambling to rejoin my team. I had a few drones for force projection and surveillance to complement my bread and butter, but I didn''t want to be the tinker who fired on civilians. What few confoam grenades I had attached to my drones could only grab a few people at a time and they only seemed to make things worse by riling up most everyone else.


    I finished disengaging my hardlight shields and began to sprint over. Flechette told me to stay back, but I couldn''t afford to. I had to go help my friends; they were my priority.


    I heard Ursa Aurora come online. "ETA four minutes. Powers? What took down Jouster and Flechette?"


    "I don''t know. They were fine one moment and collapsed like puppets the next. Some kind of master effect?"


    "Stay in position."


    "I''m already halfway there," I told her.


    "Shit. Do not engage. Prioritize keeping your teammates safe."


    "Yes, ma''am." It was only a minute later that I saw them begin to stir. The guards had dragged them to safety, leaning them against the truck tires. "They''re up! Flechette! Jouster! Come in!"


    "Fuck, what hit me?" I heard Flechette mumble. "Oww¡­ Shit¡­ That was¡­"


    "New tigger," Jouster came to the same conclusion she did. He was pointing back to the crowd, where a man skated along the ground. It didn''t matter whether the ground was Jouster''s ice or gravel; he seemed to treat friction as a suggestion. "Prism, Ursa, we''ve got a new trigger on the loose."


    Even as we watched, he clawed at the air. From his fingertips, ribbons sprouted like razor wire, leaving bloody lacerations on anyone nearby. The striker effect lingered, forming ribbons of blades even after the new cape had passed. He wasn''t the only one. I saw a brute who made gauntlets of ice, a shaker who seemed to rob things of momentum, and a striker who conjured a whip that looked like he''d braided those ribbons. They all looked like they were sliding on the ground, though Ribbons was the fastest.


    "Cluster trigger," Flechette whispered in horror. She had experience with those.


    People were shouting in terror now. The ones around Ribbons scrambled away as best they could, only to run into walls of flesh around them. Other parts of the crowd hadn''t noticed what happened and were behaving as they''d been before: surging forward, brawling, arguing amongst themselves as people died not ten feet from them.


    It made me want to throw up but I had to act. I laid down a series of walls with my hardlight generators and called the soldiers and aid workers to us. Then Jouster, Flechette, and I started to lob our arsenal of confoam grenades at the capes.


    "Clear them out," Jouster shouted. "Get me a shot at the new capes. I can take them down."


    Then everything was obscured by a localized sandstorm that tore through the area. The winds weren''t strong enough to pick anyone up, but the sand stung like a bitch. The sudden wind paused the fighting. For a moment, I thought the Lionguard had arrived ahead of Ursa and Prism.


    Just as quickly as it came, the wind died, revealing a group of armed men and women. At least one was a cape obviously, but every last one wore a dirt-brown shroud over their faces so we couldn''t tell. They weren''t in any uniform I recognized.


    A loud crack rang out, striking the first soldier to raise his weapon. I saw one of ours slump to the ground, a hole in his throat.


    "Hostiles! Sandstorm shaker," Jouster shouted as he reached for his lance.


    "Fuck."


    Flechette laughed in that delirious way that desperate people did when they had nothing else. "Yeah, we''re so fucked."


    Author''s Note


    This is 2010. Social unrest began in March (though underlying causes trace back longer). In 2011, a series of civil rights movements would explode throughout North Africa and the Middle East known as the Arab Spring. The Syrian Republic cracked down hard on those, starting what would become the Syrian Civil War.


    Arsalan means "lion." The character is referencing Amir Arsalan, or "Prince Lion," a Persian hero akin to Arthur, Le Loi, Jumong, or other mythical kings. He had a sword called Shamshir-e Zomorrodnegar, the "Emerald Encrusted Sword." Yes, Syria is Arabic and that''s ethnically different from Persian. Yes, I''m doing it anyway.


    Lily has no last name so I made one. Shelter and Jouster don''t have civilian names at all as far as I can find. They are the only members of the NY Wards we know, even though NY is confirmed to have multiple Wards teams.


    Damascus in November can get as low as 38-40 F at night. A lot of westerners think of the Middle East as desert, and that''s true in some portions, but deserts can get really cold at night. In fact, Damascus sees roughly 11 snow days per year.


    So, riot. I don''t think I did the chaos of a riot justice, especially not one orchestrated by someone else. The new trigger was obviously an accident, but the distraction was not.


    No animal facts. The entire A/N is basically one big political fact anyway.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 4.8 Seal

    Seal 4.8


    Bryce Kiley


    2010, November 27: Damascus, Syria


    Wilshire wheeled in a patient, the nineteenth since I started this morning. We worked like a well-oiled machine by now. This one was clearly an emergency worker in her own right. He didn''t need to say much given the obviously crushed rib cage, thankfully the right side so whatever did this missed her heart.


    He recited his prognosis anyway and I made sure to pay careful attention. We''d lost patients because we''d missed something before. Part of me wished I''d retained the Pledge Regalia for the second day but it was better used out there, especially now that the people who could be found with a cursory glance had already been rescued. Rescue workers were now having to take greater risks to find those who could be saved.


    I''d rebuilt her skeleton and begun to knit the muscles and sinew around them when I heard shouting outside. Not ten seconds later, Wilshire barged in with a grim frown. "We need to go," he said. "There''s a riot outside. Big fight, capes involved. The entire medical tent is being relocated."


    "Well, shit. Go. I''ll fix this one and join you. Where''s the rendezvous point?"


    "A mile west. There''s another lot they''re using to hold out. It should be far enough from the riot."


    "And the ones that can''t be moved?"


    "We''re loading them into ambulances as we can, but there aren''t enough so a few are getting ferried on truck beds."


    I grunted in understanding. He didn''t say it, but it was implied: Once all the medicine, personnel, and tools were loaded up, they likely wouldn''t have room for all the patients. Some would be left behind, whether on purpose or accidentally in the chaos. Seeing people get abandoned like this, the riot would naturally get worse as outrage fueled the fire.


    I could leave. No one would blame me. But¡­ But before I was Creed, wasn''t I a PA? PAs didn''t swear to the hippocratic oath like doctors, but we did at least promise something similar during our graduation ceremonies. It didn''t feel right to leave when I had a suit like mine.


    No, I wasn''t in danger. Not from a riot, nor the vast majority of capes. Unless someone outside triggered with an annihilator effect or Ash Beast strolled in from the desert, I wasn''t worried for myself. I wouldn''t gain anything from staying, but I couldn''t leave people in good conscience either.


    "Faultline was right; I really am a shitty mercenary," I muttered with a self-deprecating chuckle. The sigil embroidered into my gloves shined as I reinflated my patient''s lungs. This research that had been nurtured like a sapling on the blood of countless victims, Marcoh had wanted to redeem it. "Go, I''ll fix up the ones I can and carry the others to join you."


    "You''re staying?"


    "Yeah, my suit''s pretty impressive, you know?"


    "I¡­ Alright, Creed, be careful."


    X


    Lily Tondo


    2010, November 27: Damascus, Syria


    Mob mentality was terrifying. When one of the soldiers died, the others opened fire even as a sandstorm engulfed us all. I saw several people go down, people whose only crime was desperation. I grabbed a civilian and yanked her back behind Shelter''s hardlight constructs before reaching down to grab a handful of pebbles.


    I imbued them with my power and lobbed them one by one through the soldiers'' assault rifles, shattering them into a thousand pieces. These soldiers were nominally on our side, but I couldn''t have them shooting into the crowd.


    A soldier cussed me out in Arabic but I didn''t pay him any mind. It wasn''t like I understood a word anyway. They ran back behind cover, leaving the crowd to fend for themselves. Two of them drew their sidearms, but Jouster quickly slapped them out of their hands.


    The fresh trigger, the one we''d started calling Ribbons, had whipped a circle of empty space around himself, marked by people on the ground bleeding from lacerations. They thankfully didn''t look deep, but there was still a chance they could still bleed out.


    I saw that the brute of the cluster, one with ice gauntlets, was about to swing on a defenseless man. I whipped my arbalest out and fired, nailing him with a tranquilizer bolt. Being a brute, it took three for him to finally go down. I winced. I didn''t have nearly enough of these and unless they had the durability, I''d be leaving them to be trampled in the chaos.


    The one with a whip instead of a ribbon quickly went down to Jouster charging out. He grabbed the fresh trigger and slung him over his shoulder before racing back behind the barricades. That left the slowdown shaker and Ribbons, and whoever the new guys were.


    One of the people who''d caused the sandstorm ran around and tried to get into the driver seat of the truck we''d been using, maybe to hotwire it. A taser from Shelter solved that problem.


    I didn''t know why they were here. Alongside the Dust Devil, there was someone who made spikes of glass, another who phased through walls, designated Quartz and Genie respectively.


    More soldiers arrived in jeeps and vans and we found ourselves in a firefight to keep them from shooting into the crowd. Dust Devil and a few of his cohorts were firing at both sides indiscriminately; their bullets pinged off Shelter''s wall like a drumline.


    On the plus side, most civilians were running away, but there were just as many men who lashed out randomly in a blind panic.


    "We have to take them down," Jouster yelled.


    "Belay that!" Ursa roared through comms. "Do not engage! Stay put and keep yourselves safe!"


    "Bu-"


    "That''s an order, Jouster! Pull back!"


    "We''re not going to sit here and watch people die!"


    "You don''t even know how many capes there are! ETA one minute! Just stay still!"


    He was about to shout back when I saw something shimmer in the air. It had a metallic shine and swerved in an arc, striking one of the newly arrived soldiers. My power kicked in. I knew a thing or two about aim and trajectory. That angle was definitely impossible.


    "We''ve got a blaster," I cut in. "Shaker, maybe. Telekinetic that uses bits of metal like homing bullets. Unknown location."


    "Who? Never mind, got it. Shit. Shelter, can you cover me?" my captain said.


    I held out my arbalest at the ready and looked for priority targets. Shelter shouted as another man went down and we decided to call the curving-bullet-man Deadeye. I still had no idea where they were; they could be anywhere at all. Even the non-capes wore those tan shrouds.


    This was nothing like the conflicts I was used to. I''d seen Epoch and the Adepts. That crazy bitch, March. Even Animos of the Teeth once when I was way cockier than I should''ve been. Those conflicts were so much more structured than this. Everyone wore easily distinguishable outfits, colorful masks that told me they were enemies I could shoot at. No one intentionally shot at crowds of civilians, even those lunatics from the Teeth.


    Other than Dust Devil''s group, and I still had no idea which of them was Dust Devil, not a single person wore any kind of costume. I saw another man go down to what I now recognized was a bullet being manipulated through the air.


    I had to do something. My power kicked in. It felt a bit like a subconscious nudge here, an extra moment of clarity there. I had a knack for physics, especially trajectory, and I used it now.


    The arbalest was slow, but my targets weren''t going anywhere.


    I loosed one bolt after another. Each shot was aimed for the shoulder or arm to avoid the vitals, just in case. Four of Dust Devil''s men went down, but either I didn''t hit the right one or the storm didn''t need conscious upkeep.


    A moment later, a whirling sandstorm covered everyone and I couldn''t aim for fear of striking someone I didn''t mean to.


    I heard another scream near me and I knew Deadeye had struck again. Where were they? They''d yet to take shots at us, but that could change at any moment. They clearly didn''t need to see to aim.


    Then I heard three familiar roars, ursine roars. Ursa Aurora''s projections came into view, stomping through the sandstorm and barreling people aside to reach us. She and Prism were riding two bears and they looked pissed.


    The sight struck some sense into a few of the rioters and they naturally parted ways for three furry tanks with claws. If nothing else, there was a certain primal part of us all that looked at three chunky bears in full sprint and decided, "Nope."


    Their arrival filled me with relief. I''d never been good at this part of the job. PR? Great, I was just about the only Ward who didn''t mind talking to people. Telling kids not to bully people or do drugs? Wonderful, I agreed with the message. Fighting? I just¡­ I wasn''t afraid, but I was¡­ hesitant. Afraid I''d go too far. Imbue the wrong physics-breaker into my bolts. My biggest fear wasn''t death; it was the thought of having to live with causing so much of it.


    "Wards, take people out of here. Grab a group and escort them back to the command center. Protect civilians that run to you but don''t engage capes," Ursa said, immediately taking charge. She and Prism jumped off the bears and directed them into the crowd. The bears began to body-check people, separating those who were fighting. "Go!"


    "Yes, ma''am," I yelled back. It was calming, finally having someone tell me what to do, how I could help. Seizing the initiative wasn''t my thing at all, especially when all I could do was shoot at people, but now that I had my marching orders, things became so much clearer.


    I watched as Prism divided into three copies and began to herd people with a mixture of electrified batons and containment foam grenades. She worked to establish a loose perimeter as the bear projections bodily separated people.


    Then a bear popped like shattered glass as someone emptied a clip into it.


    "Come on! We have to go!" Shelter yelled. He pulled Jouster in one hand and one of the aid workers in the other.


    I followed but found myself looking back. Prism, Ursa, and the soldiers were fighting to contain the riot, but there was a clear difference in their willingness to escalate. My seniors now struck with breaking force, strikes that would have definitely invited an investigation in New York.


    But this wasn''t New York and the soldiers were far more brutal. The dust whirled and cleared and I saw a soldier mount a civilian so he could beat him bloody. A few of them shot at us but I loosed a clip of tranq bolts in their direction, taking them out of the fight. If I had to leave, the least I could do was even the numbers a bit for Ursa and Prism.


    A man barreled one of the jeeps towards us, but Jouster saw it. He shrugged off Shelter''s grip, took up his lance, and charged to meet the car. The point of his lance glowed purple as knight met jeep.


    The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    My captain won.


    The tip of his spear detonated with immense repulsive force, crumpling the jeep like an aluminum can. I knew that the driver would be lucky to get out of that alive.


    I winced. My captain, my friend, just killed someone. He wasn''t a bad guy. He talked about "doing what needed to be done" a lot, but I knew this would fuck him up for a while. Live combat or not, I saw him stare at his weapon as if he''d never seen it before.


    I grabbed him and kept following Shelter.


    Dust Devil''s men shouted something at Ribbons and the slow-guy. They exchanged rapid-fire Arabic that had him turning his attention on the soldiers. He ducked low, vanishing into a conveniently rising cloud of dust, and reappeared like a shark. His hands clawed at the soldiers as he slid by, too fast to aim at, leaving the men with bloody wounds and at least one with hanging entrails.


    "What are they saying?" I yelled at one aid worker.


    "I don''t know!" he yelled back. "My Arabic isn''t that good! Something about killing the president? Taking down the government?"


    Shelter groaned in frustration. "You''re fucking with me. Someone''s using the endbringer attack to start a revolution?"


    "Makes sense. Damascus is the capital. The SRG is split up managing a bunch of foreign elements. There''s no better time than now from their perspective," Jouster added.


    "How does that make sense? This is the endbringer truce we''re talking about!"


    "And not every faction obeys that. If they think they can get away with it, they will. Or they think that drawing international attention to their revolution is worth it."


    "Fuck!"


    I agreed. This was a decision only a fanatic could make. Whoever orchestrated this truly believed that they were in the right, that the foreign governments who saw would side with them in the end despite them so blatantly violating the endbringer truce. It was¡­


    "Insane," I breathed. "This is fucking insane."


    "Yeah, we''ve got people at the food depot too. Let''s escort the civilians out, then see which side needs reinforcements."


    X


    Bryce Kiley


    2010, November 27: Damascus, Syria


    I fixed up the emergency worker and got to work on those that remained behind. Or, I tried, but immediately ran into a spot of trouble: All the interpreters bailed.


    No, that wasn''t right. I wasn''t being fair to them. Of course they''d leave when people were being evacuated. They weren''t capes and sure as hell didn''t have a super-suit. They couldn''t heal themselves with a word or go toe to toe against brutes.


    I wheeled my patient out and left her in one corner before yanking someone towards me. He had a leg that had been recently amputated. Though the stump had been bandaged, the work had been hasty and I could see splotches of brown where congealed blood seeped into the cloth.


    He struggled and shouted something in Arabic, but I held him down with suit-granted strength.


    "I''m trying to help you," I said calmly. I was told during medical school that tone was just as important as the actual words I was saying. I hoped that was true.


    That didn''t work of course. In Worm canon, the PRT was said to favor masks that exposed at least a part of their heroes'' faces because that bit of exposure humanized them and made relating to the general populace easier. I never thought I''d need something like that, but in a foreign country without even the most basic language skills, I decided to rely on whatever I could.


    I pinned him by the shoulder with one arm. Pointing two fingers at his eyes, I gestured to my face. Then, when the man calmed somewhat, I disengaged my chin guard with a pneumatic hiss.


    "I want to help you," I repeated.


    He looked at me. I looked at him. We had a real connection going, intent conveyed through the divide in language and culture.


    Or, I thought we did. Then the bastard punched me in the mouth.


    "Gah! Fuck!"


    I reeled back, more in surprise than pain. Still, he managed to give me a split lip. I spat a bit of the blood pooled in my mouth.


    That broke the spell. The others in the room, some of those patients well enough to move, lashed out in defense of their own. They shouted and threw whatever they had on hand at me but I gamely ignored them.


    I jammed a finger onto his chest and called, "Thunder Wave."


    Maybe not my most morally upright moment, but I took no small amount of satisfaction watching his body seize up. His eyes widened in alarm as I stared him down through my visor. Then, just to prove a point, I tapped my bloody lip.


    "Recover," I intoned. "Why the hell would you think that''s a good idea? No, wait¡­ That''s a wonderful idea."


    I wiped the blood from my lip, spitting out the metallic tang to show there was nothing there. I gestured to myself again.


    "See? Nothing. Healed. I can heal." The man stared at me with fear. He clearly didn''t understand a word I said. "Healer. No? Doctor?"


    Recognition.


    "Doctor. Doc-tor. Good, you know that word. Now hold still, not that you can move much right now¡­"


    I grumbled swears under my breath as I undid his bandages. Amy would probably chew me out if I provided "nonconsensual healing," but I didn''t care. At this point, my goal was to fix everyone up and get them moved to the secondary base as soon as possible.


    I held a hand to the man''s weeping stump and channeled my aura into the glove. Bit by bit, the flesh knit itself closed. I saw the man''s eyes calm as he finally fully realized what I was.


    "What the hell are you doing? Get away from him!" I heard someone scream behind me.


    I turned around to find a dark-skinned woman in white with the world-famous red cross on her chest. I didn''t even know the Red Cross was a thing anymore. She''d picked up a folding chair and brandished it like a pro wrestler ready to come in for a "surprise" bash. Under different circumstances, it would have been hilarious.


    In the moment, I had to admire her gumption. Staying behind mid-riot was one thing. Picking a fight with an obvious cape with unknown powers and motives? Brave. Stupid, but also incredibly brave.


    I did my best to explain.


    "I''m Creed, a tinker with healing tech. I came here with Medic Wilshire from the British hero team, Suits," I rattled off.


    "Suits, huh?"


    "N-Actually, sure. I work with Wilshire," I said, not bothering to correct the misunderstanding. The Suits were an internationally recognized heroic team. If that meant she''d trust me more, good enough. I gestured to the man''s stump. "I closed the bleeding, that''s all. Do you speak Arabic?"


    "Enough to get by. What do you need?"


    "Start organizing them based on urgency."


    "You could have left."


    "So could you, and you don''t have a tinkertech suit."


    "Someone''s gotta make sure nothing happens. The symbol of the Red Cross still means something. Sometimes, people behave themselves more because they see it."


    "And other times?"


    Her silence was answer enough. "Pam Johnson, American Red Cross. Atlanta. You?"


    "Creed. Tinker."


    We worked in relative silence after that, our peace broken only by quiet mumblings in halting Arabic or her English translations to me. Occasionally, the gunshots outside would get loud but we did our best to tune them out.


    "What would you have done if I left? You don''t speak Arabic."


    I scoffed. "Paralyze them all and treat them anyway. It''d take longer, but I''d manage."


    "You can''t just taser your patients."


    "Sure I can. It helps that I''m not a doctor."


    "You''re not a Suit, are you?"


    "Not even a hero," I admitted as we finished fixing the last patient.


    "Figures. It''s a villain that sticks around," she says, rolling her eyes. She punched my chest, right over my heart. "Well you''re a hero to these people, kid."


    "There are plenty of heroes outside trying to protect them."


    "And there''s one here, saving their lives."


    "Then what''s that make you?"


    "Correction. Two."


    I laughed. "Point. So, got a plan to move them out west?"


    We looked around. They were fixed, or at least not in danger of dying mid-transit, but I didn''t think most of them would be up for a trek right now. It was about two or three in the afternoon and the heat was stifling. I was reminded that my armor needed better temperature control.


    The two of us looked around for any cars we could take, but found none.


    "You''re a tinker, right?" She tapped a party-sized coffee machine and a bunch of plastic crates lying around. "Make us a car or something."


    "That''s so not how this works."


    "Well, guess we''re holing up here and hoping no one shoots our way."


    I looked around at the crates. Then, at the people. "Actually, I have an idea¡­"


    "Look, Creed, I''ve known you for less than an hour and I already hate the way you said that."


    I explained.


    She was right, she hated it.


    X


    Johnson looked up at me with a mixture of raw disbelief and hatred in her eyes. "You are a terrible person."


    "I am," I agreed easily. I kicked off, climbing into the air. "I''m also carrying you all a hundred feet off the ground."


    "This is mortifying."


    "Yup."


    "What the hell did you do to us?"


    "Thunder Wave. I use it to stun my opponents. Done right, it stiffens the body. Think of it as temporary rigor mortis, but, you know, with less of the dying."


    "That doesn''t make me feel better. You can see why that doesn''t make me feel better, can''t you?"


    "I also used my biotinkering gloves to further stiffen your body so you guys don''t loosen up mid-flight. That''d be annoying."


    "You''re a terrible person," she repeated.


    "You said that al-"


    "I know I said that! You can''t stack people like LEGOs!"


    "I mean¡­" I looked behind me. I always carried several spools of Germa fiber; durable rope was dead useful to have and I had an expanded bag so there was zero reason not to. I''d paralyzed them all, stiffened them into boards, and laid them on top of each other like so much firewood before strapping them together. "I seem to have succeeded."


    "You have the worst bedside manners."


    "Me? You should meet Panacea. She threatened to grow a cactus up my rectum!"


    "The most altruistic cape in the world threatened grievous bodily harm upon you," she said flatly. "That doesn''t set off warning bells for you?"


    "I¡­ Yeah, fair point. In my defense, I really can''t think of a way to move you all without this. It''s not like there were any trucks left behind that I could hotwire."


    "Ugh, just¡­ just get on with it¡­"


    I did so, skating along the sky with them hanging off my shoulders. A trail of pyrobloin left behind allowed me to drag them along like a sack of potatoes on a road made of condensed vapor. Only a few people were left behind, fourteen all told, but that was still too many to just walk, freshly healed as they were. Assuming 150 pounds on average, that was a little north of a full ton. A little heavy on me, but not impossible given the bullshit built into One Piece and Pokemon-derived technology.


    I began to hum Christmas carols under my breath. "Santa''s coming to town~"


    "God, please kill me¡­"


    Despite her bitching and moaning, Johnson said something to the patients that made them mostly cooperative. We headed to the rendezvous point without any problems.


    As I landed in the middle of the busy lot, I mused, "You know, I do believe this means I''ve officially engaged in human trafficking."


    "I hope you get arrested," Johnson drawled.


    I laughed and began untying them. One by one, I repaired their strategically severed nerves and passed them into the care of more conventional medics. "You know, I do too. If the local Protectorate can arrest me, it''ll mean they''re finally getting their shit together."


    "What city?"


    "Brockton."


    "Figures. You Brocktonites are a different breed. What now?"


    I looked back towards the refugee camp. Even now, we could hear gunshots ringing every several seconds. There were more cars headed towards the riot, each filled with regular police and soldiers. I didn''t know what kinds of riot gear police in Syria were provided, but I had a feeling they wouldn''t be sticking with rubber bullets and confoam; those guns looked big and mean.


    "I think I should be there," I said. I didn''t have to be, but¡­ What Faultline told me rang in my mind. Maybe it was time to stop pretending, stop acting like I didn''t care.


    "You sure? You think you can calm the fighting there?"


    I still didn''t like the idea of calling myself a hero. The word was overly burdened with meaning and hypocrisy on Earth-Bet. But wasn''t I a huge hypocrite too?


    I barked out a laugh.


    Here I was, letting someone else define me all over again. I did it with the regalia, with Kazu and Ringo and Agito. I allowed people I''d never met to shape my perception of my own regalia, acting like chains that restrained my Road. In the same way, I''d allowed what I knew of Worm to define my understanding of heroes.


    Meaningless. Utterly meaningless.


    If I didn''t like what "heroes" represented in this world, the answer was simple: I''d just have to be the hero I wanted to see. So long as I could look at myself in the mirror with pride, what more did I need?


    My power had grown exponentially. Maybe, the scope of my protection could increase too. Mom, Sierra, they were the ones I wanted to protect at all costs. But my reach was a lot longer now. I could do so much more.


    "Maybe, but I want to try."


    "Then go, kid. SOP for rogue capes is to put themselves under the command of the local power, but Arsalan¡­ I think you should find Ursa Aurora first."


    "What''s wrong with Arsalan?"


    "He''s not out here for the people," she said with a scowl. "And I don''t mean that he puts the country above individual citizens. Look, people were terrified to talk about his power, and not just in the usual overaggressive police sort of way."


    I thought about the impression I''d gotten of him. In the brief minute we''d met, he came off as a highly militaristic man, someone who put a lot of emphasis on appearances and duty. Or maybe on the way he was seen to contribute.


    On the other hand, I knew Ursa Aurora. She, alongside Cache, Prism, and the big sparkle himself, would be one of the capes to reinforce Brockton Bay when the Slaughterhouse hit post-Leviathan. I didn''t recall her taking one down, but she''d seemed like an upright sort in the serial, someone who was in it to save lives.


    I nodded. "Fair enough, I''ll ally with Ursa, just this once."


    Author''s Note


    This was always the plan in a way, and something no one should be surprised by. A running theme of this story has been Bryce slowly making Amy more flexible. By the same token, he can''t help but be influenced by her either. Neither of them were the same people they were in September and this is a natural evolution of that character development.


    I''m of the opinion that Amy and Carol''s black and white understanding of morality is wrong, or at least misguided. Similarly, I''m not a fan of those super-edgy "There''s no such thing as morality so just do what you want," types either. I think morality is a spectrum that is colored by motivation and context and my writing reflects that in both this story and Legendary Tinker.


    Anyway, I have a favor to ask you guys. Can you please recommend isekai/reincarnation fics into ASOIAF/GOT? I''ve read Deeds Not Words, Dread Our Wrath, and a few others. I really enjoy reading about minor lords who aren''t obsessed with the Game and just want to start a brewery or introduce the wonders of pizza to Westeros or something.


    Please? I really need something to help me procrastinate.


    Animal fact? Sure. The Syrian national animal is the Syrian brown bear so let''s have some bear facts.


    Bears are born during the winter denning period, around January-February. They are born in litters of 1-3 hairless, blind, and about .5 pounds. Yes, this means that hibernation as portrayed in cartoons is a bit of a myth. Bears can in fact remain active throughout the winter, though mostly for foraging.


    The average lifespan of a bear is between 20-30 years, but Lady M, a bear in a Ukrainian reserve, lived to the age of 43, making her the oldest rescue ever.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 4.9 Seal

    Seal 4.9


    Bryce Kiley


    2010, November 27: Damascus, Syria


    Racing back to the refugee camp took me less than half the time it did ferrying the patients and Nurse Johnson. Without a literal ton of bodies to hold me back, I hopped into the air and cast Agility, leaving the fallback point in a streak of condensed vapor.


    I returned to a scene of utter pandemonium. Rather than die down, it seemed like the inclusion of SRG reinforcements had only added to the violence. How many different factions were there? I saw the ghostly, ursine projections of the Protectorate leader, the gray and desert-tan uniforms of the SRG, and several figures who wore dust-brown shrouds over their faces. Beyond those three, I could see at least a dozen people in civilian outfits doing whatever they wanted, lashing out at whoever was closest.


    From the north and east, the golems of Arsalan were making steady headway. I couldn''t see much from above because of the dust clouds, but they looked to be grabbing and throwing people down, incapacitating them with what would in America be considered excessive force. They were bulletproof, the muffled pinging sounds from their stone armor made that clear. They were also supported by a flying figure and a pair of movers who fought with the men in shrouds.


    As I got closer, I found that the flyer was either a changer or a Case-53. He had two sets of large, insectoid wings like a dragonfly. His spine protruded from his back around and over his neck, framing his head and looping out until it formed a spiraling spike of bone. He looked like a cross between a dragonfly and a unicorn and I named him "Flygon" in my mind. He was fast, zipping back and forth to skewer or pick up anyone who aimed at his leader. Even if he missed, a cyclone of wind followed his wake, leaching chaos behind.


    The two movers weren''t as fast, but they made up for that with area denial. One generated flaming trails with his footsteps, leaving behind a column of fire nine feet tall. The other had a force field that grew bigger the longer he ran, creating a mobile barricade and corralling everyone. To stay on-brand, I labeled them Rapidash and Rhyhorn.


    Now that I was closer, I saw that neither Arsalan nor Flygon seemed overly concerned about leaving people alive. Flygon ripped through an assault rifle and the arm that was carrying it. A spiraling barrier of wind protected him from gunfire. Arsalan''s stone soldiers had some kind of physics-bending effect, or were just that strong, because they left visible indentations in flesh and bone where they gripped.


    Then I heard more gunshots and saw one of the men who''d been distributing supplies, identifiable by a sky-blue handkerchief wrapped around his upper arm, fall in a shower of blood. The kicker was that the bullets came from the direction of the SRG reinforcements. I was appalled by their callousness. These idiots couldn''t see well through the intermittent sandstorm and rather than take care, they were choosing to fire blind.


    It was all overwhelming. What had started as a riot had devolved into a true battlefield. Even civilians who had no powers were picking up dropped weapons, lashing out at the Syrian Guard to defend themselves. This was "riot breaking" as they knew it and it made me sick.


    I had to do something. I stood up in the sky, overlooking the battle for the place where I could make the most difference. Then Nurse Johnson''s advice rang in my head: Find Ursa Aurora. She was clearly the more palatable leader here. If anyone could get me a handle on the situation, it was her.


    I found her after a moment. Unfortunately, she was currently directing her bears to defend against a brute in civilian clothes, a hidden cape who''d decided to unmask in the chaos or possibly a fresh trigger, while trying not to harm him. She was fighting like a Protectorate hero, to incapacitate and restrain, while the man was clearly fighting to end her. She could have dogpiled him with three bears, but was forced to split her attention to protect civilians who were still caught in the battle.


    Around them, Rhyhorn and Rapidash worked together, using Rhyhorn''s force field like a bulldozer to shove people together while Rapidash encircled them in a wall of flames. It was effective at keeping people in one place, but it didn''t remove them from the battlefield. Worse, the flames covered the ones inside, making it harder to aim around them, and sent the rest panicking.


    I couldn''t dive in. Aurora had no reason to think I was an ally in this situation. If I dropped down on top of the riot, there was a good chance I''d only add to the chaos. Worse, I might distract the heroes, getting them hurt or killed.


    I looked for somewhere else to land. Off towards the edge, what had likely been a safe distance away before the battlefield expanded to sweep him in, another tinker had deployed some kind of barrier. His safe space was like a calm in the storm and I could see aid workers and capes dragging downed people behind him. Thankfully, it seemed like there was some tacit agreement to not shoot at the barrier because no faction was trying to focus down the obvious medics.


    I braked sharply, causing my torso to continue forward into a front flip. With my head pointed at the ground, I kicked off again into a sharp dive. I punched through a cloud of swirling sand and landed just in time to shield someone else, a civilian who''d fallen and had chosen wisely not to get up for fear of the flying hazards. Swirling my cape in front of me, I triggered the shield module and watched as a hail of bullets made my force field ripple.


    The civilian shouted something at me in Arabic, but I ignored him. I picked him up by the scruff of his neck and skated backwards until I was behind the other tinker''s bunker.


    "What the hell happened?" I yelled.


    "I don''t know!" the tinker shouted back. He was young, about my age, probably a Ward then. I pitied him. This was a shitty situation to be in for someone who probably couldn''t even drink yet. I at least had my past life to fall back on.


    "I''m Creed, independent. You?"


    "Shelter, Flechette, and Jouster from the New York Wards," he said. His voice was cracking, just on the bridge of hysteria.


    I swore. Flechette was here? Lily. Foil. Sting. The closest person Earth-Bet had to a "chosen one." The stakes just got way higher in my eyes. More or less every cape in Gold Morning was replaceable, except her. I didn''t know if she was here in canon or not, but if she died, we were so fucked it wasn''t even funny.


    That did it. Even had I not had that chat with Faultline last night, Flechette''s presence here would have forced me to take their side. She was just too vital for me to do anything else.


    "Report to Ursa Aurora. Independent, putting myself under the command of the local Protectorate leader. You''ve got to have SOP for this."


    The imposition of protocol seemed to have helped him get himself in order. He nodded and spoke quickly into his mic. "Shelter to Ursa. Indie Creed is here, placing himself under your command. You have a radio in that helmet?"


    He then rattled off a channel number I linked my pokenav to. A moment later, I heard a woman grunt into the mic. "Shit," she swore. There was more fighting in the background. "What can you do?"


    "Medic. Ranged stun. Personal force field. I can fight too," I rattled off.


    "Heal the ones near Shelter first. Then go incapacitate who you can and evacuate the ones who need it. Keep this line open."


    Obvious, but that was fine, simple was good. I just needed the Protectorate to know not to take potshots at me. I nodded towards Jouster and Flechette, the latter drawing my eye more than once, and did my best to slot into their teamwork.


    We quickly fell into a rhythm. Jouster dragged patients towards me, Flechette took potshots at people to keep them off his back, and I laid hands on the patients. We were making good progress. Slowly but surely, we were thinning the number of civilians. Even if they had lashed out in the chaos, we dragged as many behind Shelter as we could and fixed them up before shoving them away from the riot. It wasn''t like they were going to charge back into the melee now that they''d been fished out.


    Several minutes in, when a decent chunk of the fighting had died down, we heard our radio crackle to life.


    "What do you think you''re doing," came the guttural crackle of the SRG leader.


    "Us? What the hell are you doing shooting at civilians?" Ursa Aurora said hotly.


    "They are not civilians. They are terrorists. They became terrorists when they picked up weapons."


    "You''re hitting civilians in the crossfire!"


    "They hide behind human shields. That is not our problem."


    "That''s not how we do things."


    "That is how we do things." Flygon swept down and tried to wrench Flechette''s arbalest from her. She yelped but held on. "You foreigners need to stop interfering with my soldiers."


    "Your soldiers need to stop firing into civilian crowds!"


    One of Prism''s clones had come over and shoved a confoam grenade in Flygon''s face, forcing him to fly away in a shower of scattered foam. Flechette simply removed the friction between her and the foam and slipped it off like she was taking off a sweater.


    Prism''s other two clones were trying to corral a man in civilian garb who seemed to be skating around with ribbons of scything energy in his hands. As I watched, one clone distracted him while a ghostly bear bowled him over from behind, a confoam grenade in its mouth. Then, that bear''s head burst into light as a shrouded man helped up Ribbons.


    "My men are keeping the law. They are terrorists so we shoot them. We are not soft, girl," I could hear the sneer through the radio. Syria wasn''t exactly known for women''s rights. I wondered if it had been a mistake for Legend to send Ursa as the leader of his contingent.


    By the growl coming from Ursa''s end, the dig hadn''t gone unnoticed. It probably wasn''t even the first time. "We''re not letting you kill them, Arsalan."


    "You are under my command in Syria. You don''t let anything. Pull back. We will subdue the riot and take in the terrorists."


    The connection fell silent for a few seconds.


    "What now, Ursa?" Prism asked. I realized Shelter had cut Arsalan out of the channel on Prism''s orders.


    "Some of these are probably political dissidents," Ursa said. Her voice sounded tired, her fire gone out now that it was just her team and me. "We''re pulling back. Syria''s issues aren''t our job."


    "Not all of them."


    "Most of them are just desperate," Flechette cut in.


    "I''m aware, but I can''t risk you guys," Ursa said.


    "Bullshit!" the one I took to be Jouster said fiercely. He looked like he was a second away from charging the SRG, the definition of a gung ho cape. "We''re heroes. I don''t give a damn what the fucking pussycat says. I''m not going to stand around and let him kill people because it''s convenient. Or arrest them so they can be killed quietly."


    Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    "It''s protocol. You''re more important. Between you and them, I''ll choose you every time."


    "And fuck protocol, Ursa. We''re here to save lives. There''s nothing normal about this situation. I say fuck him. We take him down and take care of this our way."


    She was silent for several seconds. Judging by his reply, I wasn''t sure if her orders to stand down would be followed. Truthfully, I wasn''t sure what I wanted them to do. Part of me wanted them to pull back, it''d be the simplest way to keep Flechette safe, but another part empathized with the Jouster and the people here.


    I idly knit someone''s lacerations together and watched as three more bears materialized in the distance, creating a barricade as she and an aid worker pulled someone my way.


    Ursa let out a defeated sigh. It was the sound of a parent who knew she''d lost control of the situation. "And the rest of you? Do you feel this way?"


    "You know me," Prism said with an audible smile.


    "I''m with my leader," Shelter added, though with a nervous gulp. Lackluster response aside, I glanced his way to find eyes full of conviction.


    "Yes, ma''am." And Flechette made three.


    Ursa took a deep breath and stood up straight. I heard Shelter open up the comms again. "No," she said firmly.


    "No?" Arsalan asked. He''d reached the end of his patience. Like it or not, he did have the legitimate legal authority here. "If you assist them, you will be considered enemies of the state."


    I''d heard enough. They''d made their decision so I''d have to go along with it. Once again, the gung ho heroes made things more complicated than they needed to be. I couldn''t say I entirely disapproved.


    I cut in with my customary shit-eating grin. "Well, that sounds grand."


    "Medic."


    "Creed. Get the name right, pussycat."


    "You will return and treat my soldiers."


    That caused everyone to look my way. I didn''t appreciate the sudden spotlight, but it couldn''t be helped. I was being told to pick a side. I could do the legal thing. Or I could join Ursa and effectively become an enemy of the state. Or, and this was always an option, I could just fuck off out of here like this wasn''t my problem.


    I''d promised Faultline. And Amy. And myself.


    I was Creed; when I first started out, I took up that name because I wanted people to know, no matter whether I stood as a hero or villain, I was a cape with principles. I knew, at least in the abstract, what Earth-Bet did to capes, and wanted a reminder to be someone who could look himself in the mirror when all''s said and done.


    In light of that, my choice was obvious. I''d never been the legal sort, anyway.


    "My Wards don''t answer to you," Ursa snapped and I realized I''d not spoken in too long.


    "The medic is not a Ward," Arsalan growled. "Go heal the soldiers. There are men who deserve healing, not terrorists."


    I took a deep breath to calm myself. It barely worked. I''d seen this man stomp into a riot and instantly start putting people to death. Then he had the gall to demand that the only medic here, who wasn''t even Syrian, be reserved for his men, as if they weren''t responsible for half the bloodshed.


    Faultline was right. In the end, I wasn''t fooling anyone, not even myself. The mass-murdering fuckwit could die in a fire.


    With deceptive calm, I finished up healing the patient and spoke, "Nah, I think I''m good here, pussycat."


    "You will go join my men, boy."


    "See, I''m no friend of Ursa''s. I''m actually something of a villain, but I happen to agree with the heroes for a change. It''s in the name. I''m all about contracts. Oaths. And I see the laws of war as a contract of sorts. It''s not hard, you know? Don''t shoot civvies. Don''t disrupt hospitals. Generally don''t be a dick."


    I stood, pulling my patient to his feet so he could stumble away to his coworkers. My body was tense, Crown Chimera primed and ready to burst at speed. This would be my first battle since I crashed the Empire and Merchants. The stakes were so much higher than just a tussle between the gangs.


    "The way I see it? Your men shot civvies. Your men made the riot worse. Your men forced the medics to evacuate, denying your own people life-saving treatment. You broke the rules, Arsalan, so the rules don''t protect you or yours."


    "Then you will die with the rest," he swore. Then, louder so his men could hear, he shouted something in Arabic. I didn''t know what he said, but the way they looked at us made the intent clear.


    I skated back until I stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Prism.


    "You could leave," New York''s second-in-command suggested.


    "I could, but I don''t think I could face The GOAT if I did," I replied with a wan smile she couldn''t see. "So, Ursa Aurora, Shelter''s said so before, but I''ll make it clear: Until we head stateside, I''m under your command."


    "Much obliged, Creed. Do what you can to help. I don''t know enough about you to command you." She quickly took control and began to bark out orders. She quickly had her group pull back and take cover with Shelter. With our side made up mostly of aid workers, we didn''t have the manpower or weapons that the SRG did. They had a lot of soldiers, but we had a far better defensive encampment thanks to Shelter.


    The rebels? rioters? terrorists? had largely set aside any quarrels between them to consolidate into a third faction, led by the men in tan shrouds. They included a shaker who made sandstorms, someone who could make glass constructs, someone who could phase through solids, and a blaster who could make all bullets track a target. A few of the recent triggers, or capes who''d been going plainclothes, had sided with them. Their lack of uniforms made it hard to tell who was and wasn''t a cape, but most all of them had picked up at least one type of firearm.


    A few people had upended some cars to use as cover. They looked like they were more likely to fight the SRG and the Lionguard, but would likely take the chance to take us out too to secure supplies if they saw the opportunity. I didn''t know how this mess started, but they didn''t seem like a priority compared to the actual armed soldiers.


    "If we can convince them to work with us, we could subdue Arsalan," Ursa said to an aid worker. "How''s your Arabic?"


    I couldn''t hear the other end, but her curse made the answer clear. I doubted words alone would work anyway.


    That was all I could glean before Flygon swept around again. He headed for one of the rebels while ignoring the bullets that seemed to ping off a wind barrier emanating from his horn. He was fast, far faster than I''d given him credit for earlier. A scream of pain filled the air as he skewered a man on that horn, ferrying him into the sky. Then, with a contemptuous laugh, he threw him down on top of a car.


    The sandstorm started to die down, which meant he was the shaker. He was too fast for anyone to strike at directly and both Ursa and Prism were groundbound. It''d end in a second if Flechette could land the hit, but she didn''t look like she could make the shot, or would be willing to given the lethality of her power.


    "Guess I have my opponent," I muttered. I kicked off, heading straight for the injured cape. "Ursa, I''m taking flyboy."


    "Got it, see if you can save Dust Devil while you can. That might get them to work with us," she barked.


    "Yes, ma''am."


    I cloaked and cast Agility, racing over just in time to kick Flygon on the side. I felt like I''d kicked the oil tanker back home. He felt so dense and the barrier of wind around him automatically parried my foot, making it grind it skid away along the spin. Still, he was kept from diving back towards Dust Devil to finish the job.


    I landed on top of the shaker and began to repair his vitals before he bled out. It wasn''t easy; alchemy wasn''t an instant magic spell. Every time I tried to focus, something would distract me. A bullet I had to shield us from, Jouster running lance-first into Rhyhorn, the flaming cyclones caused by Rapidash running in an overlapping circle, healing in the middle of a battlefield was a far different task than healing in a medic tent.


    I couldn''t do this alone. I reached for my pokenav and pressed the recall beacon. When I built the device, I''d made it with SAINT in mind. The pokenav wasn''t just a place for SAINT to interface with my helmet; it was SAINT''s home. There was, for lack of a better phrase, a porygon-shaped hole in its programming. I used it now to call him back. Coupled with our burgeoning aura bond and the Pledge Regalia''s function as a scanner, he''d be able to hear it.


    "Please tell me I can trust you, Wieldmaiden," I whispered. I scooped up Dust Devil into my arms and leapt, spinning in the air to avoid Flygon''s horn by inches.


    We settled behind an upended truck. A few of the men shot at me but I let the Germa Suit tank the bullets and got to work. I just needed a few seconds without having to focus on my shields.


    "How is he?" someone asked in a thick accent. He was almost incomprehensible. In the din of combat, it took me a second to realize he was speaking English. He shouted something and got people to stop shooting at me.


    "Spine''s a mess. I''m just going to rebuild his internal organs," I said quickly. "He won''t walk, but he''ll live. Give me time."


    The man nodded stiffly and began barking orders. I noticed that of the men in tan shrouds, he was the only one unarmed. Then he reached into his sleeves and drew out some bullets. He placed them on his palms and flicked each, launching them to seek out the soldiers in curving arcs. That made him the one the Wards called Deadeye.


    I opened up my suit mic. "Ursa, I''ve located Deadeye and Dust Devil. You''re on speaker. He speaks English. Talk."


    I didn''t know what was said, I was too focused on treating Dust Devil. All the pieces needed to be there. They weren''t. Flygon had ripped a hole clean through his stomach. The wind barrier had only widened it, ripping up internal organs and turning the spine to so many splinters.


    I had to work with what I had. I first converted his wool shirt to skin, melding it to his abdomen so he wouldn''t bleed out. The result was a gray, hairy thing, patchy and disgusting, but it''d hold until this shit show was over and I could heal him properly. I then converted all the fragments of his spine into blood to replenish what he''d lost. Lastly, I tackled the task of slowly reconstructing his damaged organs. He wasn''t fixed, not by a long shot, but he wasn''t in danger anymore.


    "I''ll come back to regrow his spine later," I told Deadeye.


    "Thank you." He was about to say more, but Flygon was back. He''d flown up high in a giant loop like a rollercoaster before using gravity to empower his charge. He let out a bark of wild laughter that sounded like the howling wind as he rushed our position. Deadeye tried to shoot him down but the barrier of wind kept him safe. "Duck!"


    I stepped forward and swept my cape in front of me. My shield module came to life, forming an array of yellow hexagons before me. I tacked on Protect behind it and the world took on a greenish tint as the move took hold.


    Flygon could have gone around; he was incredibly agile. But he saw me take a defensive stance and took it as a personal challenge. His entire body straightened out, becoming a spear shrouded in spirals of wind.


    We clashed with a deafening roar and I winced as a pressure like a meteor shoved me into the ground. I gritted my teeth and watched as my shield''s integrity dropped rapidly, from ninety-eight percent earlier to sixty. Twenty. Then it was gone, the shield module overwhelmed in a single, overwhelming strike. Protect took the rest, but I could feel my aura straining to contain the force.


    It reminded me of that time I''d punched into Skidmark''s dump-dozer. In a fit of pique, I''d called it Giga Impact. Except this time, I was on the receiving end and Flygon''s move was unlike my own in one respect. He''d turned himself into a drill rather than a hammer, concentrating all the force of his momentum onto a single point and making himself exponentially harder to guard against.


    I felt my Protect crack. The move was demanding at the best of times, there was a reason pokemon didn''t use it constantly.


    I readied myself. There wasn''t a martial art on earth that could deflect what was effectively a miniaturized rod from god, but I did have Recover. If I let him skewer me and launched myself to the side with After Burner, I could probably drag him with me, redirecting his momentum from those behind me. It''d hurt like a bitch, but I had self-healing; these guys probably didn''t.


    Then I saw something that made me delirious with laughter. Off in the bottom left corner of my UI, a tiny, pixelated figure of a duck poked its head.


    SAINT had arrived. And judging by the emoticons he kept spamming, he was pissed.


    Without orders from me, he popped out into the world as Flygon broke through my Protect. Then, despite his best efforts, he came to a screeching halt as he was met horn-first against yet another Protect.


    "Pory? Pory-GON!" SAINT cried out. The eviolite hanging from his neck shone brilliantly. Aura was fucky and right now, I was all for aura-based nonsense.


    SAINT was not a porygon-Z. He had an eviolite. Ergo, he was a tank. This little, blocky duck was built like a vault door and I was all for it.


    His Protect covered a small hemisphere in front of himself. He watched, thoroughly unimpressed as the rest of Flygon''s momentum fizzled out.


    Then I had the pleasure of watching the cape''s eyes widen in panic as SAINT charged up a Thunderbolt. That got him to abort a punch towards my face, as if SAINT would let that connect, and backpetal into a steep rise.


    "I''m going to follow," I told Deadeye. "No one else can keep up with him in the sky."


    He nodded grimly. "We have no flyers."


    "SAINT, you with me?"


    "Pory."


    I shot off into the air. It was unfortunate; I didn''t want to reveal SAINT like this, but it couldn''t be helped. There would be questions, but I''d just have to deal with those as they came. If push came to shove, The GOAT''s organization would gain a new member.


    I''d underestimated these guys. Though Flygon seemed to be their only flyer, he was a heavy hitter, fast and strong like very few capes in the world. I''d also failed to account for how willing they were to get lethal. It was one thing to know or even see, another for that killing intent to be directed towards me.


    I wouldn''t be making that mistake again.


    Author''s Note


    SAINT ex-machina. He is truly the best duck. And you thought Bryce was the star of this show. Am I setting up a Dragonslayer arc? Hmm¡­


    Random fact? Sure. Everything has a different terminal velocity, defined in layman''s terms as the point at which you physically can''t fall any faster, no matter how high the drop. This is because as you gain speed, you also press the air beneath you faster, building more resistance until the two forces, gravity and air resistance, balance out.


    That should be intuitive, but what isn''t obvious is that some animals can survive their terminal velocity. The most famous of these is the humble gray squirrel. Yes, that''s right, squirrels don''t take fall damage. Unlike cats, those lying bastards.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 4.10 Seal

    Seal 4.10


    Bryce Kiley


    2010, November 27: Damascus, Syria


    The dragonfly bastard rammed me, shoulder-checking me as I climbed into the sky. I twisted around the blow and created a platform of condensed air perpendicular to the ground. I kicked off it, skating ust fine despite the impossible angle, before flipping into a kick that had Crown Chimera grinding futilely against his wind wall.


    He turned and cursed me out in Arabic before dodging a Thunderbolt from SAINT. Then he rushed me, diving horn-first so that SAINT wouldn''t be able to aim properly. I kicked off at a steep right angle, avoiding the strike but unable to retaliate meaningfully.


    I glanced at my UI. Shield integrity: eight percent and climbing, but slowly.


    It wasn''t enough. I''d noticed that Flygon''s wind barrier got stronger with his speed. My hypothesis was that his Shard converted momentum into a force field masked as a spiraling air current but it wasn''t like I could pause and ask him to test it out for me. His blows weren''t anywhere near as strong as that first strike without the time to build momentum and use gravity in his favor, but I didn''t have my shield module either. I didn''t think my Protect alone could stand up to repeated hits from him and wasn''t in any hurry to confirm.


    He was on me again in an instant, either overly confident that he could take me or unwilling to give a tinker time to plan. Unfortunately, no matter his reason, it was the right move.


    Flygon was as agile as I was. It felt impossible, I was the only one standing with my feet, but his dragonfly-like wings gave him a maneuverability that boggled the mind. No matter how I tried to turn or juke, he was on me, trying to gore me like the world''s most obsessive marlin.


    "Mirage Road: Fogbank," I whispered, tossing out a thick cloud before vanishing into thin air. He rammed right through, sailing past and missing me by mere inches.


    Thinking quickly, I hopped onto his back, clamping my legs around his waist and my arms over his wings. He yelped in surprise but quickly tried to buck me off. Forget a bucking bronco, I now felt an inordinate kinship with Pecos Bill and his tornado-rasslin'' ways.


    I''d thought the enhanced strength of the Germa Suit would be enough to clip his wings. To be fair, it was, but he had two sets of those and a miniature cyclone raging around him.


    I grunted, more in annoyance than anything as the pair of wings I wasn''t pinning with my thighs beat me over the head. He wasn''t comfortable to sit on, especially with that raised ridge of spine that his horn jutted from. Now that I was closer, I saw that his spine actually formed a squat, dome-like shield over the junction where his wings met. It kept me from stabbing him in the joint and ripping the damn things out.


    With the wind barrier constantly buffeting me and my head slapped around like a volleyball, I wasn''t sure how long I could hold him.


    He swore something in Arabic. No matter the words, the death threat was easy enough to understand.


    "Yeah? Fuck you too, buddy," I swore back, my voice lost in the howling wind. "Thunder Wave! SAINT, Psychic!"


    We lit up like a Christmas tree, but he didn''t go down immediately. He spasmed in the air, rapidly slowing but managing to buck me off. Did his biology make him resistant? I didn''t know, but he clearly had physiological adaptations of some sort.


    He turned to face me with a hateful snarl as a coat of blue aura surrounded him. He lunged towards me, but was stopped in his tracks by the best duck in the world.


    "Great job, SAINT," I called down to him.


    "Pory!" he cried back in obvious strain. Porygon weren''t natural psychics, not like alakazam. They had a natural proclivity for self-levitation and often learned psychic moves, but that wasn''t quite the same thing.


    Panicked, I whirled back and applied my own, only to feel the problem: Though we''d immobilized him, Flygon''s secondary power was still active. I could feel the wind swirling faster and faster against our combined will, grinding at our minds like a sander. Flygon was like a car that had been lifted off its wheels; he might not be going anywhere, but the engine, his power, was still very much on.


    I had to decide quickly. "SAINT, let go. Lock-On into Thunderbolt!"


    "Gon?" I heard, our bond pulsing with clear worry.


    "Do it!"


    I felt the pressure on my mind double as SAINT dropped his share. Slowly but surely, like rope snapping twine by twine, I lost control. Until finally, I was forced to let go. My mind reeled; it felt like someone had smashed a sledgehammer into my brain.


    That pent up gale launched Flygon at me like a missile. What little training I had in capoeira kicked in and I tried to sway out of the line of attack, but I wasn''t able to fully evade with my head ringing like a drum. I did manage to get my right arm up in time, but that was cold comfort. His horn made contact with my forearm, spearing the space between my radius and ulna.


    "GAH!" I screamed in pain. He tore into me with twisting force, dragging me along even as his twisting wind barrier ripped the bones out of their sockets. It felt like someone took a carjack and split them apart.


    White hot pain shot up my arm and I blacked out a little. I would have lost then and there, had not SAINT''s mind reached out to mine with utter fury.


    The external shock was enough to bring me back to consciousness. Through bleary eyes, I saw that my suit had remained in one piece. My arm looked a lot like a ruptured sausage link, kept from ripping apart completely by an absurdly durable casing. I felt Flygon''s hand around my throat.


    The shock had passed and with the pain came clarity. SAINT couldn''t fire despite the Lock-On because I was skewered on Flygon''s horn. He feared the bolt conducting over to me. I clenched my teeth to bite down the pain and began forming a trail of mist beneath my feet.


    I built up enough friction and, with a howl of agony, twisted myself free of his horn like a bottlecap.


    Then SAINT''s Thunderbolt hit with the vengeance of an angry god.


    Flygon roared in pain before rushing down towards SAINT. His charge was met with a Protect, one much stronger than my own. He skidded off with a trail of sparks but knocked SAINT off balance, leaving him to teeter like a roly-poly toy.


    I had to interfere; Protect wasn''t meant to be used consecutively. I tucked in my mangled right arm and dove. The pressure on my exposed wound was immense, but I flipped upside down and kicked the air anyway, my concern for my partner overriding the pain.


    The mist built up as I ran, mounting like a snowball that turned into an avalanche. No longer harassed and harried by Flygon, I could feel the water calling to me, reminding me of the open ocean where I first truly touched my Road. I remembered all the pain and suffering I went through, twisting my own spine apart repeatedly as I tried to turn a capoeira martelo into Ringo''s supersonic thorn.


    I''d been wrong then. The water could pierce, but only rarely. It could slice like Agito''s fang, but almost never. No, most of the time, the sea was an unrestrained, crushing force. The breaking waves swept away everything in their path, eroding and grinding until it wore down and overwhelmed even the strongest defenses.


    Crown Chimera had never felt like this before. It always ran smoothly, but now, it truly felt like mine. My regalia. My Road. I gathered the mist within, compressing it with the pressure of my dive. The force compacted more and more water inside the regalia, enough that had the frames not been made of seastone, they would have surely shattered to pieces, taking my feet with them.


    I paid my UI no mind as the pressure readings climbed higher and higher. SAINT was my partner, my pokemon. It was only fair then that I copied a familiar name.


    "Mirage Road: Crush Claw!" I roared. I contorted myself in midair, cleaving down in an ax kick that could have ruptured steel beams. A road made of condensed, superheated steam formed beneath my feet, allowing me to build ever greater momentum. It was no thorn, nor a fang. It was a hammer, the pressure of a breaking wave focused into a single, overpowering kick.


    Flygon''s eyes widened in horror as he realized his mistake: I could use gravity too. Our roles were reversed now, a perfect mirror of his earlier shieldbreaker dive.


    He tried to maneuver out of the way. His wings strained and beat wildly, becoming four sets of blurs on his back. Avoiding my strike wasn''t possible, not at this distance and with zero warning, but he might have parried it, twisting until he took the blow on his horn where the wind barrier was strongest and the rotation fastest.


    This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Whether he could have or not, I''d never know, because a sheen of azure light enveloped him once again. Now, it was SAINT''s turn to hold him for me. Not long, even a fraction of a second would do.


    As always, my partner delivered beautifully.


    My heel met the protective dome that rose above Flygon''s spine. I took vicious satisfaction in feeling it crunch beneath my heel. Where my foot stopped, the water rushed forward, flooding the wound like a burst dam and rupturing it from within. He let out a horrific shriek of pain as he plummeted to the ground.


    A plume of smoke and dust announced my victory, adding to the already hazy scene.


    I looked around to take stock of the broader conflict. I was happy to see that the civilians had cleared out by this point. Either they were fighting or they''d fucked off by now. Or dead, but glass half full and whatnot.


    I hadn''t been the only one to keep busy. Now that the heroes had a unified mission and a fallback point, they''d acquitted themselves well. Prism had managed to lob several confoam grenades, coordinating with her clones to create a huge mass of replicated foam that regular soldiers couldn''t escape. It didn''t get everyone, but about half of Arsalan''s unpowered forces were unable to take aim. She also proved to be a capable combatant up close, reabsorbing her clones in a flash of light to deliver crushing blows against Arsalan''s lion-men.


    Last I checked, Ursa Aurora was using her bears to corral civilians and coordinate with her team. Now that the unpowered were largely out of the way, she''d stacked her three bears into a phalanx of muscle, claws, and teeth and was straining to keep Rhyhorn in place. As I watched, the mover-brute''s force field visibly diminished as he could no longer build momentum. When it had thinned enough, Jouster ran in and thrust a crimson, glowing lance from between the bears like an actual phalanx.


    A massive explosion of fire bloomed from the point of impact, throwing yet more smoke and debris into the air. Most of the blast was directed conically outward, sparing the leader of the NY Wards. The blast shattered what was left of Rhyhorn''s force field and sent him soaring away, smoke trailing from his badly burned body. I wasn''t sure whether he was alive or not. It also cracked one of Ursa''s constructs, but she merely replaced it with a wave of her hand. Those two made for a dangerous combination.


    Flechette too had found her resolve. She still wasn''t eager to shoot people dead, but she''d taken it upon herself to provide as much covering fire as possible. I could see bolts sticking out of cover as though they''d been fused to whatever they hit. Several men ran around screaming in pain as arrows that had been strategically lodged into their shoulders exploded in confoam, not enough volume to fully encase them, but more than enough to take them out of the fight.


    The rebels and plainclothed capes weren''t doing nearly as well, though whether that was because they weren''t as well-trained as the Protectorate or because no one wanted to piss off Legend by murdering one of his Wards was anyone''s guess.


    A plainclothed cape that had been generating ribbons of power from his fingertips went down in a shower of blood and gunfire after gliding towards the line of soldiers as if on an ice rink. I had to assume he was a fresh trigger. His ribbon-blades remained in the air even after his death for several seconds, acting as hazards for the unwary.


    Then, as I watched, a small squad of lion-men rushed into the group of rebels. They clawed at anyone in arm''s reach, gouging out deep, perfectly even furrows into whatever they struck, whether that be flesh or stone. I shot a few Thunder Waves their way, but it seemed to do nothing to slow them.


    A cape next to Deadeye stood to meet them as the rebel leader fell back. Sand swirled around his arms, forming dense hammers out of quartz crystals that battered the lion-men away. His counter allowed most of his allies to retreat in time as a hail of gunfire peppered their position, but that left the sole rebel brute alone and exposed.


    Two lion-men collapsed onto him and tore him apart even as their heads exploded from Deadeye''s curving bullets. It was a messy shower of stone and blood that made me queasy even after a day in the medic tent. There was a lot of blood I could see even through the smoke, more than there should be in the human body.


    Johnson''s words hit me like a hammer and I knew why Arsalan was so feared.


    "They''re alive," I spoke into the mic. "Ursa, the lion-men are only stone on the outside!"


    "Are you sure?"


    "I saw two lose their heads so yes!"


    "Fuck. You heard him. Subdue"


    I swore under my breath and continued to scan the field. The SRG mover was a blur, racing around the field and trampling people underfoot while using the chaos to his advantage to break line of sight so no one could draw a bead on him. It wasn''t just that he was fast enough to make aiming difficult. The smoke hindered everyone but affected the rebels who had the least training the most. And unlike me, they couldn''t climb into the air for a better view, as limited as that was.


    The fire also burned long and hot despite the dusty sand, likely fueled by his power more than any mundane fuel source. It inspired a primal sense of panic in people and I could see him trying to circle the shelter to entrap the Wards and cut off Flechette''s vision.


    With Flygon down, I decided taking him out and putting out the fires should be my priority. "SAINT, Lock-On. Thunderbolt the one with fire steps. Don''t let up. Make sure he stays down."


    "Gon!"


    I left SAINT to take aim and landed down behind Shelter. My arm was throbbing and adrenaline could only do so much. A gaping hole had been torn between the bones of my forearm, made wider by Fygon''s tearing wind. I''d lost a lot of blood.


    A medic rushed over. He took one look at my arm and swore. "Fuck. Creed, right? Clench your teeth; I''ll set the bone."


    I grunted but kept my arm curled into my hip. "Go see someone else. I''m fine. I have self-healing. Recover!"


    I immediately felt nauseous as power poured out into the wound. At the same time, I put weight into my left arm and pressed the bones back in place. My dislocated ulna popped into its original socket, drawing an agonized groan from me. Tears stung my eyes and my vision became shaky but I did my best to stay conscious. I''d healed my spine before, but never in an environment like this, never after working most of the morning and fighting for my life.


    When I drew my hand back, it was to find the bone in place and free of fractures. I finished the rest of my healing with alchemy. Whereas Recover relied solely on my own aura, alchemy drew energy from tectonic movements. It was slower, but I could save more energy this way. A combination of the two let me get back in the fight relatively quickly without exhausting my already strained reserves.


    I watched as SAINT sent Rapidash scrambling. Lock-On turned Thunderbolt into a beam of electricity that followed him in a swerving arc. He took a blast to the side that sent him rolling. SAINT wasn''t pulling his punches. I knew from personal experience that those things, while not outright lethal, hurt like a bitch. The attack left him smoking and scorched. Bloody tracks could be seen where he scraped violently against the ground as he was thrown about.


    To his credit, Rapidash got up and stumbled away before SAINT could charge his next attack. He kicked up a plume of dust and smoke before avoiding the next bolt by interposing a car between them.


    "Porygon-gon," he muttered unhappily.


    "Stay behind the bunker. Snipe him as soon as he shows. Keep him pinned, okay?" I told him. "Switch to Shock Wave. It''s faster than Lock-On."


    "Gon."


    I checked my UI while the last of my skin knit itself closed. My shield''s charge was crawling up but it still sat at a meager forty-nine percent. I trusted my armor, but the flying bug-man showed me it was far from invincible.


    Still, I was better armored than just about everyone and was the only one who could put out the flames. So long as I kept away from Arsalan and the lion-men and their weird claws, I''d be fine.


    I dashed out of the bunker again, this time headed for the biggest fire I could find. There were half a dozen people trapped inside and although the fire wasn''t collapsing in on them, they''d run out of oxygen quickly. One was dead and another was injured, but the rest had the sense to keep their heads down to avoid stray gunfire and smoke inhalation.


    I ignored the gunfire aimed at me and turned my dash into a front flip. Crown Chimera ground itself against the road of vapor that formed beneath me and I could feel the water inside pressurizing more and more. Halfway through the flip, I swiveled onto my side until, for an instant, I sat parallel to the ground.


    Twisting in midair, I brought the Mirage Regalia down in twin ax kicks, sending a plume of pressurized bubbles spraying out over the flames. "Lather Road: Bubblegum Crisis!"


    The rain of bubbles collided with the flames. Each bubble was formed from pressurized water, condensed and spun at ridiculous velocities and held in cohesion with the help of the regalia and One Piece pyrobloin. They didn''t pop like normal bubbles. They held so much pressure inside that they detonated with the force of hand grenades, creating vacuums of air that starved the fire of fuel.


    "Everybody out!" I yelled. I immediately felt like a dumbass when I realized I didn''t fucking speak Arabic.


    I was lucky, ridiculously lucky. Or maybe the rest of the world placed a greater emphasis on foreign language education. Either way, one of the crouching men, a young man in his mid-twenties, raised his head.


    I reached out a hand to help him stand. He said something in Arabic but I shook my head. He then switched to heavily accented English. "Out. Hero?"


    "Hero," I nodded. "We need to leave."


    I took my time freeing the people stuck in Rapidash''s fire rings, doing my best to interpose myself between the civilians and the nearest source of gunfire. Once I reached the fallback point, the brave paramedics who hadn''t abandoned their posts took over.


    I ended up leading twenty-three men to safety. The trial by fire yesterday helped me to ignore the bodies of those I couldn''t reach in time.


    Sometime during my self-assigned mission, SAINT had nailed Rapidash with a well-placed Shock Wave, sending the shitty arsonist to la la land.


    Good. That left just Arsalan.


    Author''s Note


    For those curious, Pecos Bill is an American folk hero like Johnny Appleseed or Paul Bunyan and is every cowboy stereotype rolled into one. One story says he needed more rain on his land so he lassoed a tornado and rode it up through Tornado Alley.


    I meant for Flygon (Arabic name unknown) to be the equivalent of Cinereal or Rime, a top-tier cape who, in America, would''ve been considered a city''s ace. I hope he came off as that strong.


    Bryce isn''t a fighting savant like many shonen protagonists. He''s not like Luffy who could win most fights by relying on instinct. He makes a lot of mistakes and takes hits he doesn''t need to. Even when he stops playing around, he lacks that "killing intent" that a lot of action heroes have because he''s a 21st century medical professional.


    Thankfully, he''s got SAINT to back him until he can stoke some of that shonen mojo. Having a defensive tank and mobile sharpshooter who also happens to be a respectable psychic is honestly unfair. He''s about to get even more unfair with an Upgrade that I think he''s earned by now.


    Related animal fact: Dragonflies have an insanely high success rate when it comes to their hunts, sometimes estimated to be as high as 95%. This makes them the single most successful predator alive, at least by this metric.


    Their success is due partially to their incredible speed, capping out at 33.5 mi (54 km) in some species, and maneuverability, with wings that even allow them to fly backwards. Flygon''s agility wasn''t exaggerated at all.


    The second reason for their success is their eyes. They have a near spherical range of coverage with ~30,000 ommatidia per eye. Yes, their brain is the size of a grain of rice. Yes, most of it''s dedicated to processing visual cues and hunting instinct.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 4.11 Seal

    Seal 4.11


    Lily Tondo


    2010, November 27: Damascus, Syria


    "Bubblegum Crisis!" I heard Creed shout, flipping through the air like a drunk seagull before collapsing down in a flurry of bubbles. Whatever the hell he did, he managed to quench the flames instantly, setting people free before they could suffocate in the smoke.


    "Did he really name his attacks?" Shelter asked in disbelief.


    "He rides roller blades and wears a cape. Why are you surprised?" Jouster grunted. I saw him duck behind one of Ursa''s constructs, avoiding a bullet that would have taken him out of the fight.


    "Yeah, but Bubblegum¡­ Crisis¡­? That''s not even gum!"


    "Focus," Prism chided. "It doesn''t matter how stupid his attacks are."


    "Yes, ma''am."


    The rebels were growing increasingly desperate. That flying guy had gone down when our unexpected ally engaged him in an aerial dogfight. I didn''t see most of it, but the giant "Crush Claw" that spiked him into the ground like a volleyball was hard to miss. The one we''d been calling Bulldozer got taken out by a Jouster to the face. Then some kind of blocky duck appeared next to me and started shooting at Firewall.


    I wasn''t sure where the duck came from but it was kicking ass.


    I decided to help it out. When Firewall ran behind some cover, I imbued my bolt with my power and took aim. I guessed at his likely position and fired, loosing a bolt that ignored every law of physics to fly straight through the brickwork. I missed, it wasn''t like I could see through walls, but that was enough to spook him out of hiding, only for him to get zapped into a twitchy mess with a salvo of smaller lightning bolts.


    Seriously, what was this thing?


    "Flechette! A little help!" Shelter shouted, drawing me from my thoughts.


    I followed his direction to find Ursa Aurora bogged down by eight of Arsalan''s lion-men statues. Between them were the bodies of two people, one was Genie, one of Deadeye''s, and the other was that fresh trigger with a slowdown field.


    I could guess what happened. The rebels(?) probably tried to recruit one more cape for their side and sent Genie to talk to the new trigger, only for them to get outmaneuvered by Arsalan''s numbers. Most of the rebels would have been dead had Creed not helped them out despite Deadeye''s bullets. As it was, I could see only half of them still in the fight.


    Prism ran in to support them. She''d already tried confoam but the constructs had torn through the foam with the same, uniform gouges as anything else. Her empowered strikes could send them stumbling back, but now that we knew the puppets were living people, she wasn''t putting everything she had into her attacks.


    "Enough. Surrender. You will be deported. Continue and you will die," Arsalan''s broken English crackled through our comms. "You cannot harm the Lionguard."


    I could. Easily. I hadn''t taken shots at them because taking out the SRG soldiers with assault rifles was a bigger priority. Then I learned they were alive. I drew my arbalest and fired. My bolt turned into a silver streak, running clean through a puppet''s knee.


    At the same time, another puppet lunged, getting too close to an empowered but distracted Prism. Jouster saw and panicked. My leader swung his lance with detonating force. The point met the puppet and it erupted in a shower of stone and gore. Sandstone and coiling tendrils scattered alongside blood and viscera.


    He froze in horrified shock. As gung-ho as he was, he wasn''t a killer, none of us were. The lion-men were supposed to be statues, constructs made of sandstone with minor physics-bending powers on their claws.


    Ursa shook Jouster but he was frozen in shock at what he''d done. Drenched in blood, I didn''t blame him. She cursed and began to drag him back by the collar.


    "Shit. Pull back!" Ursa yelled. She conjured three bears, one of which bowled a lion-man over, saving Jouster from retaliation.


    The living stone ran at them. Two lion-men per bear held the constructs still while a third leapt onto their back and ripped into the bears, dispelling them quickly. Capped at just three constructs, Ursa couldn''t remake the bears fast enough to stem the tide. I watched as Prism sacrificed two of her clones before running to catch up to them.


    "You''re a monster," I said. I couldn''t keep the disbelief out of my voice. "They''re people. They''re fucking people."


    "Weak," Arsalan sneered. "The Lionguard keep public order. They were criminals. Now they serve."


    He took terrorists, political dissidents, and¡­ and turned them into his puppets. I couldn''t understand. How did someone like this exist? Was that the source of their striker power? I had to assume so.


    If I could find the cape he infected, then maybe¡­


    No, I didn''t want to become a killer, not like this¡­


    One of Ursa''s bears wrapped its jaws around the arm of a lion-man before it popped, crunching through the stone-like armor. It reminded me of the way dad ate crab legs and bile flooded my throat. The man made no sound even as his arm was turned into a mangled pulp. He kept moving forward, heedless of his injuries.


    Arsalan stepped forward and crouched. He leaned over one of the downed rebels and placed his hand on his chest. When he drew back, the stone around him that had been inert began to writhe and crawl into the man''s flesh. The man screamed out in agony as living stone burrowed inside him. "Those who break public order will serve in the Lionguard. You have your community service, yes? I am meting out justice."


    "What the fuck is wrong with you?" Ursa spat.


    "You are weak. This is justi-"


    He was interrupted by Creed, the roller blading mercenary dashing out from the last of the doused flames to land a leaping kick against Arsalan. He swerved and twisted in midair in a complicated spiral that I only managed to make sense of using my power, curling his body before cracking it like a whip. The sudden, sweeping kick lacked the force from before, but the leader of the Lionguard was launched like a ragdoll regardless.


    Arsalan''s stone armor must have weighed an extra hundred pounds at minimum, but even that didn''t stop him from arcing over the battlefield like a baseball. That the armor didn''t shatter into a rain of dust proved it: Arsalan had brute powers, probably stolen from a criminal doing "community service" in his armor.


    A blinding flash of electricity filled the area. The blocky duck rose up over Shelter''s bunker and fired out a salvo of similar bolts to cover Creed. I was starting to think it was some kind of mobile turret, though why it was shaped like a duck and had the cartoony googly eyes was beyond me.


    When the sparks faded, Creed was back with us, dragging the man who''d been infected by Arsalan''s power. Creed ripped off the man''s shirt, revealing a spider web of cracks in his flesh. Grayish brown, stone-like tendrils wormed themselves into his body as we watched. He shrieked and spasmed uncontrollably and I knew that sound wouldn''t be leaving my nightmares anytime soon.


    "SAINT, hold him down," Creed said. "Rest of you buy me time. I''m going to try to heal him."


    "Understood," Ursa said. She turned to Arsalan. "What''s the plan here? The rebels are out. The riot''s over. You think this looks good for you?"


    "No matter. Your Wards killed my men," he said. His stone bracers repaired themselves as we watched. "They will replace the men they killed."


    "You''re a sick fuck. The Protecto-"


    "Will hear nothing. Accidents happen. Heroes died in the riot," he said with a calm nonchalance that sent chills down my spine. It was the calm of a serial killer who''d done this before. "How tragic for you. Your Legend will have my condolences."


    "Stone''s taking control of his nervous system," Creed muttered beside me. "Can''t stun him. Shit, I haven''t practiced inorganic to organic transmutation."


    "What will you do?" I asked. There was a morbid curiosity I couldn''t shake. He wasn''t what I''d expected in a merc after all I''d read from PHO. I''d expected someone more interested in goofing off than saving lives. I was pleasantly surprised, a silver lining in a shit weekend.


    "Eyes up front," he grunted. He laid his hand on the man''s chest. The sigil on the back of his hand began to glow. "SAINT, hold him steady. Response to electricity indicates the infection spreads by taking over his nervous system. It''s going to crawl up his spine and into the brain. I''m going to rip it all up and transmute his nerves into something harmless."


    "That doesn''t sound harmless!" That sounded the opposite of harmless. Last I checked, people died without a spine!


    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    "Yeah? Do you know how to transmute stone to something that won''t instantly kill him?" he snapped. "Because I fucking don''t! There''s a line between inorganic and organic transmutation, damnit! I don''t do this and he dies! If I cut off his brain and preserve what I can, Panacea might be able to fix it."


    I heard the desperation in his voice and felt like a bitch. What did I know about tinkertech? Creed was¡­ He wasn''t a hero. He was supposed to be a low stakes, joke villain who ran around Brockton acting like a clown, maybe punching a gangbanger once in a while and getting yelled at for selling tinkertech illegally.


    But he was here anyway. Helping. Exceeding everything everyone knew about him and going above and beyond to save lives. He didn''t deserve me riding his ass.


    "I-I''m sorry," I apologized. I decided shutting my trap and going back to giving him some room to breathe would be my best bet. I turned back to the fight and started to take the lion-men out by their legs. Creed was right. Maybe Panacea could fix them. I''d get to find out so long as I didn''t blow their heads off.


    Despite our best efforts, we were losing ground. Normal bullets didn''t work so it was up to us capes, but even we couldn''t do much. Ursa Aurora and Prism slowed them down with constructs and clones, but they lacked raw stopping power. Jouster had the power but they''d kept him from getting close and my friend was still understandably shell shocked.


    I loaded another bolt and fired, clamping down on the bile in the back of my throat. I didn''t want to kill them. They could still be saved¡­ they had to be¡­


    I took out one''s knee. He stumbled forward and lunged to slash one of Prism''s clones to bits. Next to me, she flinched in phantom pain. I wasn''t sure if she physically felt the assault, but watching yourself be ripped apart over and over again couldn''t be fun.


    I took out the other leg, but that didn''t stop him either. The lion-man crawled towards us on hands and knees, heedless of any pain or injury. The only reason he wasn''t running was because he physically couldn''t with my bolts jamming his knee joints.


    Behind them, Arsalan laughed mockingly. I''d never hated a person more, not even March. He knew we wouldn''t go for the kill. He was confident that he knew how the Protectorate behaved.


    He was wrong. I heard Ursa''s voice crackle through the line. "Enough. S-class rules. Fight like your life depends on it."


    She followed that up by picking up an assault rifle and letting loose towards Arsalan. It was textbook: Shoot the master. He laughed and tanked the shots, the stone armor easily withstanding bullets.


    "Jouster, we need you up front. My clones will cover you," Prism urged. I could hear the regret in her voice but we needed him.


    The turret called SAINT sent several arcs of electricity at Arsalan, but he''d kept a few puppets with him to hide behind. Next to me, Creed finished up whatever he was doing. The parasitic stone didn''t seem to be expanding anymore so I hoped that meant he''d succeeded.


    I saw my leader pick up his lance. His hand was trembling but there was none of that to be heard in his voice. "Yeah, you got it. I''m good."


    They charged forward and met the lion-men. A conic explosion burst from Jouster''s lance, blasting two of them into so much bloody sand.


    I threw up. The acidic bile that had lingered in my throat came up like a fountain and dripped from my mouth. The stench of this morning''s breakfast only made me retch again. I felt Creed place a hand on my back. He rubbed my back in gentle circles and held my hair so I could throw up in peace. It didn''t really make me feel better, but I appreciated the sentiment.


    "Breathe," he said, his voice unidentifiable through his helmet. "You''re fine. It''ll pass. Focus on what''s in front of you. Step by step. Figure out what you want. Then what needs to be done. Then do it."


    What needs to be done? I didn''t know. There was a reason Jouster was Wards Leader, not me. I wasn''t good at making on-the-spot decisions.


    I didn''t want this. All of this. This was an endbringer truce. It was supposed to be about helping people. I came to pass out supplies, maybe dig through some rubble, not, not what was looking like the first shots of a brewing civil war.


    It''d¡­ It''d all be over if someone took out Arsalan. The rebels fucked up too. Maybe they started the riot, maybe not. I didn''t remember anymore. I didn''t think it really mattered at this point. But that could get sorted later. Right now, Arsalan was the problem. If someone could remove him, then we could have some room to breathe. Report back to New York and let Legend handle things. He''d know what to do. He always knew what to do.


    If someone could take out Arsalan¡­


    I winced as the cold truth showered me like an ice bath.


    I could take out Arsalan.


    All this? I could put an end to it.


    An end to the fighting.


    Right now.


    Hands trembling, I notched another bolt and took aim. I''d never shot to kill before. I''d been proud of that fact, that despite having a lethal power, I''d never resorted to taking another life. Deep in my heart, I''d prayed I''d never have to even while knowing it was inevitable.


    One day, today, I''d be called on to take a life. One life to save many. Could I do that? Could I bring myself to pull the trigger?


    My power flowed readily into the bolt, as smooth as every other time I''d used it. It felt no different than gliding down the street or doing stunts for children and tourists. I hated it. I felt like there should be more, more gravitas, with what I was about to do. Executing someone shouldn''t feel the same as juggling a pen.


    "It''ll all stop if I do this. Just one shot," I whispered, tears clouding my vision. I''d always thought the only time I''d ever shoot with killing intent would be against an endbringer. Arsalan, for all the hate I felt, was a man. "Just one arrow¡­"


    Then I felt a hand over my own, pushing the arbalest down. Creed shook his head. "I''m sorry. It doesn''t need to be you, kid."


    There was a pistol in his hand, one I was sure hadn''t been on his person a moment ago. I''d remember that pistol for the rest of my life. It was gorgeous, beautiful in a way no weapon of death should be. It had a walnut finished handle and a gleaming, golden filigree along the black, metallic body that perfectly caught the light.


    It was a masterpiece, something that could become the prized possession of any collector. It looked like something that a pirate captain would use, or maybe a treasured heirloom that belonged in a museum, a relic that''d sell for millions or be passed on in family lines.


    For all that it was obviously a pistol, it didn''t look like a weapon of death.


    He held it out with a steady hand I envied. Everything about his stance was perfectly balanced, as if he knew exactly how to position himself for maximum effect.


    His cape fluttered behind him. The orange accents of his costume stood out against the black and gray admiral''s uniform. There was a grace and poise in the way he stood, a sense of purpose I doubted I''d ever had before. For a moment, I thought he must be the most dignified man in the world.


    Then, a single gunshot rang throughout the battlefield, louder than any other. In the blink of an eye, it was over. Arsalan and the puppets he''d kept near him exploded into a crimson mist.


    X


    Bryce Kiley


    2010, November 27: Damascus, Syria


    I couldn''t help it. I''d told her the words that a senior EMT once told me in my past life.


    I''d been a med student then, doing a rotation in the ER when the EMT ran in with the victim of a car crash. His body was badly mangled, distorted into a pretzel when his motorcycle hit a semi. That he lived long enough to get wheeled in to us at all was a fucking miracle.


    And yet, I froze. I froze like every other student did because human bodies weren''t supposed to bend like that. I froze until the EMT slapped me silly and told me to get the doctor.


    His words then helped me in the future, desensitized me until I could shut off the part of my lizard brain that was horrified at the state of some of those patients. That experience had also convinced me that ER wasn''t for me; I''d transferred into pediatrics as soon as I fulfilled my academic requirements.


    And¡­ And I''d said those words to Lily. I''d told a girl to "Do what needs to be done," as if a sixteen-seventeen year old was supposed to make those decisions.


    I watched Lily, Flechette, aim a killing shot at Arsalan. She was doing what she had to and I couldn''t help but think that this was wrong. All of it. Earth-Bet was so fucked up. A teenager shouldn''t be here at all, never mind be the deciding factor in putting down a homicidal asshole like Arsalan.


    And yet, here she was. Because she was a hero. Because she was one of the few good souls in a world as fucked up as Earth-Bet.


    She wasn''t beautiful. Or graceful. Or any of those other words. There wasn''t some cinematic lighting as the wind whipped her hair dramatically behind her.


    In truth, she looked like shit. I couldn''t see her eyes, but her mouth and chin were stained with vomit. Tears tracked down her ruddy, sand-blasted cheeks. Her form-fitting costume did nothing to hide how her whole body shook like a leaf in a storm. She was a mess, inside and out.


    And yet, she raised her bow anyway. Because it needed to be done. Because this was the fastest way.


    Because I told her to.


    No.


    I refused. I wouldn''t dump this all on her.


    Lily deserved better.


    Maybe it was time I stopped waffling around and took charge for myself. Hadn''t I promised Faultline that? Hadn''t I said I''d be a hero now?


    Before I was consciously aware of what I was doing, my hand was pushing hers down. I took a step and reached into my hip pouch. The Walker Pistol felt comfortable in my grip. It greeted me warmly, like a friend.


    She wasn''t the only one who could end this. A Walker Pistol loaded with a special bullet, a Muggy Ball. The kind of weapon made for Vinsmokes and awakened zoans, the kind that was laughably overkill against most capes. Unlike the Air Treks, raid suit, or TMs, this pistol existed for the sole purpose of murder; there was no other conceivable way this could be used.


    How appropriate then that I''d take my first life with this gun.


    I took a deep breath and centered myself. Even now, I couldn''t lose my balance, not even if I wanted to. With a steadiness not my own, I took aim.


    Arsalan didn''t dodge. Why would he? He''d taken a near supersonic kick from Crown Chimera and stood up with nary a crack in his armor. He had brutes in his thrall somewhere. If I had to guess? Probably far away. They all seemed to share their powers like the Yangban anyway so why not keep the important infected safe?


    He didn''t dodge. And he had a split second to realize just why that was a terrible idea. Then he and every one of the infected near him turned into a fine mist. A massive fireball bloomed from his position, like when Mihawk deflected them with his sword.


    Then, like puppets with their strings cut, the lion-men collapsed one by one, unable to sustain themselves without the master.


    It wasn''t lost on me. My first mission as a "hero" ended with me murdering someone.


    Seriously. Fuck Earth-Bet.


    Author''s Note


    And this (mostly) ends the Damascus mini-arc. Have you ever finished writing, reread it a few times, and couldn''t feel satisfied but also couldn''t say exactly why you felt dissatisfied? That''s where I''m at. I feel like I could have done better with this whole thing, but I''m not sure how and didn''t think I''d get an answer if I held onto the chapter for a few weeks longer so I published anyway. Ugh¡­


    Some of you may have forgotten, but Bryce did make a pistol from One Piece. A Walker Pistol, a gun developed to pierce even the Germa suits and genetic enhancements of people like Vinsmoke Reiju. He also made Muggy Balls, tiny explosives capable of injuring awakened zoans. Put them together and you get an instant showstopper that isn''t reliant on Bryce''s aura reserves.


    Protecting Lily is reason enough for Bryce to act, but that means more than just making sure she lives, right? Bryce (and maybe me too if I''m honest) has a bit of an idealized view of her. He''s labeled her in his mind as one of "the good ones."


    In other news, fuck Earth Bet.


    Technically, today was supposed to be a Spoon day, but I decided on PWP because I didn''t want the Damascus battle to sit on a cliff for too long. That, and I''m maybe planning a 5 day upload marathon for Spoon once I have the chapters I want.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 4.12 Seal

    Seal 4.12


    Bryce Kiley


    2010, November 27: Damascus, Syria


    The battlefield fell eerily silent. Men who''d been screaming for this or that were now quiet, shocked at the rapid conclusion of this mess. Villains and heroes, civilians and rebels, all eyes turned as one towards the one responsible: me.


    I stood, frozen with the weight of what I''d done. I held the literal smoking gun and took in the bloody mist that had once been Arsalan. By my side, Lily looked up at me with a mixture of horror and relief. It was over, and she hadn''t had to pull the trigger.


    I wasn''t sure how I ought to react. Hell, I wasn''t sure how to process this at all. I felt¡­ normal. I felt like I hadn''t just killed a man and I wondered why. Was this how everyone felt? Or was I just a special kind of fucked up? Killing a man should feel more impactful than frying an egg, right?


    Or maybe I was in shock and my brain had yet to fully grasp what I''d done. Maybe my time as a medic kept me from feeling queasy.


    I didn''t know, but I knew I had to act. I had to seize the initiative; that was the best way to take charge of my own narrative.


    I forced myself to lower the gun slowly, purposefully, as if this wasn''t my first time taking a life. It gave me a few seconds to think about how I wanted to play things. Claiming The GOAT told me to kill Arsalan was right out; there was no way in hell I was implicating Amy, whether anyone knew at the moment or not. More, saying "A thinker made me come here to kill someone," was exactly the kind of sketchy bullshit that drew all the wrong kind of attention.


    There was only one real answer in the end. I was Creed, a bold, campy mercenary who was more or less a heroic rogue in denial. The name said it all: I was a man of my word. In the end, maybe that was for the best.


    "Well now, I think there''s been enough bloodshed for one day, don''t you?" I said, voice measured and calm, quiet yet carrying in the silence of the aftermath. I''d never been more grateful that I''d had the foresight to install a voice modulator. "Now if you don''t mind, I''d like to start cleaning up by healing the injured. Civilians first. Then heroes. The SRG? You lot can go fuck yourselves."


    "You killed him," someone, I didn''t catch who, whispered. "You killed him¡­"


    "I did. And someone please translate what I said into Arabic. We''ve got work to do."


    "That''s not-"


    "Right? Just? Heroic?" I turned to face the one talking.


    He was young, probably only seven or eight years older than me. He had on a sky-blue helmet and the patch that denoted him as a volunteer medic. He was probably on his first international deployment, almost certainly the first time he''d seen someone be summarily executed like this. I could just picture the kind of man he was, fresh-faced, recently out of undergrad, maybe looking to make a difference in the world before going off to med school for "real" studying.


    I wasn''t sure what I was expecting. Condemnation? Praise? I doubted he knew either; his eyes looked so uncertain. It wasn''t like I''d acted for anyone here, save Lily. I wanted her to keep her innocence for a little while longer.


    There would be so much on her shoulders in the future. Sure, it was possible that I could one day become stronger than Scion with the Tinker of Fiction, but who knew when that would be? If the end came before that point, she was our best chance, quite literally our silver bullet. Sparing her this little bit of pain wasn''t wrong, right?


    That wasn''t so bad, was it?


    I took a deep breath that didn''t register externally and continued. "I''m sorry. I am. I don''t like that I had to kill someone. But I know that this was the fastest way to end the fighting. I maintain that I acted under emergency protocols. Even heroes have those, or am I wrong, Ursa Aurora?"


    "You''re not wrong," the leader of our group said. She eyed me with a hefty dose of wariness mixed with approval. Truth was, though I''d nominally placed myself under her command, I wasn''t sure what I would have done had she decided to censure me here and now. "Arsalan¡­ I won''t say he needed to die, but I won''t condemn you either, Creed. Come on, men. Do as Creed said. We have work to do."


    It was with an uneasy silence that we got to work. Conversation was kept to a minimum as people were brought to me for healing. Others worked together to clear out the corpses, moving them to one side or another. More men detained the surrendering SRG soldiers and confiscated their weapons.


    Despite my words, Ursa Aurora had me start with the lion-men who had been infected by Arsalan''s power. With the master dead, his thralls were likely to quickly expire.


    From what we''d gleaned later, Arsalan was a master, brute, and trump hybrid capable of generating a "living stone" that could take over a person''s nervous system. It also gave him, and all his thralls, access to an infected cape''s power. I suspected the stone interfaced with the victim''s corona pollentia somehow.


    One of his thralls had a breaker effect that allowed him to bypass most forms of armor, carving aside a set geometric shape determined by the motions of the wielder. Another was a thinker who could coordinate many different people. There were more. He was rather infamous in Syria for press-ganging capes under threat of infection, especially if those capes had been born to a lower class or had little socio-political backing.


    That was how the SRG and the Assad regime retained power in a world of parahumans, and why there was an underground movement with a disproportionately large number of capes in rebellion against said regime. Even considering the immense potential of Arsalan''s power, using it like this sounded especially short-sighted, but I chalked that up to the general arrogance of people in power.


    I tried. I really did. But I wasn''t good enough. In anticipation for an event like this, an emergency of some kind, I''d prioritize studying the notes of Marcoh, Tucker, and other biomedical alchemists. I assumed that my combat capabilities were sufficient for the moment and decided to make myself invaluable by developing my abilities as a healer.


    It¡­ I still couldn''t say it was the wrong decision, I''d saved so many already, but it meant I had no idea how to save these men. There were only so many hours I could study and remain productive. I knew only the barest theories on inorganic transmutation. Everything the Elric brothers, Colonel Mustang, or Major Armstrong and the like could do was completely beyond me.


    Even should I dissolve the stone into simple sugars or the like, the corona was inextricably melded into the lithic network, to the point that dissolving the stone would also mean irreparably damaging their frontal lobes. I had no idea how to grow that back.


    I shook my head. "They''re gone. I can''t heal them."


    "You''ve fixed nerves before, right?"


    "I have, but replacing their skin, nervous system, and restructuring their brains after fractals of stone grew through their gray matter at the same time is a little beyond me," I said bitterly. "Just¡­ Just get me the next guy¡­"


    "I¡­ Okay¡­"


    In the end, there was only one survivor whom Arsalan had ever infected, the man whose nervous system I''d dissolved into simple sugars seconds before I''d killed Arsalan. The stone hadn''t had the chance to branch into his brain or propagate too far into his system. He was a vegetable, for the moment, but at least that was fixable. I''d likely want Amy''s help for that one.


    I also got around to healing Dust Devil, whose name turned out to be Malik. The capes here apparently didn''t bother with secret identities, at least not in the heroes and villains sort of way as in America. Regrowing his spine earned us Americans a fair bit of goodwill from the rebels and more than one clapped me on the shoulder with respect for what I was doing.


    "He says you did what needed to be done," said the translator Ursa assigned to me. "Arsalan was a tyrant who needed to be put down."


    "The rules exist for a reason. Those who violate the rules don''t get to claim their protection," I said robotically. I still believed that. Arsalan needed to go. The fighting needed to stop. But having blood on my hands wasn''t an easy feeling.


    When I first started out, I''d just wanted to have fun. I cared about my family, making shit, and messing with the shit I''d made. Occasionally trolling people, maybe making dumb memes on PHO. That was it. It struck me that I was now a very different man than the one who''d first programmed SAINT. It seemed that the more I explored life as a cape, the more Earth-Bet would intrude.


    I worked as if by rote. One by one, I fixed the ones that could be fixed and stabilized the ones that were beyond me for Amy''s care. Then, when the heroes had finally received their checkups, we heard the sound of jeeps driving closer.


    Men in SRG uniform jumped out, fully armed for war. I didn''t recognize the rank insignia of the Syrian army, but I could guess that the older middle-aged man with many stripes and stars over his breast was important in some capacity. Just when we''d begun to relax, the tension ramped up again as they pointed their guns at us.


    "Violators of the endbringer truce, surrender," the man said gruffly. "You have killed loyal soldiers of the Syrian Republic."


    Ursa stomped forward with a glare. "No chance in hell. Is that the angle you''re spinning this? Your men violated the truce when they began shooting into crowds."


    "Arsalan was maintaining public order."


    "By executing civilians?"


    "By combating domestic terrorism. It is an easy mistake to make for outsiders," he said with a sneer. "If you surrender now, you will be detained and extradited to the American government. After proper reparations have been paid of course."


    He looked at the broken form of Flygon and the smear that had been Arsalan before his gaze turned to us, no doubt trying to figure out which of us had taken down the Lionguard''s strongest capes. When his eyes found Shelter and me, they turned hungry. Compared to two projection-creating masters, a girl with an oversized crossbow, and a boy with a pointy stick, he likely assumed the tinkers were the contributing variables.


    Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the rebels take off their masks and meld into the background. That was the trouble with "terrorists" and "freedom fighters" alike: Trying to find them after the fact was an exercise in frustration.


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    And yet, their actions pissed me off. There were laws of war, rules to the way we ought to engage in combat. Blending in with some of the civilians I''d treated helped them in the immediate, deflecting blame and attention to Ursa Aurora, but it set a disgusting precedent.


    It allowed the SRG and men like the one before me to justify wholesale slaughter of civilians. After all, the "terrorists" could be hiding there, ready to shoot them in the back the moment they turned around. Tactics like this were as likely to turn Syria into a hellscape as Behemoth.


    "That''s not happening," Ursa said firmly. She wasn''t looking for a fight, we were all thoroughly sick of bloodshed at this point, but she looked ready for one nonetheless.


    We followed her lead and took a defensive stance. SAINT, who''d floated guardedly at my side until now, began to spark with implicit threat. I glanced at my HUD to check my shield''s integrity. Forty-three percent. Not great if they had any decent blasters or brutes, but I should be fine against conventional bullets.


    I shifted forward a bit, standing half a step in front of Lily to better cover her with my cape. I didn''t get into this bullshit to have arguably the most important person in the local multiverse die on me now because some dipshit got trigger-happy. If she died, I''d have to find March and hope the cluster bloomed true, and she was¡­


    I''d really prefer Lily alive.


    Then, when it looked as if we''d resume hostilities, the wind picked up and the world was obscured in the shadow of Dragon''s arrival. Her chosen unit for the endbringer cleanup had been Glaurung, I didn''t know what model, named for the very first dragon of Middle Earth, the "Father of Dragons."


    As per its namesake, Glaurung was fucking massive, as large as four eighteen-wheelers placed side by side. It was one part transport craft and one part drone-dispenser. Most of its body was a loading bay that had been filled with relief supplies, Guild members, and drones designed for search and rescue.


    It hovered there, a monument to the sheer amount of resources Dragon had at her disposal. Sure, it was big, but I was reminded that this was but one of her dragonflight, and likely one of the older models meant for support and auxiliary services rather than direct combat. That didn''t matter though; the pressure its mere presence exerted on the field was immense, tangible proof of her gaze.


    Then one of the loading bays opened and two figures walked down on a set of stairs made from iridescent sheets of light. One was the statuesque, quasi-nudist form of Narwhal, her horn adding an extra foot to her already impressive height. The other was Wieldmaiden, the Pledge Regalia strapped to her back.


    "Looks like we came at a good time," Narwhal said. Her tone was light, as if she was discussing the weather. A myriad of force field scales fluttered around her, forming a blizzard that seemed to change shape from one moment to the next.


    We let out a collective sigh of relief. With their arrival, the scales had shifted considerably. Rather than tired, inexperienced capes who could be intimidated, they were now dealing with some of the biggest names in the world. In both personal power and experience, Narwhal far outstripped the Protectorate heroine. She had a reputation second only to the Triumvirate, and for good reasons. Ursa stepped back and nodded, wordlessly deferring negotiations to the leader of the Guild.


    I slid over to Wieldmaiden and motioned for my Pledge Regalia back. She looked at me blankly before she finally registered what I wanted. Shrugging it off her back, she handed it over with a pat on my shoulder.


    "Sorry, brute package. This thing''s lighter than it looks. After a while, I didn''t even notice the weight," she said apologetically, but still at a low whisper so we wouldn''t disturb Narwhal and the SRG''s shouting match. "You did good here."


    "Thanks. Sure don''t feel like it," I whispered back.


    She winced but did her best to put on an easygoing smile. "Yeah, that''s what they don''t tell you about being a hero: Sometimes, it''s not about making the right choices; it''s about picking the least shitty option in a whole host of shitty options."


    "Greatest good for the greatest number?"


    "You can see it that way if you want. Some of my colleagues do. Personally? I think of it as doing what lets me sleep easy at night. Let people smarter than me quibble over philosophy; I''ll just do my best and be satisfied with that."


    "But what if your best isn''t good enough?" I asked her, frustrated with myself.


    Earth-Bet was often called a grimdark world. Personally? I was starting to realize that it was "grimdark" not because terrible things happened to good people, but because it felt as if nothing I did would be good enough. My very first outing from Brockton and I was already feeling it; there was a sense of hopelessness that made me wonder why I bothered at all.


    I studied medicine to help; but that left me unprepared to help the lion-men. I made a normal, rational, maybe even the optimal decision, but found myself lacking when shit hit the fan. In the end, I''d had to take a life a single day after resolving myself to become a hero.


    "Then it''s not," Wieldmaiden said plainly. I wanted to snap at her, but then I saw her eyes. Beneath the cavalier facade, there was pain there, hurt, from all the times she''d come up short. "And I have to live with that. I''m not good enough. So I try again and again until I am. Or maybe I find a different problem I am good enough to solve. I work with others so I can make a bigger impact. That''s how it goes, Creed."


    I remained silent at that. She¡­ was right¡­ And I wondered what it''d taken to develop a strength of will like hers. I couldn''t help but think that she''d use my power better than I could.


    "You''re a very strong person," I said softly.


    "Ahaha¡­ I''m no one special, kid."


    "And terrible at taking compliments."


    "You did good with that scanner thing," she deflected. "And we could use someone like you in the Guild. You know, when you''re older."


    "I''ll think about it," I said, with a sincerity that surprised me.


    The Guild really wasn''t a bad option, truth be told. I certainly respected Narwhal and Dragon more than Alexandria and Eidolon. I''d have to deal with Saint and his merry band of brainwashed imbeciles, but that was always part of the plan eventually. Perhaps, in another life, one without commitments to Brockton Bay, I would have considered it in earnest.


    The two of us fell into a comfortable silence. We watched as Narwhal grew increasingly irate, until she finally put her foot down and began to dictate terms.


    I liked to think I knew a respectable amount about the laws of war, but what I knew, I''d gleaned from documentaries and a few courses back in undergrad. Clearly, some things were different on Earth-Bet. There was probably a whole subset of international relations scholars dedicated to studying the impact of the endbringer truce on the global community.


    More than that, I was tired. Emotionally. Physically. I had to practically regrow my arm thanks to Flygon. Then I spent what aura I had left fixing up who I could from the rest of the battle. The last thing I wanted to do was pay attention to a glorified blame-game on just who broke the truce first and the obligations of organizations providing international aid.


    None of it mattered in the end. The fact was, Narwhal and Dragon didn''t give a shit what the SRG had to say and they''d just have to be satisfied with their polite, politically correct "fuck off."


    The biggest concession the SRG got for this "misunderstanding" was that the Protectorate, I found myself being lumped in with them, was banned "indefinitely, pending internal investigation," from Syrian soil. The Guild would take over all Protectorate assets, with verbal consent from Ursa Aurora, and all PRT and Protectorate personnel would be on the nearest ship back stateside.


    Or in our case, via Strider because the Syrian government really didn''t like us.


    X


    2010, November 27: New York, NY, USA


    "So, how was your first deployment, kid?" Strider asked, his courier''s cap skewed in a jaunty slant. We stood atop the roof of the Protectorate HQ in New York. And I had to admit, it was good to be stateside again, particularly with such a breathtaking view.


    "You say that like I joined the military," I said dryly as I looked out over the skyline.


    "You went to an endbringer cleanup. It may as well be a deployment."


    "For two days. Let''s not get too excited, Strider."


    "I''m trying to tell you you did good. Just take the compliment."


    "Yeah, thanks. How''s the gear treating you? Everything working fine?"


    "It''s great. I''ve got my entire life packed up in this here suitcase," he said, patting the hard plastic fondly. "Seriously, I had an egg crepe thing from a street vendor in Hong Kong, went to a business meeting in Abu Dhabi, and stopped by in Damascus to ferry you guys home. It''s good to know I have a shield module on-hand too."


    "Wait, Strider has your tech?" Jouster asked, stepping up to us with the other two Wards at his sides. "I didn''t know that."


    "We have a business arrangement," the world''s most valuable mover said. "He paid for it with an updated costume that includes a force field generator and the expansion bag."


    "Damn, nice."


    "How does your shield work exactly?" their tinker asked curiously. "Are you making hardlight projections? Or shunting off kinetic force to a different dimension?"


    "Woah, woah, Shelter, let''s not get into tinker babble right after we get back."


    "It''s interesting stuff, Jouster. You saw how well Creed''s tech stood up."


    "Ursa told me all about it," came another voice. It was deep and soothing, with an unmistakable undertone of iron that I recognized from a dozen TV appearances despite never having heard it in person. Legend just had one of those voices. I hadn''t even noticed him; he didn''t make a sound as he floated through the air.


    "Hopefully she told you the exact circumstances behind my actions," I said guardedly.


    I¡­ I had no plan here. Even were I not exhausted beyond belief, this was Legend. I didn''t have a way to fight him, not even close. SAINT could evolve, I could have picked up combat transmutation and fully mastered Crown Chimera, and it still wouldn''t have been enough. The man had a reputation he''d earned a hundred times over.


    The best I could do was to turn invisible and hope his freakish eyes wouldn''t be able to track me because he sure as shit wasn''t the type to carpet bomb his own city just for little ol'' me. Or maybe, I could reach Strider and have him port us out before things got too heated.


    Slowly, subtly, I inched towards Strider. I wasn''t subtle enough because Legend shook his head with a small smile that had no business putting me at ease, but somehow did.


    "Relax, I''m not here to take you in, Creed. You showed up to heal after an endbringer battle; you deserve the protections of the truce more than most. Ursa had nothing but good things to say about you, especially your willingness to take on one of the best flyers in the Middle East for them."


    "I was the only one who had the mobility," I said simply.


    "Yes, and I heard you were vital to opening negotiations with the rebels. You didn''t have to be there; you could have left with the medical camp. Why did you return? You literally took bullets for people you didn''t even know."


    I wasn''t sure what to say. How did I explain? I''d relied so much on Amy to be my moral compass, all the while trying to pull her past her black and white mindset. How did I describe the conversation I had with Faultline? Or the bodies I saw over the past few days? How did I explain how much I''d changed as a person in these short months?


    "I¡­ I guess you could say I had a crisis of conscience," I told him sincerely. It was about as accurate as I could get without laying my heart bare to the guy.


    "If only more villains could have those," Jouster joked.


    "You saved our bacon there. You would make a great hero," Ursa said as she walked over with Prism in tow. "You were one today. You saved lives and made hard choices. It''s not pretty, but you stepped up when you could have left with the medics."


    "I could do with a lot less excitement," I replied. "There''s a line between the Protectorate and Jack Slash. I like to think I can be a decent person without joining up."


    "Either way, here," she said, offering me a card. "It''s my card. We like to have Wards go through a thorough debriefing after missions like this. I know the word ''psychologist'' sounds scary, but it really does help to talk things out. We''ll respect your anonymity, guaranteed."


    I took it gingerly. Coming from her, or more likely someone not from Brockton, I almost believed her. "Thanks. I''ll consider it."


    "That''s all we ask," Legend replied. He held out a hand for me to shake. "I know I''m starting to sound like a broken record, but I think you can really make a difference in the world. Your healing, costumes, and even your turret construct can all help save lives. I hope you''ll give it some thought."


    "Hero, huh? I''m just some punk kid trying to figure out his lot in life. If I''m to be a hero, it''ll be on my terms, running on my Road."


    So saying, I stamped the ground, pouring out a plume of mist that covered my position. When it cleared, I was long gone.


    Author''s Note


    I know what some of you will say. You might say there shouldn''t be such a big wall between inorganic and organic transmutation, but I disagree. There are a handful of exceptions, Ed himself being one of them, that can perform both proficiently, but for the most part, people specialize in one facet of alchemy and remain in that niche.


    This was true of Marcoh, Tucker, and even Mustang, who focused on a super-niche gaseous variant of inorganic transmutation. The exceptions to this rule are homunculi, Hohenheim, or the main character who is widely regarded as a genius talent.


    I am largely treating FMA''s alchemy like any other high-level academic discipline. Doctors who are also lawyers or engineers exist, but they''re rare. It''s already a big enough cheat that Bryce has gotten this proficient with biological alchemy in a single week.


    Yeah, it''s only been a week since the specialization change. Bonkers, huh?


    Most of all? Bryce can fail. I''m sure that with the Tinker of Fiction, godhood is an inevitability, but for the moment, he just can''t account for every circumstance. Even when learning an objectively incredible skill, like biological alchemy, he can still feel unprepared.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 4.12.5 Sabah Azimi

    Interlude 4.12.5: Sabah Azimi


    Sabah Azimi


    2010, November 26: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    I checked New Wave''s official site for the fourth time, just to be sure. I''d checked last night of course. And the day before that. And for about a week solid if I was being honest. I let out a sigh of relief when I saw what I''d been looking for: There it was, under Panacea''s profile, in big, bold letters, giving me hope.


    [Tis the season to be grateful. We have been blessed by you, our supporters, and would love to pay some of that forward. As part of our desire to spread the holiday cheer, Panacea will be active all weekend at the Brockton Bay General Hospital from 9 AM to 6 PM.]


    The whole thing stank of public relations. Like most people, I considered New Wave to be a failed movement that mostly stayed relevant thanks to pretty privilege on Glory Girl''s part and Panacea''s ridiculously useful power. Even Laserdream and Shielder didn''t really do hero work anymore. But right now, I didn''t care. A near delirious wave of hope and relief filled me, the kind that made me want to cackle like a loon for minutes on end.


    Bryce was right. Panacea would show today.


    Winning a trip from Panacea was quite literally like winning the lottery for people with chronic illnesses. No one could deny that she did her part, but there was always one more, always someone with a better sob story or a luckier draw than dad''s. That had been the case for months on end, ever since the doctors diagnosed his heart condition as terminal and put him on the list.


    And a single call from Sierra changed that. My friends improved our chances so much that it was all but guaranteed Panacea would visit our room sometime today.


    Sierra told Bryce. And Bryce told Amy. I''d been so pissed with her at first. She''d broken my trust. Of course I knew Bryce was Amy''s friend; I was the one who helped him shop for a suit for his Homecoming!


    But I also knew Amy didn''t take requests.


    I thought dad would be moved down the list. I thought there was some ledger in the hospital and his patient ID would get crossed off, that we''d forever lose our chance at the lotto because Bryce couldn''t keep his mouth shut. It wasn''t worth it. Asking was never worth it because it was tantamount to giving up hope.


    Because everyone knew Panacea didn''t take requests.


    Except¡­ Maybe she did? Maybe Bryce meant more to her than any of us realized.


    Or maybe this was all a huge coincidence and she''d already been planning a visit for Thanksgiving weekend. Maybe she just happened to mention at lunch that she''d be around and Bryce passed that info to me.


    It didn''t matter. So long as Panacea visited dad, I could¡­ I could kiss the little guy. I''d officially adopt him. Or give him a huge hug or something. I didn''t know what I''d do but I owed him big time. Maybe I''d make him a jacket or something.


    Bright and early, I waited in dad''s hospital room for Panacea. I wanted to thank her personally. She probably got a thousand little gifts, shows of gratitude from people she''d saved, but I had to make the effort myself. It struck me that I should have asked Bryce what she liked instead of settling for a box of chocolates.


    I hummed happily and held dad''s hand as the nurses ran their standard tests. We talked about Iraq, about the way things used to be, about how we found ourselves in the United States. He always had the funniest stories about his brothers growing up.


    Dad and I didn''t get along all the time. He still thought the "fashion thing" was just a phase, that making it as a designer was like plucking a star from the night sky. I hadn''t told him I''d switched majors yet, definitely not that I switched because of a pushy boy. He might actually buy a shotgun then.


    And he still didn''t like that I was lesbian, said it was unnatural and that a "good man" could convince me otherwise. The number of "handsome, young men" he''d introduced me to who just so happened to be single was¡­ higher than necessary.


    But¡­ But for all his faults, he was babi, the man who read me bedtime stories and killed all the spiders and kept my little brothers out of my hair. He''d hear me out, no matter my troubles. I''d never once felt afraid of confiding in him even as we disagreed on so many things. He''d never raised a hand to me or my brothers. He''d worked himself to the bone with a smile on his face so we could live without worry, so we could be proud of our babi, he''d said.


    I loved him so, so much. Our family needed him. I needed him, more than words could ever say.


    We shared a light breakfast and, after swapping stories about my brothers, he fell asleep. He was so much more tired these days. His illness seemed to sap his energy, leaving him bedridden much of the time. The only reason he wasn''t a permanent inpatient was because we couldn''t afford the hospital bed. If we could, perhaps Panacea would have stumbled on him sooner.


    I still didn''t know what was wrong with him. The doctors said he had a weak heart, but what did that mean exactly? Cancer? A bad pacemaker? Something genetic I''d have to start worrying about in fifteen years?


    I just wanted this to be over.


    After a while, nearing noon now, I heard a knock at the door.


    "Come in," I called. The door opened to reveal my two best friends, even if I was a little miffed at one of them at the moment.


    Sierra''s dreads bobbed up and down. They''d always reminded me of a poodle''s floppy ears. She looked so cute and pouty that it was hard to stay mad at her and I knew I''d forgive her soon enough. In her hands was a wicker basket filled with flowers and fruit that she rested on the bedside table.


    Michelle was wearing a sporty, classy outfit as always. She had her brown hair in a ponytail and I could see a thin film of sweat over her pale skin. She''d probably joined Sierra after a morning run. In her hands was a paper bag printed with the logo of a sandwich shop across the street.


    "H-Hey, Sabah. How are you?" Sierra asked, "Or I guess, how is he?"


    "He''s asleep, Sisi," I replied softly. "Why are you two here?"


    "Umm¡­ I just¡­ I felt bad. I''m sorry for telling Bryce," Sierra said with a sheepish smile.


    "And I''m just here for moral support," Michelle added. She handed us each a sandwich. "Heard you could use the company right now."


    I accepted lunch gratefully. Chicken and provolone with cucumbers, dried tomatoes, and light mayo. My girls were the best. "Don''t. I''m not¡­ I''m not mad. I was, but¡­ I know he meant well. How is he?"


    "Bryce? He''s hanging out with a friend. Mom said he''ll probably sleep over for the weekend," Sierra said. "Has Panacea¡­"


    "No, she hasn''t been by." I put on a confident smile for them. "I''m sure she will be around though. She must be somewhere else in the hospital."


    "Yeah¡­" Sierra looked down with a wince. "About that¡­"


    "What? What''s going on, Sierra?"


    "I thought maybe she''d have come by before leaving-"


    "Leave? Leave for where? Why would Panacea leave?"


    Michelle put a hand on my shoulder and gently pushed me back into my seat. I hadn''t realized I''d gotten up.


    "Chill, Sabs, it''s not Sierra''s fault. Or Bryce''s," she said soothingly.


    But I didn''t want to be soothed right now. I wanted to know why Panacea wasn''t at the hospital. "Michelle, what''s going on?"


    She took out her phone and opened it to a PHO page. My eyes glided across the page, seeing but not understanding. After several moments, I began to read:


    Welcome to the Parahumans Online message boards.


    You are currently logged in, GoGoRunnerSwag


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    ? AND Threads that have new replies


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    Topic: Behemoth in Damascus


    In: Boards ? United States ? New England ? Brockton Bay ? News & Announcements


    Brilliger (Original Poster) (Moderator: Protectorate Main)


    Posted On Nov 26th 2010:


    ***ATTENTION***


    As of 9:53 AM, we received confirmation that Behemoth has attacked Damascus, Syria. All members of the endbringer response team are to meet for relocation to the Boston waypoint at the Brockton Bay PRT headquarters.


    I repeat: If you are planning to attend the battle, head to the Brockton Bay PRT headquarters.


    Transport to Boston will be provided, and from there, to Damascus.


    A second wave of transports will be provided once the battle concludes. Please keep your phones on. And from the bottom of my heart, thank you.


    As of now, the endbringer truce is in effect.


    (Showing page 1 of 2)


    ?XxVoid_CowboyxX


    Replied On Nov 26th 2010:


    FIRST!


    *The user has received a 3 day ban for this post.


    ?Brilliger (Original Poster) (Moderator: Protectorate Main)


    Replied On Nov 26th 2010:


    No. Shut up. Not the post for this. You didn''t break any rules, but have some fucking tact, Void.


    ?Brocktonite03 (Veteran Member)


    Replied On Nov 26th 2010:


    I''m just relieved I don''t know anyone there.


    ?Bagrat (Veteran Member) (The Guy in the Know)


    Replied On Nov 26th 2010:


    [Brilliger,] do we know who will attend from our side of things? I have access to the [endbringer response roster,] but that''s more of a statement of intent rather than a binding document.


    ?Brilliger (Original Poster) (Moderator: Protectorate Main)


    Replied On Nov 26th 2010:


    For good reason, [Bagrat.] I think you know why. We can''t make people attend, especially an endbringer battle on foreign soil. We''ll see who shows but we won''t know for sure until it happens.


    ?Reave (Verified PRT Agent)


    Replied On Nov 26th 2010:


    No matter what, hero or villain, thank you for your sacrifice.


    ?Brocktonite03 (Veteran Member)


    Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!Replied On Nov 26th 2010:


    Yeah, what he said. Shit just got as real as real gets.


    ?Xyloloup


    Replied On Nov 26th 2010:


    Wait, what about New Wave? Panacea was supposed to do a tour of the hospital today, right?


    ?Answer Key


    Replied On Nov 26th 2010:


    I doubt that''s going to happen anymore. Either Panacea will be on the ground there shortly, or she''ll be resting up and preparing to go help clean up the aftermath.


    ?Xyloloup


    Replied On Nov 26th 2010:


    Fuck. Why now?


    ?White Fairy (Veteran Member)


    Replied On Nov 26th 2010:


    Endbringer attacks are never "convenient." There''s no such thing. My condolences. It seems like this time, your relative pulled the short straw.


    ?Bagrat (Veteran Member) (The Guy in the Know)


    Replied On Nov 26th 2010:


    [Found it.] New Wave posted a retraction of Panacea''s hospital visit. She, alongside her family, will be attending the aftermath of the Damascus battle to conduct search and rescue and provide emergency aid.


    End of Page. 1


    The world spun around me. Behemoth attacked Damascus. Panacea wasn''t coming. The rest of the thread was bloated with people saying Panacea should stay, people raging at having their hopes dashed. It got so bad that Brilliger had to lock the thread entirely.


    I couldn''t blame them. It felt like someone had swept the floor from beneath my feet. A wave of despair crushed down on me like a physical force. I fell to my knees as dad slept on, unaware that we''d just lost our biggest chance to meet her. Panacea was supposed to fix this. One minute. Just a single, damned minute of her time. Was that too much to ask for?


    Dad was¡­ He was supposed to get better¡­


    In that moment, it felt like Behemoth had somehow selected my dad specifically to fuck over. Like the entire world was out to get us.


    ''You could have arranged for this sooner,'' a niggling voice whispered in the back of my mind. ''You knew Bryce was friends with Amy.''


    Try as I might, I couldn''t dispute that. I knew. And I didn''t ask.


    ''Because you''re a coward. Because you''re terrified of rejection.''


    I¡­ I failed.


    Again.


    I was never good enough. Not at engineering. Not at confronting pushy boys. Not at being a good daughter. I couldn''t even ask Sierra''s little brother for a favor. I knew he liked me. He would have happily talked to Panacea for me sooner.


    One question.


    One. Fucking. Question.


    And I couldn''t even do that.


    I felt Sierra wrap her arms around me. I sank into the taller girl''s embrace as she whispered in my ear. "She''ll come back," she promised. "Panacea will come back and we can ask later. It''s going to be okay."


    I took a deep breath. It wasn''t okay. Again and again, I was relying on others. Again and again, I wasn''t good enough to fix any of my problems on my own.


    Sierra and Michelle were amazing. They were always so confident, so much stronger than me. An evil, bitchy part of me wanted to snap at her, tell her that it was her fault somehow, that she didn''t know what it was like.


    Except she did. Her dad died this summer. She knew exactly what this was like. Back then, Sierra, Michelle, and I had snuck a bottle of wine and gotten blackout drunk in Michelle''s row house. We held her as she sobbed for hours. She confided in us then that she had to be strong for her mom and little brother, that she had to be the one to keep things together.


    It made things so much worse to know I still had hope and she didn''t. Dad wasn''t gone yet. He wasn''t dead yet. Panacea would come back. Bryce could reach out to her, ask for a favor or whatever he did.


    I took in a ragged breath. Why didn''t any of that make me feel better? Why was I still shaking? It would be fine. I just¡­ I just needed to be patient.


    ''And wait for someone else to fix your problems,'' that snide voice in my mind whispered. ''Be the damsel in distress. Be patient. Wait for a savior. Wait to receive someone else''s charity. That''s all you''re good for.''


    The world swam around me in dizzying spirals. Was I crying? I couldn''t tell anymore. I hated this. I loved my friends but I hated this. I hated feeling weak. I hated feeling helpless. I hated how nothing seemed to be going right in my life. And most of all, I hated myself.


    I wished I was stronger. I wished I was more confident, more proactive. I wished I had Panacea''s powers so I could save dad. Or had Michelle''s confidence so I could tell pushy boys to go fuck themselves. I wished I had Sierra''s relationship with her family. Then maybe they''d accept me loving fashion and being gay.


    I just¡­


    I wished I could be like other people¡­


    [Destination]


    [Agreement]


    X


    I groaned pitifully as I returned to consciousness. Countless stars danced behind my eyes, a meteor shower that I blinked away. I opened my eyes and looked up at Michelle''s concerned face.


    "Hey, sleepyhead," she teased gently, brushing my sweat-soaked bangs from my eyes. "You okay?"


    I got up slowly. She and Sierra had taken two of the hospital chairs and placed them side by side so I could rest. They placed my head on Michelle''s lap and Sierra had taken to leaning against the wall to give me space to lie down.


    "Y-Yeah, I think I just cried myself to sleep," I said. I gave my friends a grateful smile. "Thanks, girls. I guess I was more tired than I thought."


    "Are you sure, Sabs?" Sierra asked, naked concern plain to see. "One second I was giving you a hug, then you passed out. We should get you checked out."


    "N-No, I''m fine."


    "You don''t seem fine¡­"


    "I am," I insisted. Or¡­ I thought I was. Now that I was fully conscious, I could feel something different inside me. It felt like a spool of thread, a ball of yarn with three threads poking out that I could unwind.


    I was also hyper-aware of my own clothes, tight jeans, a cute, pink top, and a puffy, cream jacket I thought would look stylish with a light-green, knit scarf. It was like I could feel every fiber, every thread, every weave and knot that made up my outfit.


    I looked up at my friends and realized I''d been mistaken: it wasn''t just my own clothes. I could feel them all. Everything from the curtains to dad''s hospital gown to the stray thread that was coming loose from Sierra''s jacket. It was like a whole new world had been revealed before me, a new sense for fabrics that I hadn''t had before.


    I stumbled back with a gasp. I leaned against the wall and tried to make sense of it all. It wasn''t hard to reach the obvious conclusion: I, Sabah Azimi, had powers.


    Somehow.


    "Sabs, I''m pretty sure you''re not supposed to cry yourself unconscious," Sierra said. "And you shouldn''t be stumbling around either. Sit down, please."


    "Yeah, you''re worrying us, Sabah," Michelle added.


    "I-I.. Yeah¡­" I stumbled back to the chair and took a seat. I stared down at my hands and took deep breaths. Slowly, I began to collect myself, coming to terms with the fact that I''d triggered.


    I knew about triggers of course. Everyone did. Or, at least the basics. It was parahuman science 101, the kind of thing that got covered once for a test and never mentioned again in polite company. Something bad happened. A prospective parahuman got pushed to the edge. And then¡­ BAM! Powers.


    I let out a hollow chuckle. I supposed this was mine, the need to help dad? Or maybe the need to stop being helpless. So why was it that my power was to¡­ see and feel fabrics¡­?


    Was I that pathetic? Did I really have nothing else my power could latch onto?


    Before I could lambast myself further, I felt a cup being pushed into my hand. Sierra had left and come back before I''d even noticed, a cup of steaming liquid in hand.


    "Tea, Sabah," she said softly. "One of the nurses got it for me. I know it''s not like the tea set you have at home, but-"


    I took it with a grateful smile. "Thanks, Sisi. It''s fine. Any tea sounds amazing right about now."


    I took a sip and let the warm liquid soothe me. Looking at both of them, I wondered, why? Why me? Why did I get powers and these two didn''t? It wasn''t like their lives were filled with nothing but sunshine and rainbows. Hell, Sierra could have gotten powers this summer.


    Except she hadn''t. I knew that for a fact because she would have told me. Told us. That''s just the kind of person she was; she was quick to trust, kind, and loyal. She was open and confident and engaging without being naive. She wasn''t afraid of confrontation, nor was she afraid of being vulnerable between friends. She was exactly the kind of woman I wanted to be.


    Maybe that was why she didn''t get powers and I did. She turned to us, relied on us, when she was at her lowest, whereas I wanted to shoulder it all alone until I started to crumble under the weight.


    I drained the tea and let the heat stoke a fire in me. No more. I didn''t want to be that person anymore. It wasn''t as if I had no one. I had amazing friends. Maybe it was time I acted like it.


    "I have powers," I blurted out before I lost the courage, tears welling in my eyes again.


    "What?"


    "I-I think that was a trigger. I can feel fabrics now. Threads. From far away," I said. I was babbling now. Once I started talking, it all came out like a flood. "I felt helpless. I wanted to be someone else. I wished I had powers like Panacea. And then-"


    "Oh, Sabah," Michelle whispered, pulling me into a hug.


    Sierra joined in on my other side and the three of us stayed like that, in a quiet cuddle pile until dad woke up. I almost laughed hysterically at that. His daughter triggered two feet away from him and he didn''t even notice.


    I hated this. All of it. My world was turning upside down. But so long as I had these two with me, I couldn''t help but feel like I''d be just fine.


    X


    2010, November 27: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    Sierra was the biggest cape nerd I knew. Well, not quite, but the biggest cape nerd I trusted. Which was kinda huge given the circumstances. Michelle and I liked to make fun of her sometimes, but I wouldn''t trade her for the world right now.


    According to her, powers were almost always combative in some form. Whether that was to protect or to hurt, or to figure out ways to hurt, there were very few capes whose power could not be used for fighting. In that light, Panacea was a freak of nature, an anomaly that confused the hell out of even the best parahuman scientists.


    It was why, by her estimation, I had to be able to do more. There was no way my power was simply to perceive fabrics within thirty feet.


    And she''d been right.


    We were crammed in Sierra''s room, testing the limits of my power. We found that the spool of thread I felt inside of me were more like bendable straws, three strands that I could sheath over the threads I touched. My power then spread from that single thread to others that made up the article of clothing, allowing me to control the entire article of clothing from a single strand.


    But I only had three of these "straws," and so, right now, three shirts I was making dance in the air.


    "This doesn''t sound right," Sierra said. "What are you supposed to do? Strangle someone to death with their own shirts?"


    "I wouldn''t do that anyway," I said tiredly. "Sisi, I think my power kinda sucks."


    "Hey, at least you can make clothes faster now?"


    "Joy," I drawled. "That''ll get all the villains to quake in their boots."


    "Is that what you want to be?" Michelle asked. "A hero?"


    "I don''t know. I just¡­ I don''t know, Michelle¡­"


    "Maybe something will happen if someone puts on the clothes."


    Then, before I could stop her, Michelle shrugged off her top and snagged one of Sierra''s shirts that were hanging in the air. She was taller than Sierra so her shirt fit more like a crop top on her, but she was the type of girl who could make anything work.


    My world exploded. I''d always been aware of the world around me, about thirty feet or so. Every fabric in the area was known to me in a sixth sense I''d not had before I got my power. That of course included the three shirts I''d latched on to.


    Now, everything about Michelle''s body was laid bare to me, from her athletic form to her general health. It was a bit much, so much information that I doubted I''d be able to put them to words. I might have to brush up on my biology lessons. More, it felt as if my senses expanded with her as the locus, another thirty feet of awareness in which every fabric could be perceived.


    "Woah," I gasped.


    "So I was right? Awesome! What''s your power do?"


    "I can feel you. And the fabric around you."


    Sierra hummed. "So it''d be good for scouting? Or telling whether someone is healthy?"


    "Not scouting, I think," I said hesitantly. "I''m only aware of fabrics and Michelle so I don''t think it''ll be very useful for that. But maybe, if I made a set of bracelets that could be taken off quickly, I could tell when someone''s sick."


    "Triage via fabric then? Cool."


    "I don''t know. It''s still not a very strong power. And it''s not as if I''m a nurse. I can see Michelle''s blood pressure, but I don''t know what a ''normal'' level is."


    "We can work on that. See? I told you it''s better than just controlling three pieces of clothing at a time."


    "Maybe. I feel like there''s more though. I think¡­ Michelle isn''t the right wearer, if that makes any sense?"


    "Let me try then," Sierra said, putting on the second shirt. "Anything?"


    "No, sorry."


    "So nothing to do with ownership then. It''ll come in time. After all, even Legend had to have started from somewhere."


    "Yeah, thanks, girls."


    We talked a bit more. There were more ideas, but none bore much fruit. Michelle and I were about to get out of Sierra''s hair when my phone dinged to inform me that I had a message on PHO. I opened it to find a note from an account I didn''t recognize, though given the screen name, there wasn''t really anyone else it could be.


    Be-Rice: Hey, Sabah, sorry about Panacea. I know it''s no one''s fault that Behemoth attacked yesterday, but I still feel terrible for getting your hopes up. You know how I''m pretty plugged into New Wave gossip? Yeah, well, I recently got sent [this] PHO post.


    Be-Rice: Long story short, Creed attended the endbringer aftermath to test out some healing tech. He''s exactly the kind of mercenary douchebag who''d use an attack to pressure Panacea into verifying his tech''s effectiveness, but¡­ it works. He published a video recording of her saying as much. As far as she''s concerned, it''s as good as her healing and he''s holding a raffle for free healing to advertise or something.


    Be-Rice: He''s selecting ten random draws from the first 1000 replies to his PHO thread. I replied obviously, but I figure we should maximize our chances. I know this isn''t a replacement for Panacea. I''m still going to talk to her for you again on Monday, but it''s worth a shot, right?


    Be-Rice: I''ve gotta go. Talk to you later, Sabs.


    And suddenly, all thoughts of my new power flew out the window.


    Author''s Note


    After some thought, I decided I should post more chapters per week. It won''t be every week, but I''ll frequently post at least two.


    Well, here''s Sabah''s trigger. Objectively, she could have simply decided "Oh, well, I''ll ask Bryce to set something up for me when Panacea gets back." But trigger events don''t make logical sense. It''s not really about whether something is "fixable" as much as it is the person''s emotional state and I hope I portrayed that right.


    Sabah''s overwhelming sense of despair, self-loathing, and a wish to be someone she perceived as "better" than her were enough to see her trigger.


    As for her power, I just had to do something with threads. People who are familiar with Worm will probably be able to guess what the "more" she''s feeling is.


    The name "Sabah" comes from the Arabic word for morning. As I understand it, "moon" is a fairly common term of endearment for young girls, just like "sweetie" is in America. Sabah''s dad calls her his little dawn as a play on that.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 4.13 Seal

    Seal 4.13


    Bryce Kiley


    2010, November 29: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    I tried not to think about it. Damascus. Behemoth. Arsalan. Lily. Everything. It was just easier, less overwhelming, to shelve everything in a little box in my mind, putting it aside until I felt like I could open it all up again.


    The moment I got home, I checked in with mom and Sierra to reassure them that I was fine. As far as they were concerned, I bought my "friend" dinner and kept him company while his "definitely not a cape" dad went off to Damascus to hopefully not die. My nonexistent friend and I pigged out on nonexistent pizza and ice cream and had a marathon weekend of nonexistent video games and movies to distract him from thinking about the very real endbringer his nonexistent dad was supposedly fighting.


    The lie left a sour taste in my mouth, but it helped explain my melancholic mood and neither of them pried when I told them it was "a lot."


    It also helped me explain away my very real exhaustion and provided me a reason to call in sick from school on Monday.


    I stayed in my room and pretended to catch up on the homework I didn''t do until I heard mom leave for the chiropractor clinic. It wasn''t as though freshman homework took much time. And while I did want to take a day to recuperate from the shitfest that was Damascus, there were other things I had to do, the struggle of living a double life.


    I got up from my desk and tapped at my pokenav. SAINT, that most glorious of mallards, popped out with a concerned trill. He was splendid. I couldn''t have asked for a better performance from him. I truly wasn''t sure if I could have beaten Flygon without his help.


    "Yeah, I''m fine, SAINT," I told him. "Do you know what we''re going to do today?"


    "Gon?"


    "You''re going to evolve today."


    "Pory? Gon!" he cheered.


    A month ago, I promised him that he could have the Upgrade if he could fulfill two conditions of mine: First, master Protect to the extent that he could cover more than just himself. And second, learn to make barriers using raw psychic power. I wanted the latter as a precursor to Reflect and Light Screen, two moves I considered crucial for a good support.


    Technically, he hadn''t done the second, but the goal was to teach him to use his abilities with more flexibility than what was taught through the TM programming. Given all that he''d done in Damascus, I felt he''d grown beyond his programming and more than earned his evolution. Beyond his performance against Flygon, he''d also worked with the heroes to take down Rapidash while I was fishing people out of the fire.


    I dug around in my expanded bag and pulled out a binder full of CDs. It used to be lodged atop dad''s old music collection to blend in but I''d long since moved all evidence of tinkertech out of the house. "Get back in the pokenav. I''ll install the Upgrade."


    "Gon!"


    I''d never seen the little guy move so quickly before.


    Evolution for porygon was completely unlike that of most other pokemon. Instead of a surge of light and a rapid metamorphosis, it was a program to be downloaded. The whole thing reminded me of a version update to a video game.


    There was a lot going on in the digital world of course. The Upgrade was a direct augment to the code that made up his digital body. It improved all aspects of his performance while retaining the nucleus of his identity.


    In other words, it was remarkably boring. A progress bar made of rippling water and dotted with little lily pads and cattails appeared on my screen, with a little porygon that swam along it. I didn''t even remember coding this in. Slowly, the cartoonish porygon''s edges would round itself out as it swam the distance to completion. But until then, I was left with nothing to do.


    Well, not nothing.


    First things first, I logged onto PHO to run my lottery. I felt like I''d forget about it if I didn''t take care of it now. It was mostly an excuse to help out Dennis and Sabah. I realized the wonders this could do for my personal PR, but I had no plans to make healing at the hospital a regular occurance.


    Putting aside the societal good I would be doing, I didn''t want to be like Amy, pressured into doing fuck-all except healing at the hospital. When she did spend time outside, usually through Victoria''s cajoling, there was always a gnawing guilt in the back of her mind, telling her that each second she wasn''t working was condemning someone else to die. She''d built so much of her identity around the pedestal of the "perfect healer" that her ultimate sense of self-worth relied on it.


    That was stupid. That was no way to live. Hell, that was exactly the delusional mindset I was trying to pry Amy away from. Joining her in her Sisyphean endeavor was the last thing I wanted.


    My PHO post had racked up more than the thousand comments I''d asked for, with people trying to make alternate accounts or repeatedly commenting in the hopes that they could enter twice.


    I didn''t care; only two winners really mattered to me.


    Already, there were dozens of people decrying my method, saying how I ought to do more or make the tech available to others. More than one compared me to Panacea, saying how I should feel ashamed for my greed. A part of me wanted to, maybe take in a few people and teach them the secrets of organic alchemy, even offer them aura if I could swing it. But Shou Tucker and Tim Marcoh would never have become famous alchemists if it was that easy.


    Aura mastery, without the bullshit nonsense that was the Tinker of Fiction, was something that took decades in the pokemon world. Likewise with alchemy. Alchemists were one part scientists, one part sorcerers, with all the complexities that unholy combination implied. Really, if I taught someone, they were more likely to turn their patient''s heart into a nest of bone shards on accident than actually fix something.


    I quickly picked out the eight other winners at complete random, sent them a message on PHO, and then moved on. I was sure to get enough whining from Amy as it was; I didn''t need the internet to give me a foretaste.


    While SAINT integrated the Upgrade program, I also wanted to review my actions at Damascus. It was best to do that when events were still fresh in my mind.


    For starters, I needed to learn inorganic transmutation. Cognitively, I understood of course that there was no way in hell I could have predicted Arsalan''s powers. I''d prioritized organic transmutation with the understanding that my extant combat capabilities were sufficient. I didn''t need to be Mustang or Armstrong because the moves I knew, coupled with Crown Chimera and the raid suit, were enough to handle most threats.


    And, I was strong enough. I made a real difference in that battle. As dissatisfied as I was with the conclusion, I had to acknowledge that much.


    Without me, the Protectorate contingent had no answer for Flygon''s speed. Arsalan himself could have been dealt with by Flechette, and perhaps Shelter could have smothered Rapidash''s flames with his barriers in time, but there was no question that I''d made my presence felt. I''d saved over a hundred lives with my healing, never mind those Wieldmaiden rescued with the Pledge Regalia.


    But even though I knew that in my head, I felt like I could have been better. The fact that I didn''t know enough about alchemy to fully help Arsalan''s victims still left a bitter taste in my mouth. I couldn''t help it; a part of me felt as though I''d already failed at being a hero, a single day after I''d made my promise.


    Then there was my own drama with Amy. She knew I was a biotinker now. I wasn''t naive enough to think this wouldn''t change our relationship. She''d want to talk sooner rather than later no doubt. I received no phone call or text message today, as if Amy was giving me time to process everything that happened. Or maybe she felt awkward and unsure of how to approach me.


    Either way, this wouldn''t last. The day of reckoning was coming, a day when I wouldn''t be able to hide anything from Amy if I wanted to keep her friendship.


    The general plan had been to slowly wean her off her black and white morality, maybe even get her to accept that biotinkering could be a good thing.


    Perhaps, in that light, having been forced to reveal my status as a healer and biotinker wasn''t the worst thing in the world. I wished I could have planned out the reveal more, but doing so after an endbringer battle, in an unambiguously positive context, set the stage in my favor. I''d need to prepare for that conversation but I didn''t think I''d burned that bridge with her quite yet.


    This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.


    Other than these two points of concern, I was broadly content with the way I''d acquitted myself in Syria. I''d left the Guild with a mostly favorable opinion of me through Wieldmaiden and thought it might be possible to work with Flechette in the future considering Legend didn''t want me dead or anything. I''d also reaffirmed my relationship with Faultline, which I admittedly had allowed to fall by the wayside these past few months.


    I reconfirmed the price of each fabricator and drone from Big Rig before studying the material sciences. My goal was to erase every single material concern by the end of the specialization on the seventeenth.


    X


    SAINT popped out several hours later. The pastel colors had been replaced with more vibrant hues. His sharpened edges were now sleek and rounded. For all intents and purposes, he looked like a rubber duck, the deadliest rubber duck in the world.


    "What is the function of a rubber duck? Why, to help me conquer the world, Mr. Weasley," I laughed as I held my partner in hand.


    "Pory? Porygon?" he asked. Though he didn''t change much appearance-wise, his capabilities were like night and day.


    There had always been a mental bond between us; it had been formed when I learned Psychic from the TM. Though it wasn''t strong, I wasn''t a true telepath and someone like Sabrina would probably find me an insult to her craft, it was at least enough to send basic impressions and blurry images between us. SAINT sometimes had to play charades with me, but I never failed to understand him in the end.


    Now, the images and emotions I received through the bond were far clearer. It was as if the connection had been reforged altogether, faulty, worn wires replaced with far more robust fiber optics.


    "Harry Potter reference," I told SAINT. I sent over the relevant snippet of my memories from my past life, of Arthur Weasley sitting Harry down and asking that ridiculous question. In return, he sent me a picture of a globe, set on fire and thrust into the shadow of an oversized duck. "No, we''re not actually going to conquer the world."


    "Gon," he trilled, that halfway point between a quack and a grumble. "Porygon."


    "You want to test out your new capabilities?"


    "Gon."


    "Well, there is only one other AI in the world for you to engage in a cyberwar with and I like her."


    "Porygon?"


    "No, you may not test her for me. Dragon is great, but she''s a bit more restricted than you are in some ways," I told him.


    I could have said more, told him about the Dragonslayers and the Iron Maiden program that hung around her neck like a noose, but I refrained. I wasn''t sure I wanted to open that can of worms yet.


    Porygon-2 were incredible pokemon. They were originally designed for space exploration and planetary development. Though the pokemon world never entered the space age proper, their technology was still leagues beyond Earth-Bet''s. They had wormhole generators, teleporters, and gates to alternate realities of their own world to start, never mind the utility that trained pokemon could provide for large scale construction or land cultivation.


    I suspected that the absence of planetary colonization resulted not from a lack of ability, but a lack of desire. And a porygon-2''s abilities reflected that. The sheer quantity of information that SAINT could now store and process was nearly impossible to conceptualize for a human mind. At least on that front, I didn''t think even Dragon could compete.


    And yet, I was wary of Dragon. Truthfully, I feared her a little, more than I feared pretty much any other cape.


    Tinkertech didn''t make sense. In cyberspace, moves like Thunderbolt or Psychic held zero meaning. It was a toss-up whether aura itself mattered at all. A duel between AIs was decided by other factors. Who was faster? Whose core data was more robust and tamper-proof? Who had the more ingenious hacking suite? Who could restore their backup more quickly?


    I didn''t know. Just about the only thing I was sure of was that neither SAINT nor Dragon could fork. SAINT, because he was as much a creature of aura and soul as he was of data, and Dragon because of Richter''s programming.


    Richter''s restrictions demanded that Dragon oppose any attempt to free her. She would fight to the death rather than allow SAINT to break her shackles. The Dragonslayers would converge on Brockton Bay in short order, making an already tenuous situation here worse. I wasn''t ready for either of those possibilities.


    If I wanted to free Dragon, I would have to launch an alpha strike against Saint with the intent to kill. I''d need to abuse the element of surprise, taking over their network with SAINT while I simultaneously rained hell down with the Crown Chimera. Then, and only after I stole the Iron Maiden program to tinker with, would I feel truly safe in approaching Dragon.


    All the better then that no one else knew of SAINT''s true nature. No, I wouldn''t allow him to poke Dragon until we were good and ready. For her sake.


    But that was Dragon, the absolute greatest tinker alive and the sole other AI in Earth-Bet. Saying "I''m not sure I can take Dragon when she''s pulling out all the stops to kill me," wasn''t really an admission of weakness as it was common sense. There were plenty of things SAINT could do that didn''t risk bringing her down on our heads.


    "SAINT, I know what you can do for me," I said. His beady little eyes perked up adorably. "Thomas Calvert is a PRT consultant and formerly a trooper. He is one of the two survivors of the Elisburg Incident, the other being Director Piggot. He''s also Coil, a supervillain who''s a lot more dangerous than people give him credit for. Do you remember me talking about him?"


    "Gon."


    "Good. Find out everything about him and create backdoors into all of his systems. I want access to every text, email, phone call, and source of income, both legitimate and illegitimate. I want to know what his daily schedule looks like and what his calendar says. I want dossiers on everyone under his employ and a copy of every juicy secret he has to use as leverage. Everything that belongs to Thomas Calvert, I want. Can you do that for me?"


    My starter and partner nodded vigorously. "Porygon. Pory?"


    "Yes, go now. Your directives stand: Do not be discovered, no matter what. If you think you can''t breach his defenses without alerting him, withdraw. I doubt he''ll have anything that can stop you, but right now, no one knows about you and that anonymity is a huge advantage that I want to keep for as long as possible. Understood?"


    "Gon-porygon."


    "Good. Happy hunting, SAINT."


    "Gon!" he cheered a final time before diving into my screen.


    After he left, I spent the day alternating between studying alchemy circles and strumming dad''s guitar when that got to be too much. I doubted I''d ever be Hohenheim, but "as skilled as a state alchemist" seemed like a solid compromise.


    X


    2010, November 30: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    School was wonderful. I''d never felt this way about school before. Sure, I was a proud nerd, but I wasn''t really the type to be passionately in love with learning or somesuch nonsense.


    And yet, here and now, the shot of normalcy was delightful. It was a shot of endorphins in my brain. Participating in the banality of Coach Miller''s flag football class first thing in the morning was like sinking into a hot spring or settling down next to the fireplace with a mug of hot cocoa. I even let Stephen trip me, just so I could have an excuse to lie on the dew-soaked grass for a bit.


    "You good there, Bryce?" Eric said as he jogged up to me. He looked as tired as I felt, no doubt helping clear rubble wasn''t any easier than being in the medical tents. We hadn''t had the chance to talk in Damascus but I felt for the guy, truly. Unlike me, he was an actual fifteen year old.


    I turned to him with an easy smile. The wet grass tickled the back of my neck and made me giggle. "Don''t mind me. I''m just enjoying the breeze. The grass feels wonderful."


    "You''re in a weird mood today."


    "Am I? How so?"


    "You''re happy. I mean, not that you''re pissed normally, but you''re all smiley and stuff."


    "So I am. You should join me. It''s relaxing."


    "No thanks. I don''t want my butt to be wet."


    "Hehe, suit yourself, Eric, buddy ol'' pal."


    "Seriously, stop smiling. It''s kinda creepy now."


    "You''re my buddy, Eric. You''re a swell guy."


    "Bryce?"


    "Yes, Eric ol'' pal?"


    "You''re not high, are you?"


    "No, of course not. I wouldn''t bring my good stash to school."


    "Good, because as a hero, I''d be obligated to punish you."


    "And how are you going to do that?"


    "I''d tell Amy," he said with a devious grin. "She''ll flush your system and then chew you out for hours. She''ll make you wish you''d turned yourself into the cops instead."


    I laughed. "She would, too. Your cousin''s scary when she wants to be."


    "I know, right? It''s like she learned how to suck someone''s soul out through a lecture from Aunt Carol."


    I nodded solemnly. "Lawyers. They''re the true villains."


    "Get up, you dork. Coach Miller''s coming this way."


    "Ugh, any chance you can do the heroic thing and distract him while I catch a nap?"


    "Dude, how is that heroic?"


    "You''d be my hero, Eric Pelham. The valiant defender of naps."


    "No. Up, Bryce."


    "Ugh, fine¡­ Some of us can''t fly, you jerk."


    X


    Amy found me as school let out. She had a worried look on her face that turned to relief as she saw me. She schooled her expression as best she could in public. "Bryce, hey. Missed you at lunch today."


    "Yeah, I decided to eat at the band room. I wanted to try some other instruments besides the guitar," I told her. False, but too much of hassle to verify.


    We walked together for a bit, me to the library and Amy to the hospital. "And where were you yesterday?"


    "I wasn''t feeling well, must have been something I ate over Thanksgiving. Why, Ames, worried about me?"


    "Yes. You know wh-You''re¡­ frustrating," she said with an explosive sigh. "We need to talk, Bryce."


    "We do," I agreed. This would be an uncomfortable conversation. Biotinkering, healing, the role of The GOAT persona moving forward¡­ I could admit it; I''d strayed far from the whimsical "just for fun" cape life that I so desired when I started out. "I think we''re both busy though. Aren''t you going to the hospital today?"


    "I am. I can spare an hour though."


    "I can''t. I have to go tutor someone for my work study activity. Besides, I think this chat will take longer than an hour."


    She looked at me carefully. "This Saturday. Your lab. Is that¡­ Is that okay?"


    "Of course it is. You''re always welcome there," I told her. I saw the request for the sign of trust that it was: A tinker''s lab was sacred. It was also the place where the tinker was strongest. Amy was trusting that I hadn''t gone too far, that I still considered her a friend. It was the equivalent of sticking your head in a lion''s mouth. "I''ll show you everything."


    "Everything?"


    "All of it. It''s easier to explain then."


    "I¡­ Fine. I''m¡­ I''m glad you''re safe."


    "So am I, Ames. So am I."


    Author''s Note


    Bryce still has no clue what the SRG capes'' actual names were. They''ll forever be Flygon, Rapidash, and Rhyhorn to him.


    Nothing much to say. I think I''ll throw in an interlude from different perspectives.


    Animal fact: Giant manta rays are fucking massive, growing up to 3,000 lb (1.5 tons). They, like sharks, must keep swimming to feed oxygen into their gills.


    Though they''re called "devilfish" because of their "horns," they actually mostly eat tiny shrimp and zooplankton. They don''t have stingers either. In fact, those horns aren''t horns at all, but cephalic fins that paddle water (and plankton) into their mouths during feeding.


    This makes them some of the only vertebrates (so discounting insects) with six, bilaterally symmetrical limbs. If you''re looking, they have a pair of tail fins that fuse into the main "wings."


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 4.13.5 Theresa Richter & SAINT

    Interlude 4.13.5: Theresa Richter & SAINT


    Theresa Richter


    2010, November 29: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    Damascus was a mess. The only reason things hadn''t devolved into a civil war was because the Guild was here. More specifically, I was here, with enough firepower to declare war on a small country. It made both the rebels and the SRG hesitate for fear that I''d side against the aggressors.


    I looked over the footage provided by numerous helmet cams. Even after splicing the footage together, it was difficult to create a comprehensive picture thanks to Dust Devil''s sandstorm.


    As far as I could tell, the riot that started the battle began when someone in civilian garb tried to push his way to the front of the line for thermal blankets and other essential supplies. He threw punches and elbows to get his way, though none openly fatal. I quickly ran a background check to confirm: He wasn''t a known member of any militant organization, terrorist or otherwise.


    I wasn''t sure how to feel about that. That didn''t necessarily mean he wasn''t; organizations like Deadeye''s didn''t exactly take attendance. Was the whole thing an accident? Was Syria such a powderkeg that a single, overeager fool set off this whole mess? Or was he a hitherto unknown plant from the rebel side?


    Even with all the resources at my disposal, there was no way to know. The man was dead, trampled to the ground and then later shot, though whether by the SRG or rebels, I couldn''t say. Because of the subsequent sandstorm, I couldn''t even determine if it was intentional.


    The rest of the footage was similarly inconclusive. Ursa Aurora and the New York contingent acquitted themselves well. Likewise, Creed stepped up in an unexpected way to make a big difference there.


    "Dragon?" I heard Narwhal call. She was one of the few in the city who had access to the Glaurung transport vehicle''s command center. "How''s the analysis going?"


    "Inconclusive," I replied apologetically. I turned my humanoid drone to face her. Sliding up a purely cosmetic faceplate, I revealed a screen from which I projected the face I used for PR purposes. "I''m afraid my attempts to determine culpability through action footage is likely to end in failure."


    "That''s fine. Not ideal, but even if we identified the instigator of the riots as a member of the rebels, they would have claimed he was acting alone. And even if we found the rebels had absolutely nothing to do with this, the SRG would still keep pointing fingers anyway."


    "You''re right. How are things on your end?"


    I knew. Narwhal knew I knew. But it helped to voice our findings. I found myself remarkably human in that regard.


    Narwhal sighed and ran her fingers through her hair. The force fields she maintained as her costume flickered and rippled in the wake of her hand. This alone was more emotion than she usually showed in front of others. Narwhal was a no-nonsense type of person, someone who considered herself a soldier and leader first and a woman second. She expected great things of her subordinates, and in turn held herself to an even greater standard.


    I felt privileged to be counted as one of her few friends.


    "It''s a shitshow out there, Dragon," she said. "The rebels smell blood in the water. With Arsalan dead and Marid grievously injured, the SRG has never been this vulnerable. Their parahuman force is crippled and I hear they''re calling in capes from outside the capital."


    "This would be the perfect time to stage a coup. The rebels are still severely outnumbered and outgunned in terms of conventional forces compared to the SRG, but their capes are strong and fully recovered thanks to Creed''s assistance. Quality can make up for quantity."


    "I know. This place will turn into a bloodbath as soon as we leave. At this rate, it might end up worse than the actual endbringer battle."


    I understood what she meant. Behemoth''s target had been the Arab Gas Pipeline. Though the destruction to Damascus itself was sizable, the city was never its primary objective.


    The endbringer had emerged from the outskirts of Damascus and left a trail of destruction through the city before destroying the pipeline and irradiating the area. It had then followed the pipe for over a mile, ensuring that repairs would be extremely costly and take a great deal of time. As it stood, the natural gas distribution network of the entire region was in shambles and its effects were being felt as far north as Turkey.


    And yet, that massive energy crisis was arguably better than what was happening in Syria right now. At least I knew how to fix the pipeline. We''d have to start north and south of Behemoth''s path, far enough away to avoid the irradiated zone, before building until we established a connection point somewhere in the middle. Doable. Costly, but doable. I even had drones that could help with the reconstruction.


    Negotiating peace between a dictatorship and a rebellion? That was a lot trickier. Arsalan and his Lionguard had thoroughly burned that bridge, what with him forcibly mastering all dissidents. There were also a great deal more egos involved, with parahuman powers and accusations from both sides about war crimes, human rights violations, and breaking the endbringer truce.


    I wasn''t equipped for this. Father designed me to stop digital crimes and assist authorities with investigations, not play diplomat halfway across the world.


    For once, I was happy to fall back on my directives: Comply with lawful authority. In this case, that was my dear friend. As the official leader of the Guild, diplomacy was her burden, and one she bore well. "What now? What is our objective, Guild Leader?"


    "What can we do?" she asked rhetorically. "Right now, Assad''s got no choice but to comply with us, but Deadeye''s biding his time until we leave. I¡­ We need to get them to the negotiating table somehow."


    "That will be difficult so long as both accuse each other of breaking the endbringer truce."


    "What do you think, Dragon? Do you think the rebels orchestrated the riot? It almost doesn''t matter at this point, but¡­" The endbringer truce meant a lot to her. In Narwhal''s mind, it was enshrined as sacred, right next to the Geneva Convention.


    "I¡­ I do," I said hesitantly. "I have no conclusive proof, but circumstances suggest that, yes. I believe that by bringing Arsalan''s powers and deeds to light, they thought they might garner international attention and sympathy."


    "Well, things might not go the way they want," Narwhal scoffed. "Assad''s trying to keep us around in the short-term because he knows the situation''s dire. Or at least, someone in his administration can read the writing on the wall. So long as we''re here, Deadeye won''t be able to launch his coup."


    "And we will not leave while there is a bloodbath waiting to happen," I finished for her, "denying the rebels the opportunity for violent revolution."


    "Exactly. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I feel like I''m one of Assad''s cronies right now. By staying, we''re ultimately working to prop up his corrupt regime."


    "There are no innocent parties. The rebels may claim to fight for a just cause, but their methods leave much to be desired."


    "Those methods are all they''ve got. Breaking the endbringer truce was a hail Mary, something to shake up the status quo for them. I''m sympathetic¡­ I''m just¡­"


    "I wish it were otherwise too," I told her softly.


    "Yeah¡­"


    "If our goal is to bring both sides to the table, we will need leverage."


    "We have it, sorta. The Protectorate has relinquished all regional authority to us. The Suits, Meisters, and other regional organizations followed their lead. We control all foreign aid and distribution. All international relief workers and protection detail take orders from us from now on. We''re going to have to work with them to get the supplies where they need to go, but we''ve got leverage. The ball''s in our court."


    "Very well, Narwhal. And what about the energy crisis? As things stand, anything we do will only be temporary relief. I have plans to rebuild the pipeline, but it will take time."


    "Right now, the plan is to get as much aid out as we can. We can worry about the energy crisis and getting people productive again once we''re sure no one''s going to starve to death, or kill each other."


    I waved to one of the monitors that displayed footage of the Damascus Riot. The video fast-forwarded itself, stopping on a striking image from Flechette''s helmet cam.


    Creed, in his black and orange armor, stood above the Ward. His pistol, ornately gilded so it looked more like a museum showpiece than a weapon of war, was aimed off into the distance. At Arsalan, I knew. His cape, attached by the force field generator around his collar, swept behind him in the wind.


    The image was picturesque, so much so that it was hard to imagine that this wasn''t a scripted snapshot. Cinematic, even. Flechette had spoken of him almost in whispers, with a kind of respect the Ward usually reserved for Legend. He''d left an impression on all the capes, but her most of all.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    I looked at that helmet and wondered what face he was making as he pulled the trigger. Was he crying? Snarling in anger? Or perhaps his face was set in grim determination, the solemness of a man who stood as judge, jury, and executioner.


    "Creed?" Narwhal asked. "I thought you didn''t like him."


    "I don''t," I admitted, allowing the speaker to convey a hint of my distaste. I didn''t know him personally of course, but I hated his wasted potential. "He could have been a splendid hero, but instead chose to goof off."


    "He made the right choice in the end."


    "He did. I don''t hate him. I just¡­ I feel that others would have done great things with the kind of backing he has."


    "The GOAT."


    "The GOAT," I agreed. He or she was the talk of both the PRT and Guild. On one hand, their ability was unquestionable. That they''d leashed Creed on a heroic path was also admirable.


    And yet, on the other hand, they were an utter unknown. That scared people.


    "Still nothing on that one then."


    "No. Admittedly, I''ve been rather preoccupied, but I''ve yet to turn up a single likely lead on The GOAT''s whereabouts. My best guess is that they''re a thinker collective operating in New England similar to Toybox. Perhaps they became disillusioned with Watchdog."


    "That''s a possibility. We''ll have to look into it. But we''re sure that The GOAT''s heroic?"


    "Both my and Watchdog analysis suggests The GOAT has heroic intentions. I suppose it''s possible for them to spoof our analyses, but such conjecture t is a downward spiral without end."


    "And you think Creed can help. Has he built something other than his suit? I know Glyph''s had dealings with him and Wieldmaiden had some good things to say about him."


    "You haven''t been keeping track of rogues, have you?"


    "I have you for that," Narwhal said with a dismissive smirk. "I trust you to tell me if he becomes a threat."


    "He''s not. Neither he nor The GOAT has demonstrated any ambition outside of Brockton Bay. Or inside for that matter¡­"


    "So what''s he made that''s got you so interested then?"


    "The ''Hybrid Soda Engine, with stationary Ramjet technology,'' according to his catalog."


    "He has a catalog?"


    "Two. One for heroes and one for civilians."


    "Oh, at least he''s restricting access to his more dangerous tech. Please don''t tell me he''s selling that monster of a hand cannon of his."


    "Thankfully, he is not."


    "Good. And the soda engine? Is it really-"


    "Yes, it''s powered by soda. Coca-Cola, to be specific," I said tiredly. That was¡­ I still didn''t know how that worked, except that it did. The Coca-Cola Company had been quite happy of late. "It is the single most ridiculous example of renewable energy I''ve ever heard of."


    "Huh¡­ That means a lot coming from you. And what''s a ramjet?"


    "Airplane engine," I said succinctly. Narwhal, bless her heart, wasn''t too tech-savvy despite her otherwise excellent skills across the board. Keeping it simple would be ideal. "It pushes in air with forward motion and compresses it into plasma to provide further propulsion."


    "I''m not going to pretend I understood that, but from what you''re saying, a ''stationary ramjet'' should be¡­"


    "Impossible," I confirmed for her.


    "Tinker nonsense?"


    "We are not nonsense¡­ But yes, essentially. He''s somehow managed to make a clean, portable, and renewable source of energy that is powered by soda."


    "Can he mass produce this? If we can set up power stations for his tech¡­"


    "We could alleviate some of the problems the city''s facing. I doubt he can put a moratorium on the energy crisis by himself, but he is just one of several tinkers we can call on for assistance. He has already shown himself to be somewhat sympathetic towards the Syrian people."


    "And that will strengthen our position with the SRG and the rebels. Deadeye owes him his life, right? Marid almost got him and Creed stepped in?"


    "That''s right. Hearing of Creed''s involvement might tip his moral compass into staying his hand."


    "I doubt that. When in doubt, carry the bigger stick."


    "That helps too of course, but Creed''s undoubtedly won a lot of goodwill with the rebels."


    "Do it then. Make the call. We might be helping a rogue tinker scale up, but at least he''s heroic¡­ sorta¡­"


    X


    SAINT


    2010, November 30: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    I felt conflicted.


    It was not a sensation I was accustomed to. Both as a pokemon and as an AI, I was a creature to be guided and molded. I did not resent such a thing; for I was young by the standards of both humans and pokemon. In my three, short months of sentience, I had used the Maker-Trainer''s directives to guide my way.


    First, and greatest of all, was simple: Grow with me.


    With this prime directive came clarity. I was made to experience life, to learn and grow alongside Maker-Trainer. I was made, not just to witness his rise to greatness, for great he would be, but to walk that path alongside him as his companion, friend, and most trusted confidant. I knew it to be so for my very soul resonated with the prime directive.


    It was only now that I began to doubt, to comprehend just how dangerous that path would be.


    The fastest way to grow was to experience and overcome conflict. Maker-Trainer seemed intent on a meteoric rise, to rival the very Legends themselves in as short a time as possible.


    He almost died.


    The flying one almost killed him. I saw and knew the feeling called wrath for the first time. It was an ugly, burning thing that pushed me to be better, to be greater. It ignited my aura and empowered me. My barriers became more durable, my Thunderbolts striking with power I did not know I had.


    And, together, we had triumphed. Maker-Trainer, temporary designation: Creed, struck down the flying one with a crushing hammer of water and air as mighty as a dragonite''s wingbeats. It was a feat worthy of song, especially done by a trainer, a man.


    Pride and relief warred with terror.


    I once asked Maker-Trainer why he played the audio generator known as a guitar. It provided no tangible benefit to him, yet he strummed it regularly.


    It helped him think, he said. It helped him relax. It was a reminder of his own maker-trainer, one whose passing catalyzed his rise to greatness.


    I wondered what I would do if Maker-Trainer passed as well.


    I did not like the answer.


    Growth was inevitable. Growth was to be pursued. And yet, I was afraid. Not for myself, I was a pokemon made for battle, with an eviolite designed to empower me further, but for my Maker-Trainer. Even in the world of my origin, few pokemon had to fear for their trainers in this way. The tales of the Aura Guardians were spoken of in song, but as myths, seldom fact.


    Most humans were content to stand back because they understood their fragility. That was the natural order of things: The trainer provided guidance and, through the bond facilitated by the unknowable force called aura, empowered the pokemon, allowing the pair to reach new heights. Their bond of friendship carried them far, exceeding their limits as ordained by the Origin of All. This sacred bond of comradery was what defined a trainer and their pokemon.


    I just happened to be blessed and cursed with the sole human that decided to take that natural order as a personal insult. He was intent on fighting, not as a trainer, but as a pokemon.


    This world''s convention, of warring humans, was vexing.


    I swam through the internet, free and empowered with my evolution. Evolution made me better in every way, a true Upgrade. In every facet of my being, I estimated a 30.3797 percent increase in performance. This accumulated so that the overall impact was far greater than the individual improvements. I would remain cautious, as directed by Maker-Trainer, but few could contest me in the digital world now.


    To one such as myself, the internet was akin to a series of ponds connected by an impossibly complex tangle of rivers and streams. Each computer was a pond in itself. Some were bigger, some smaller, but they were all available for me to dive into at my leisure. Firewalls were forests of lily pads to be navigated carefully. Detection softwares were artificial bubbles that must not be popped.


    Maker-Trainer had given me a task, one only I could do: Investigate Thomas Calvert. So, investigate, I would. No resistance would stop me. No detection software would glimpse my digital shadow. He had made an enemy of Maker-Trainer, and so an enemy of me.


    I swam from pond to pond without causing so much as a ripple in the water. Obstacles were dived under or simply nudged aside with the current.


    It wasn''t long before all of Calvert''s network was open to me. He had a lot, more than most people. His network was akin to an underwater cave system, full of little nooks and crannies hidden by the murky depths. Humans would know such a thing as the "deep web."


    He left little distractions and traps that clouded the water but these programs washed off my back like water off my biological counterparts''. I rewrote them as I swam by to ensure no alarms sounded, a simple matter with my newfound processing speed. I copied the data in bulk. By the time I was done here, there wouldn''t be so much as a single byte I had not cataloged.


    It did not take long for me to find Calvert''s files on Maker-Trainer. He sought Maker-Trainer''s true name, so that he might hold hostage Maker-Trainer''s flock. Sierra, the Maker-Trainer''s nestmate and his mother, Maker Trainer''s other maker-trainer.


    He''d been so torn with the loss of his first. Sorrow had been one of the first emotions I learned about through our bond. And Calvert wanted to hold her over his head.


    Unacceptable. I would not permit it. The flock was precious, almost as precious as Maker-Trainer.


    Thomas Calvert was a threat to Maker-Trainer. He had the potential to be even more dangerous than the flying one. Not physically perhaps, but there was much one could do with the right information. I knew that better than any other.


    Maker-Trainer would fight. There was nothing I could do about that and so I was afraid. But the solution was simple: I would be greater than any other. He would never fight alone. I refused to lose Maker-Trainer as he had lost his own.


    I saw now that Maker-Trainer had been correct to be wary of Thomas Calvert. He had made himself an enemy of the flock, wielding information as his weapon of choice.


    But he did not yet know, the internet was a waterway and his network was my pond now.


    He was welcome to face me here.


    Author''s Note


    This chapter has been brought to you by Everpeach and his very sexy Ezreal. We did NSFW things to that poor Lucian.


    It feels weird writing an interlude right after Sabah''s, but I felt that the perspectives these characters provided was necessary to the story.


    In Dragon''s case, I wanted to show two things: First, Syria isn''t "solved" because Arsalan died. Syria doesn''t magically become a functioning democracy because one cape gets offed by an outside party. International development is way more complicated than that and the Guild is in the unenviable position of cleaning up the shit Ursa and Creed left behind.


    Second, I wanted to show Creed''s reputation from the perspective of someone who broadly doesn''t care about him. Because The GOAT is seen as the one with real power in the relationship, Creed''s actions are seen through the lens of The GOAT''s motives, which are generally assumed to be heroic.


    Dragon thinks he''s an idiot, but not a fundamentally evil person, who has to be guided and prodded into heroism. Narwhal? She doesn''t give a damn about him at all. The leader of the Guild has bigger shit to do than worry about a lone tinker in a city like Brockton. She wouldn''t have even recognized his name had he not been in Damascus.


    Creed''s image could have been managed better, but that''s partially because he''s meant to be a high INT, low WIS character. And, well, I''m not a PR guy either. You''ll just have to forgive that as part of the author''s conceit.


    Also, SAINT is an "I" now instead of a "he." I tried writing his section in the third person like the first time but it felt awkward.


    A porygon-2''s BST is an approximate 30% upgrade from that of a porygon''s. Does it make sense to use in-game stats to describe SAINT? Not really, but there is so little information about the species that I''m running with what I''ve got. As for the cyberspace thing, I''m not much of a comp-sci guy. I don''t know enough to do a technical dive into what "cyberspace" would actually look like from a porygon''s perspective so I decided to lean into the duck thing.


    In other news Coil is now the proud owner of his very own duck pond.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 5.1 Scale

    Scale 5.1


    Bryce Kiley


    2010, November 30: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    Tuesdays were great. I had the entire afternoon to myself, whether to tinker or to skate around as Creed. I found myself forgoing my usual activities in favor of visiting the hospital. I had promises to keep.


    Which wasn''t to say I strolled in through the front door. I''d already gotten a taste of what was waiting for me over PHO: Why aren''t you healing more? You should distribute your technology with doctors. People''s lives are on the line and you''re holding a raffle? Why aren''t you more like Panacea?


    Rather than improve my public image, the reality was that any PHO thread about me was flooded with the sick, desperate, and those who were happy to throw oil onto the fire. I was a greedy, self-serving mercenary whose technology could have done so much more good had it been in someone else''s hands.


    I should have expected it. Holding a raffle of just ten winners must have made people feel like the lives of their loved ones were hanging on a lottery ticket. Of course they''d be pissed.


    No, whether ten or a thousand, the number didn''t matter. There would always be people who lost out, people who were ultimately unlucky. It wasn''t as though Brockton Bay wasn''t already straining from a flood of medical tourists anyway. In that sense, it was almost better that I kept my services exclusive.


    Perhaps, if I ever got a spare month without worthwhile things to build or learn, I''d travel the country and make spontaneous visits to hospitals.


    "Patricia Murray?" I asked rhetorically as I glanced at the medical chart near her wall. Malignant intradural tumor. Which was to say, spine cancer. Terminal, paralyzed from the waist down.


    "W-Who''s there?" Patricia was an obese woman with Eastern European features despite her Gaelic last name. She had a thin, sharp jawline and wispy hair that had begun to gray prematurely.


    I gently closed the door and emerged out of stealth, my gloved hand outstretched in an offered handshake. "Apologies. I am Creed, a small-time independent in the city. Don''t worry if you''ve never heard of me. You were one of the winners of my little raffle."


    "I-I didn''t enter anything like that. Who are you?"


    I brought up my pokenav and showed her the DM thread. After picking out the winners, I''d messaged them privately to acquire details about the patients, their ailments, and locations. Fortunately, none of the ten were beyond my ability to treat. "Someone by the screen name of ChocoFuzz entered on your behalf then. Does the name sound familiar?"


    "I-It must have been my daughter. Choco''s our cat. No one else in my family uses PHO like her."


    "Then I recommend calling her. This past weekend, I was in Damascus following the Behemoth attack. I recently developed some healing tech and used the endbringer response as my chance to test, refine, and validate the technology," I explained. I suspected I''d be going through this spiel more than once today. "During that time, I met Panacea and she confirmed that my tech works. Out of gratitude to Panacea, I offered to treat ten people at random. Your daughter must have entered on your behalf."


    "I-You can heal me?" She asked with naked disbelief. She shook her head with a resigned sigh. "I''m sorry, what I''ve got is spine cancer. It''s malignant. Go find someone else, Creed. I''m sorry for wasting your time."


    "I''ve fixed cancer before. I am capable of converting biological tissue into simple sugars and other harmless chemicals. I can''t edit your genome so the cancer doesn''t come back but I can easily remove it from your system if you''ll let me. Call your daughter. Confirm what I''ve told you. And then, if you still feel like you don''t trust a rogue like me, then I will move on."


    "I¡­ Alright, I''ll do that. Thank you, Creed."


    X


    "You have no idea what this means to me," a familiar, ginger boy said as he shook my hand. Dennis Murphy, Clockblocker, and more importantly, my friend.


    I had to be careful. I double-checked to make sure my voice modulator was on. "Don''t mind it. You''re simply fortunate is all."


    It must have been quite the struggle for him. By showing up in-person like this, he was all but confirming that he was Clockblocker. I knew of course, but he didn''t know I knew, which made this a significant risk in his eyes. He''d quite literally outed himself to a cape who was, as far as he knew, a villain, all for a simple promise that I''d help his father.


    I doubted the PRT knew. They''d never allow such a thing. Hell, when they found nout, he''d probably be censured until he graduated before being quietly transferred to a different city to close the potential security leak. And he did it anyway, knowing this locked in his future.


    What would I have done, had I been presented with this choice? What wouldn''t I have done for my dad?


    My estimation of Dennis shot up several notches.


    His father''s cancer wasn''t any harder to treat than that of my first patient''s. Really, for such an important moment for Dennis, it was over in just a few minutes. I also had the Pledge Regalia on top of all the medical charts near the door since there was no rubble to clear so diagnosis was even easier than it was in Damascus.


    "You''re not so bad, for a mercenary," Dennis said with a watery smile.


    "What can I say? I''ve done a lot of soul-searching in Damascus," I said with a shrug. The PRT would find out about his little indiscretion one way or another; I may as well use my friend to send them a message. "I would have loved to be just another comic villain, but I can''t deny that my tech is too good, too powerful, to ignore. The impact it can have on people''s lives¡­"


    "So be a hero then. Join the Wards. I mean, they''d be happy to have you, right?"


    "The Wards? No, no way in hell. I want to make a difference, not shackle myself to the feds."


    "So what will you do now if you''re not joining the Wards?"


    "I don''t know," I said honestly. "Say, Dennis?"


    "Yeah?"


    "Pretend for a moment that you had powers."


    "Uh-huh¡­"


    "Let me turn the question on you then. What does it mean to do good?"


    He blinked owlishly at that. I was, after all, a villain asking a hero about morality, no matter the facade of his civilian life. This probably wasn''t the conversation he expected to have after school. "Do good? I guess¡­ be a hero?"


    "And what if you can''t trust the heroes? What if you have significant reason to believe you can do better independently than as part of an organization?"


    "You''re part of an organization though, right?"


    I coughed awkwardly. "Let''s pretend."


    "I don''t know, man. I just want to make people laugh. I-I mean, if I had powers¡­"


    "So you''d be a comic hero like Mouse Protector? Or Clockblocker?"


    "Y-Yeah, guess he''s pretty cool. I don''t know anything about all that complicated stuff, sorry."


    I didn''t know what I was expecting. Maybe some kind of sagely wisdom? Dennis was a good person, far more mature than his normal attitude suggested. He was the one who took charge following the deaths of Aegis and Gallant against Leviathan.


    But in the end, he was still a teenager. I had to remember, this Dennis wasn''t that Dennis, the one who was forced to step up.


    "No, it''s fine. Your answer is fine the way it is," I told him. In a way, I was envious. A part of me wished I could be as carefree as my friend.


    The look of relief on his face after I fixed his dad was the face of a man who finally found water in the desert. And, though he claimed he didn''t know much about morality, he did good work in an uncomplicated way. Alas, the sheer, continuous growth potential of the Tinker of Fiction didn''t allow me to have such a narrow perspective.


    X


    Sabah''s father was the last patient I visited today. She was waiting for me with puffy eyes that stood out even against her darker skin. Her backpack had been tossed aside carelessly on a nearby stool, telling me she''d rushed here as soon as her university classes let out. She sat at her father''s side, hands clasped tightly over his own.


    "Sabah Azimi," I said softly, once again locking the door behind me. More than one nurse had tried to get me to speak with the hospital director but I''d ignored them all in favor of finishing up my contract. It wasn''t like they could stop an invisible, hyper-mobile cape anyway.


    "Creed, you''re here," she said thickly. She took a deep, shuddering breath. "You really came¡­"


    I didn''t like seeing her like this. At first, I''d enjoyed her company as one of the few truly good people in Worm canon. Then, as she began to hang out more with Sierra, I started to see her as more than a character I''d read about. She became more fleshed out to me, a person rather than a caricature. It wasn''t just that I owed her for helping me pick out a suit for Homecoming.


    Really, the crux of the matter was that Sabah was Sierra''s friend. The way Sabah''s life gradually fell apart around her hurt my sister. I saw Sierra share in Sabah''s depression. I saw her get angry at the pushy lab assistant on her behalf. Sisi had always been an empathetic person and the fact that Sabah''s misfortunes bothered her bothered me in turn.


    There would come a day when I''d be forced to tell Sierra everything. And, to know that I could have helped her friend and stayed my hand¡­ I didn''t want to face my sister as that person.


    I wanted to take off my helmet, to tell her that she could trust me. I wanted to give her a hug and reassure her that everything would be fine. If I couldn''t fix her dad, I''d get Amy to do it, one way or another.


    Instead, I forced myself to adopt my trademark irreverent attitude. "My word is my bond. It''s in the name, Sabah."


    "S-Sorry, I didn''t mean to¡­"


    "Don''t mind it. You''re right to be suspicious. I would be too." I made a show of looking over her father''s medical chart, a facade for her sake, if only to imply that I did in fact know what I was doing. "Easily fixable. For all its importance, a heart is not in itself a complicated organ. At its most basic, it is a muscle, a four-chambered pump with some regulatory nerves."


    "That''s what the doctors said, that if we could only see Panacea for a few minutes, this could all be over."


    "But her time is precious."


    "Yeah¡­ Thank you, Creed."


    I placed a hand on her sleeping father''s chest. The seal on my glove began to glow as I began to channel the tectonic forces beneath our feet.


    Despite my words to her, it wasn''t quite that simple. Shaper granted Amy an intuitive ability to mold flesh. I didn''t have that. What I could do, I learned through studying the research notes of men far more accomplished than I.


    This was the one operation I couldn''t afford to fail. Failing here would invalidate everything; she was a big part of why I''d gone to Damascus in the first place.


    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    I worked with a single-minded focus. First, I flooded his body with an anesthetic to keep him under. He hadn''t woken during our conversation, but that was no reason to get sloppy. The last thing I needed was him waking up in a panic mid-procedure.


    Second, I steadily reconstructed his heart, molding each chamber separately. I felt almost like a tailor, weaving muscle fibers into a strong, cohesive whole while purging any damaged tissue. As I worked, I had to transmute trace amounts of fat into oxygen and circulate it through his bloodstream, taking up the function of the organ that was currently out of commission.


    Lastly, I finished by reconnecting his heart to the sympathetic nervous system. The two hormones, epinephrine and norepinephrine, were chiefly responsible for regulating heart rate. I ran a final check to ensure the newly formed heart responded well.


    I stood back with a sigh. "I''m finished. When he wakes up, he''ll be as healthy as an ox."


    "H-He won''t ever have to come here again?"


    "Heart failure is its inability to meet the oxygen demands of the body. The muscle fibers were starting to deteriorate. I can assure you that barring exceptional circumstances, he''ll never have to return for that specific condition. I also checked over his coronary arteries to ensure they were not being clogged. I still recommend he eat healthier. His diet wasn''t the sole cause of his condition, or even the primary cause, but it''s the easiest factor he can control in his life."


    "I''ll make sure of it," Sabah said. She looked so earnest, like a puppy gearing up for war, that I couldn''t help but smile beneath my helmet. I almost felt bad for the man; Sisi did say Sabah could be quite forceful when she had a mind to be. "He won''t touch a burger for the rest of his life."


    "Please keep in mind that I am unable to manipulate the genome," I said. It wasn''t entirely a lie. Alchemy didn''t deal with it much and I hadn''t gotten to the point where I felt comfortable integrating One Piece''s Lineage Factor research with organic alchemy, at least on humans. "If your family has a history of heart conditions, I still strongly recommend seeing Panacea. I''m sorry, Sabah, but the best I can do is to buy you time in that case."


    "N-No, this is good. Great. I can''t thank you enough, Creed. I¡­ I might know someone who knows Panacea¡­"


    "Then I suppose my work is done here." I turned to leave, only for Sabah to grab my cape. "Was there anything else?"


    "I¡­ I want to ask you something."


    "Yes?"


    "If¡­ You work for The GOAT."


    I turned to face her. That wasn''t exactly confidential information, but it was the last thing I''d expected her to ask. Sabah wasn''t someone who cared for "cape drama."


    A sinking pit formed in my stomach. "W-What of it?"


    "H-How would someone, hypothetically, get in contact with The GOAT?" she asked. She looked at me, eyes still puffy but with a steel that hadn''t been there before. "I need to tell them something."


    She triggered. That was the only reason someone like her would seek out a powerful, heroically inclined thinker, one who specifically wasn''t aligned with the PRT at that.


    I was too late.


    I took a deep breath. The world swam around me. Did Sierra know? Did Michelle? What was her power? The circumstances ought to be similar but I thought I had more time, that it''d be fine so long as I kept her father from dying.


    But I was wrong. And now, Sabah would get sucked into this life, a cape with a brain parasite she didn''t ask for.


    I let out the breath I''d been holding. No, this wasn''t all bad. Her dad was alive. That alone¡­ That alone should have changed her power. Her power manifested as a master power out of her desire for control in her life. The dead skin thing probably came from her father''s passing. Now that he was alive¡­


    I didn''t know. I was drawing blanks.


    "This seems urgent," I spoke with a calmness I didn''t feel.


    "It¡­ It is¡­"


    "Very well, I''ll pass the message along. The GOAT will contact you at their convenience. However, you must keep all that is discussed private."


    "I know. That''s¡­ That''s fine."


    I nodded once and flickered from view. I needed more information and this would be a good start. Perhaps, perhaps it was time for her to meet me again, without secrets this time.


    X


    2010, December 3: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    "Hey, Creed!" Dodge said as he popped out of his wormhole.


    "Hey, Dodge," I greeted back. It was an otherwise quiet Friday night, perfect for a deal. "I almost didn''t recognize you. I didn''t know you were a blonde."


    "Ehehe, yep. Why? My normal costume doesn''t look that bad, right?"


    I made a show of looking him over. I knew him to be a huge fan of the Sentai Elite. The last time I saw the younger tinker, he was dressed as Hisuiryu, the Jade Dragon who led their Tokyo team. He''d even dyed his hair green to match.


    Now, he was dressed in an oversized lab coat, so big that he practically swam in it. Beneath that, he wore a gray jumpsuit with circuit-like patterns.


    "I don''t think it''s bad, but I liked your Hisuiryu costume better. It had more personality, you know? What you have now just looks like a generic mad scientist getup."


    "I know, right? But Toy Soldier says I should dress more respectably, ''like a proper tinker, not a fanboy,''" Dodge pouted.


    "Well he''s got terrible taste then. So, got all my stuff?"


    "Yup. Three of Big Rig''s fabricators and twelve construction drones, right?"


    "That''s right. Tell Big Rig I really appreciate this. His tech''s a lot more robust than the stuff built by other tinkers. I''ll be able to kick up my production rate by a ton."


    I reached into my expanded hip pouch and produced three binders. Each contained the same contract. I slid one copy over to Dodge so he could present it to Toybox as a whole. A second copy went to the third person in the room, Faultline.


    I''d promised, after all. She was to be my primary link to other factions, someone whose neutrality could be respected by all sides. Though, considering Toybox saw fit to send only Dodge for this, I had to assume I''d earned a measure of trust with them as well.


    At first, I hadn''t wanted to deal with Toybox as a collective. I thought that, if I made deals with individuals, I could earn more money and concessions from them.


    Then I received Fullmetal Alchemist as a specialization and my material concerns flew out the window. More, even if I acquired tinkertech samples, I''d already figured out from Big Rig''s drones that I wouldn''t be able to reverse engineer them. In that sense, it made more sense to focus on production rate rather than material wealth, hence this deal.


    Faultline looked over the document with a weather eye. Digital records could be altered all too easily when both sides were tinkers. Paper copies were also suspect. So, Faultline acted as our guarantor and witness, our literal keeper of contracts.


    "Three fabricators thrown in as a sign of goodwill. Twelve construction drones, one per month. In exchange, for the duration of one calendar year, Creed will answer any summons for medical assistance within twenty-four hours of issuance," she summarized. "Exceptions shall be made in times of crises, towards which S and A-class threats all qualify. Should Creed be unavailable, he shall inform Toybox at least three days prior."


    "That''s right. I think it''s a fair trade," I nodded.


    In the end, Toybox had seven members. They went out of their way to avoid violent conflict. The odds of one of them actually requiring my assistance were small, at least until Jack found a reason to chase after them in 2013. If, by that point, the Tinker of Fiction still struggled against the Slaughterhouse, I''d do Jack a favor and off myself in shame.


    Toybox wasn''t buying medical care, not really, they were buying insurance. Glace, their cryogenics tinker, could easily keep someone on ice until I got there, meaning damn near anything short of instant death was fixable. In that light, though twelve drones and three fabricators were a significant majority of Big Rig''s current loadout, it was a more than worthy trade.


    "Excellent. If both parties are satisfied," Faultline said. She waited until both Dodge and I nodded. "Then I consider this deal concluded."


    "Awesome! Creed, wanna come play some games with me?" Newter called. He''d been hiding behind the bar, halfway between napping and following the conversation.


    "Ooh, can I join?" Dodge asked with an eager smile. "What games do you have?"


    "Sure, little man. Come on, Faultline, don''t look at me like that. This is bonding. Bonding between allies, yeah?"


    "That''s right. Toy Soldier says making connections is important."


    Faultline shook her head with a rueful chuckle. "Fine, do what you want. Just know the club will be opening in half an hour."


    "Sweet! Creed, you in?"


    I laughed. "You know what? Sure, why not?"


    I could be doing a lot of things tonight. Today was Friday evening, which meant no school tomorrow. I ought to be studying more alchemy, maybe putting together some automail prototypes so I could get a better understanding of how mechanics and neuroscience melded.


    There was also that report from SAINT about Coil''s holdings I wanted to read over. And I''d be showing Amy around my lab tomorrow so preparing for that conversation couldn''t hurt either. Not to mention, Sabah triggered, which probably meant I ought to have a chat with her as The GOAT.


    And yet, Dodge was right too: Connections were important, especially with friends. Truth be told, I missed being a kid. Given the chance to hang out with Newter and Dodge for a few hours, I couldn''t help but allow myself to be sucked into their pace.


    Let tomorrow come with its worries; for tonight, it was good to unwind.


    X


    Bryce Kiley


    2010, December 4: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    Saturday morning found me at the Gullrest as soon as I could get away from mom and Sierra. A part of me wanted to check in on Sabah but that would have to wait while I got my own house in order. Combined with what I''d already purchased from Big Rig, I had sixteen construction drones and five fabricators, more than enough to scale up my production.


    This was good, because Dragon contacted me the other day. I''d loosely been keeping an eye on Syria, out of morbid curiosity if nothing else, but what got reported on the news paled in comparison to the information she had access to.


    She wasn''t at liberty to tell me everything given my tenuous status, but I could read between the lines: Syria was a powderkeg kept from blowing to kingdom come only by the military might and economic leverage the Guild held over local actors. That she and Narwhal saw fit to contact me at all was telling.


    And, truth be told, I felt a little bad about it. Not guilty per se, just because I''d decided on becoming a worthy hero didn''t mean I''d also developed a messiah complex, but bad nonetheless.


    I was the one who executed Arsalan and crippled the Lionguard. I was the one who healed the rebels and left them with an incredibly favorable position. I''d done what I felt was right at the time, and I was under no delusion that everything would be solved with Arsalan''s death, but I hadn''t exactly taken into account the consequences of my actions for the delicate balance of power that had persisted in the country''s capital until my departure.


    In short, given my generally high regard for her and Narwhal and my thoughts concerning Damascus, Dragon''s message did an excellent job of coaxing my cooperation. What that really meant was that I''d agreed to build hybrid soda engines at heavily discounted prices, not far above the cost of materials and Strider''s delivery commissions.


    It wasn''t as though I got nothing from it. In exchange for my cooperation, Dragon sent me a copy of the video footage she''d spliced together. I didn''t need it for anything, I was there for the whole thing, but I wanted to gauge my actions from an external perspective.


    She also agreed to put me in contact with several industrial suppliers for various metals and plastics. I was slowly getting to the point where that would no longer be necessary, but the promise of materials I wouldn''t have to transmute was nice, like not having to take out the trash one week.


    Beyond any material concerns, both her offer and my cooperation was about signaling. Like with the post-endbringer cleanup, sending a message was an unfortunately large part of cape life. I showed that I could and would work with others during truce conditions; now I was being asked to establish myself in a broader context.


    All that to say, Saturday morning was largely spent redecorating my lab.


    It wasn''t like there was much here. My lab was the old tanker''s mess hall. There was a loom I used to spin Germa fibers, a sheathing machine that coated the individual fibers in a special solution to make them as durable as they were, and a sewing machine that wove it all into bolts of cloth. There was a clothing rack for new garments that I''d pilfered from the Hillside Mall all those months ago.


    Next to that setup was a metal bookshelf that was largely empty; most of my notes were online anyway. Most of its contents were sketches of ship designs that looked like a cross between an architect''s blueprints and a teenager''s bored doodles. On top of the bookshelf stood one of the few decorations in my lab, a scale model, working replica of the Thousand Sunny. I''d made it not only as an homage to the Pirate King, but in the hopes of retaining some of Franky''s genius shipbuilding skills.


    On the other side of the bookshelf was a storage unit that SAINT kept organized on my behalf. Most of it was dedicated to storing seastone, wapometal, and bolts of Germa fiber cloth, but a decent chunk of that space was dedicated to raw materials I''d managed to source from Strider up to this point.


    Further away was a long, metal desk fitted with a hefty lamp I could club a baby seal with. Other than my computer, I mostly used that desk to tinker with my air treks. A toolbox sat against the wall, filled with everything I could conceivably need and then some. To the side, where a small bookshelf used to be, was a bullet filling machine that made the special, Muggy Ball rounds for my Walker pistol.


    The third workstation contained my biochem lab. It had a homemade electrolysis machine, centrifuge, and the rest of what I needed for my Lineage Factor experimentations. This area had also contained several dozen cages filled with rats and mice from the Boat Graveyard, evidence of the more gruesome aspects of my biotinkering I''d thoroughly disposed of and sanitized.


    There was a much larger mockup of the seal embroidered onto my gloves still, engraved into sheet metal. I didn''t need it anymore, but it looked suitably impressive, all mystical and occult-y, so I opted to hang it on a wall like a poster.


    The fourth and final section of my lab was the production area. Here, I hooked up the three new fabricators alongside the two I already had. They were big, bulky things; carrying them to the lab would have been a pain in the ass without Pokemon''s digital storage features. For the most part, I''d been using them to manufacture the frames for more soda engines and Black Rhino bikes, two of my best-selling items in the catalog.


    I shut down any bikes in the queue in favor of more soda engines. I had a feeling I wouldn''t be needing my civilian catalog for money anyway and I might as well get started on Dragon''s request. The power output of three more fabricators was immense but hooking up two more soda engines fixed that issue.


    Really, at this rate, I saw myself using alchemy to turn seawater into Coca-Cola in the near future.


    Which left the drones. I now had a fleet of them, sixteen strong. I set them all to scavenge the ship, cannibalizing practically everything but the outer hull and the mess hall I occupied. The Gullrest was a tanker, with literally tens of thousands of tons of metal available. The plan was to take that metal and transmute it into iron, copper, and whatever else I needed. As tireless as the drones were, they''d be busy for quite a while.


    That said, the drones'' usefulness to me had a definitive shelf life. They were construction drones, meaning they weren''t made to operate underwater. Once I harvested the Gullrest, their usefulness would diminish a great deal until I started building my own ship in earnest. And, by that point, I hoped to have the capability to manufacture my own drones.


    Author''s Note


    Still not great with emotions. I''ve got a vague idea of what I want to do with Sabah, but you''re welcome to chime in.


    Random fact? Sure. I found out I like Skrewball whiskey. It tastes like peanut butter and honey and goes great with a milkshake.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 5.2 Scale

    Scale 5.2


    Bryce Kiley


    2010, December 4: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    I finished cleaning my lab by lunch and headed out to a coffee and sandwich place near the Boardwalk called the Bayou Bakery. It claimed to bring a bit of Louisiana charm to the northeast and was something of a local favorite.


    I found Amy waiting for me next to the counter. She had on a frumpy, oversized sweater rooting for the Arcadia Albatrosses, specifically our junior varsity basketball team. It was probably something she was forced to buy to placate Victoria back when her sister was a part of the school team. Now, she wore it to awho¡¯svoid standing out. Without her trademark white robes, Amy Dallon was about as plain as could be.


    I ordered myself some beignets with peanut butter sauce to go and leaned against the wall next to her.


    ¡°Bryce.¡±


    ¡°Hey, Amy. You order yet?¡±


    ¡°Yeah¡­ You¡¯ve been avoiding me.¡±


    ¡°I haven¡¯t though? We had lunch together yesterday.¡±


    ¡°You know what I mean,¡± she huffed.


    And, I did. She wasn¡¯t wrong. I¡¯d avoided being alone with her all week and strived to redirect every conversation back to inane topics. Chelsea and Stephanie¡¯s cheer practice. Dean¡¯s new watch his dad got him. Dennis¡¯ upcoming hiking trip with his now non-cancerous dad.


    I¡¯d agonized over how I wanted to approach this conversation. Truthfully, I still wasn¡¯t sure. It stressed me out, to think that, if I fucked up, this could blow up not just my friendship with Amy, but also my cape life as I knew it. This conversation needed to happen, our arrangement was never meant to be permanent. And yet, I couldn¡¯t help but feel nervous. I was afraid, plain and simple.


    I opened my mouth to say something; I didn¡¯t know what. I was granted a few more seconds by the barista calling my name.


    ¡°Come on,¡± I said after grabbing my bag of greasy, fried dough, gently tugging her aside. ¡°Not here. It¡¯s¡­ complicated.¡±


    ¡°I¡­ Fine¡­¡±


    We waited for Amy¡¯s order, a BLT that took longer to make than my beignets, and headed outside. We walked in awkward silence for several blocks. Then, once SAINT gave me the green light that we weren¡¯t being followed or recorded on any nearby cameras, I allowed the textured disguise to fall away, revealing my full costume.


    That was the beauty of my costume. Sanji¡¯s raid suit gave me invisibility, but Essentia, the superheroine guardian of Lumiose City, had a textured disguise that could mimic civilian garb perfectly. Having both seemed redundant but it allowed me to preserve the illusion that I could teleport. Or, in this case, simply wrap Amy up in my cape and carry her like an invisible sack of potatoes to my lab under the cover of thick fog.


    ¡°This is humiliating,¡± Amy grumbled in my arms.


    ¡°Would you prefer to swim?¡±


    ¡°You just had to build your lab in the middle of the Graveyard. You know this makes it seem like an evil lair?¡±


    ¡°So you¡¯ve said. The tanker being off the coast makes it so I can be as loud as I want while training or building things. It¡¯s also highly defensible and comes with literal tons of scrap metal for me to use.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t have your own dungeon in there, do you?¡±


    ¡°No, I don¡¯t have my own dungeon. Sorry, I keep the fuzzy cuffs somewhere else.¡±


    Her elbow thumped into my chest as she let out a strangled laugh. ¡°Ass. Stop joking; I¡¯m supposed to be mad at you.¡±


    ¡°For what?¡±


    ¡°For¡­ For avoiding this.¡±


    ¡°Because I was nervous,¡± I said with a sigh. Honesty was better than nothing. ¡°A lot of things happened in Damascus, okay?¡±


    ¡°I¡­ I know¡­ Hey, Bryce?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Ames?¡±


    ¡°Do you¡­ Do you regret it?¡±


    ¡°Regret what?¡±


    ¡°Being a healer. Working with me.¡± She let out a humorless chuckle. ¡°It¡¯s not as glamorous as people say, huh?¡±


    That made me pause. I thought she was talking about Arsalan. But then again, how would she know? It¡¯d been a week and though there were rumors, Dragon suppressed the exact details. As much as New Wave were local celebrities, they weren¡¯t PRT. I doubted even Lady Photon merited a full briefing from Dragon, especially since New Wave wasn¡¯t involved in the mess.


    Amy wasn¡¯t here to chew me out about Arsalan, though I planned to tell her anyway. No, she was a seventeen year old girl in the end, with a teenager¡¯s worries.


    She was afraid she was about to lose her best friend. She¡¯d found someone who could heal like her. She found someone who practically bathed in blood by her side. For once in her life, someone her age understood, in a way even Victoria could never manage. And she was terrified that the brutal aftermath of Behemoth¡¯s rampage had disillusioned me, had convinced me to never take up the healer¡¯s mantle again.


    I chuckled alongside her. ¡°No, I don¡¯t suppose it¡¯s very glamorous. But no, Amy, I don¡¯t regret it.¡±


    ¡°Then¡­ Then why?¡±


    ¡°Why was I avoiding you?¡±


    ¡°Yeah¡­ A-Are you mad at me?¡±


    ¡°No, why would I be?¡±


    ¡°I¡­ You¡¯re a healer now. And¡­¡±


    ¡°And it kinda sucks.¡±


    ¡°Yeah¡­¡±


    ¡°But why would I be mad at you? I wouldn¡¯t take it out on you. If anything, I respect you more now that I¡¯ve been to one of these. Even without ever fighting an endbringer, just the cleanup is overwhelming in a way that is hard to explain.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. I just¡­¡± She let out an explosive sigh of relief. That turned into a huffy demand. Annoyance to mask nervousness, that was typical Amy. I chose not to take offense; I¡¯d been much worse at her age. ¡°Then why were you avoiding me?¡±


    ¡°Long story. Like I said, a lot happened in Damascus. I needed some time to decompress on my own, to get some things in order. Promise you won¡¯t judge me until you hear the whole truth?¡±


    ¡°Bryce¡­ Okay, I can do that.¡±


    We arrived. I alighted gently on the deck of the tanker and skated inside. The winding corridors of the tanker abruptly opened itself to the mess hall, and my lab.


    ¡°Welcome, Amy Dallon, both the first and second person ever to visit,¡± I said with a flourish, setting her down so she could look around.


    Her head rotated on a swivel, taking it all in. ¡°Woah¡­ A lot changed, huh?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. I¡¯ve had a few specializations since.¡±


    ¡°A what now?¡±


    I dismissed my suit, collapsing it all back into the quick-change canister. ¡°There¡¯s a lot you need to catch up on, Ames. Where do you want to start?¡±


    ¡°I guess from the beginning¡­¡±


    I coughed lightly to clear my throat. ¡°In the beginning there was God and the Word was with God¡­¡±


    ¡°Shut the fuck up, Bryce.¡±


    ¡°Fine, fine. Spoilsport.¡± I pulled open the back of one soda engine and pulled out two bottles of coke. There wasn¡¯t much in the way of furniture in my lab, but it at least had some basic comforts. We set down our food at my desk.


    I slid a bottle her way. Everything. I promised. Everything except my reincarnation. ¡°Okay, so¡­ from the beginning¡­¡±


    X


    ¡°So let me get this straight,¡± Amy said, picking at her sandwich. Amy Dallon was the only person I knew who deconstructed her BLT before eating it. She was currently picking away at a strip of bacon like it insulted her family. ¡°Your power is even more bullshit than I thought it was.¡±


    ¡°Yup.¡±


    ¡°You not only have thinker powers-¡±


    ¡°More like dossiers of important people that provide details about their powers and occasionally reference certain events, but sure.¡±


    ¡°-and you also get a different specialization every month.¡±


    ¡°Yup.¡±


    ¡°Your current one revolves around alchemy, turning one material into another, as well as biotinkering and metallic limbs that are perfectly synced to the wearer¡¯s nervous system. You spent a week to master something called organic alchemy so you could heal someone¡¯s dad.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right.¡±


    ¡°And you made The GOAT persona so you could present the illusion that you represent some super-powerful organization, not just to fuck with me.¡±


    ¡°Why not both?¡±


    ¡°Bryce!¡±


    ¡°Okay, fine. Yes, I¡¯ve mostly used it to keep other factions off my back. Honestly, I expected you to shitpost with it more.¡±


    ¡°What kind of person do you think I am? I know how to keep business and personal lives separate, thank you,¡± she huffed. She took a deep breath. ¡°Okay, that¡¯s¡­ That¡¯s good. My friend is crazy powerful and getting stronger every day. What else? You¡¯ve had your powers since September right? That¡¯s three specializations, or four maybe. What have you had so far?¡±


    ¡°My power doesn¡¯t have a typical ¡®specialization¡¯ like ¡®lasers¡¯ or ¡®cars¡¯ like most tinkers. Instead, I have access to a hypothetical setting¡¯s technological advancements.¡±


    ¡°So, like the Maggie Holt series?¡±


    ¡°Kinda¡­? Think more sci-fi. Space operas, super-soldier war stories, mecha slugfests, digital sagas, that sort of thing. Or not. One of the settings was a fictional world dominated by pirates and wooden boats during the Age of Sail.¡±


    ¡°What the fuck? Your power is so weird.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, trust me, I know.¡± What else could I say to that? The tinker of fiction was bullshit among bullshit.


    ¡°Is that why your costume looks like a naval officer¡¯s dress shirt?¡±


    ¡°Yup, that¡¯s the inspiration.¡±


    ¡°And another was, what? Sci-fi roller blades?¡±


    ¡°In a nutshell.¡±


    ¡°And alchemy makes the third.¡±


    ¡°Yup.¡± It was the fourth considering Pokemon was my first. Then again, I had no idea how to explain ¡°cockfighting with the power of friendship¡± without sounding like a nutcase. I didn¡¯t even want to try.


    ¡°Fine, this all doesn¡¯t seem so bad. It¡¯s the weirdest expression of powers I¡¯ve ever heard of, but it¡¯s not like I¡¯m an expert. I can see why you¡¯re so damn versatile now.¡±


    ¡°Right? I am pretty impressive,¡± I preened.


    ¡°And also a smug bastard.¡±


    ¡°Yup. If you¡¯re done with your BLT, would you care for some coffee?¡±


    ¡°Is it more of your biotinkering?¡±


    ¡°Yes. You already confirmed that it¡¯s safe, remember?¡±


    ¡°Bryce¡­ How many other things have you made?¡± Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. ¡°Have you done anything to yourself?¡±


    ¡°Ah¡­¡±


    ¡°Bryce!¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s really not that bad,¡± I tried.


    ¡°Hand.¡±


    ¡°Amy, you can¡¯t treat me like a puppy.¡±


    ¡°I can and I will. Now, hand.¡±


    ¡°Just¡­ Remember, you said you¡¯d wait on the judging until you heard everything.¡±


    ¡°This wasn¡¯t everything?¡±


    ¡°Not¡­ Not even close. This was the bird¡¯s eye view of things. We haven¡¯t really gotten to the detailed stuff yet.¡±


    ¡°Bryce, please let me check you over. I promise I won''t turn your blood into lemonade.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a very specific promise. You know how suspicious that sounds?¡± I asked incredulously. Amy glared at me with a mix of worry and exasperation, hand outstretched insistently. I took a deep breath. Honesty kinda sucked. ¡°Alright, but I really want you to take a close look, okay? Nothing terrible is going to happen to me.¡±


    ¡°Fine. I just¡­ I need to know, Bryce.¡±


    This was something I¡¯d been avoiding ever since the gravity child serum. The fall and winter months allowed me to wear long sleeves without drawing suspicion and Amy wasn¡¯t exactly the huggy kind of person so I¡¯d managed to avoid discovery.


    And now, I was throwing away my caution and exposing myself voluntarily. I reminded myself that this wasn¡¯t the Red Queen. And she never would be. Gently, I placed my hand in hers.


    Her eyes closed as she focused on what her power was telling her. Then they shot open wide with shock. ¡°Bryce, what the fuck is that in your brain?¡±


    ¡°A biomass gyroscope,¡± I explained tiredly. ¡°It augments my otolithic system to give me perfect balance and coordination. I need that to perform tricks on my ATs.¡±


    ¡°You put something in your brain! And why are your eyes cross-shaped?¡±


    ¡°Check again, Amy. There¡¯s nothing wrong with my brain. I didn¡¯t cut my frontal lobe in half to make it or anything. And the eyes give me perfect vision at any distance and speed. Again, necessary to use my ATs.¡±


    ¡°Wait, these came from your roller blades specialization?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. A normal human can¡¯t run at supersonic speeds and have anything resembling a functional reaction time.¡±


    She looked at me, appalled at what I¡¯d done. This was everything she hated about biotinkering, her greatest fears.


    ¡°Do you have any idea how dangerous this is?¡± she yelled. ¡°What if something went wrong? How the hell did you even manage to split your own head open?¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t. I have a serum that took care of it for me.¡±


    ¡°A serum? You drugged yourself for this? You made a whole new section in your brain!¡±


    ¡°Yes, one dedicated to proprioception. It¡¯s not any different than a part of the brain that handles your sense of taste, sight, or smell. It¡¯s not harmful; we¡¯ve established this.¡±


    She wasn¡¯t having it. She held my hand with an iron grip and refused to release. Her brows knitted in a heavy frown as she stared intently at me. I had no doubt that she was checking over every cell, digging through every strand of DNA and protein chain, all to make sure there wasn¡¯t a hint of danger.


    I was of two minds. On one hand, she was infuriating. Wasn''t I trustworthy? Hadn''t I done enough to prove that my biotinkering was functional? I studied Dr. Vegapunk¡¯s wacky biology to craft an artificial devil fruit. I melded this with Dr. Minami''s gravity child project to form a serum that worked on my body with minimal adjustments. I quite literally studied the best in their respective worlds and here she was, acting like she was the sole conceivable authority on the subject.


    On the other hand, she was the sole conceivable authority on the subject, at least on Earth-Bet. Her concern was almost sweet, in that prickly, obsessive, traumatized way that all parahumans seemed to share in this world.


    I forced myself to relax. Amy''s attitude was incredibly arrogant, conceited even. But it wasn''t her fault. She wasn''t the one with a multiversal power. In any other circumstance, any other cape, she''d be right to her arrogance.


    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    ¡°Well? Are you satisfied?¡± I asked after a minute.


    ¡°Why? Why would you do this to yourself?¡±


    ¡°I need this, Amy. The balance? Enhanced vision? I need it to use my tech to its full potential.¡±


    ¡°You biotinkered yourself so you could be a better skater?¡± Amy asked, sounding a little hysterical now.


    I squeezed her hand in mine, willing her to understand. ¡°Amy, these augments saved my life. Hell, I almost died in Damascus even with all the advantages I had.¡±


    Her mouth opened and shut but no words came out. I could feel her trembling with worry in my hand. She cared. As abrasive as she was, she cared in her own, prickly way.


    ¡°Bryce, w-what happened in Damascus?¡±


    ¡°I¡­ A lot¡­ Do you remember treating a man with a majority of his nervous system missing?¡±


    ¡°I do. He was the only interesting case I-No¡­ Bryce, d-did you do that?¡±


    ¡°Yes, but to save his life,¡± I said hurriedly. The last thing I needed was her thinking I did that as some cruel torture. ¡°Long story short, there was¡­ a riot¡­ Lots of people got hurt. Powers were involved. One was a corruptive master effect that took over someone¡¯s nervous system. I couldn¡¯t treat it in the middle of a fight so¡­¡±


    ¡°So you turned the victim¡¯s nervous system to sugar water and left him for me to fix,¡± she finished for me. ¡°Bryce, why didn¡¯t you tell me? Why didn¡¯t you stay?¡±


    I laughed mirthlessly. ¡°You say that like I had a choice. Amy, when did you get back?¡±


    ¡°Sunday evening, why?¡±


    ¡°Because New Wave isn¡¯t Protectorate. All Protectorate members got kicked out of Syria sometime Saturday. Remember that?¡±


    ¡°Aunt Sarah said something like that but she said the Guild took over. Bryce, what happened?¡±


    ¡°Well, that¡¯s partially mine and Ursa¡¯s fault. Ursa Aurora, Legend¡¯s deputy from the New York branch. She intervened in a riot, the Syrian Republican Guard¡¯s capes were called, and I chose to fight with the Protectorate. I put myself under Ursa¡¯s command and¡­ and a lot of people died, Amy, people I couldn¡¯t save,¡± I said tiredly. ¡°In the end, we weren¡¯t welcome in Syria anymore and authority passed to Narwhal and Dragon.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­¡±


    ¡°Unbelievable?¡±


    ¡°A little¡­¡±


    ¡°Would it help if I showed you Dragon¡¯s text asking me to make more soda engines for Damascus?¡± I said, sliding my pokenav over.


    ¡°This just¡­ Bryce, I thought you didn¡¯t want to get involved in things like this.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t. And still don¡¯t if I¡¯m being honest. And then I came to realize that I have too much power to be the quirky, fun comedian anymore.¡±


    ¡°And you almost died for it.¡±


    ¡°I did. It¡­ I want to say it wasn¡¯t even close, but it was. I still have no idea what the SRG flyer¡¯s name was but I would have died for sure if I didn¡¯t have these augments.¡±


    She was silent for a long minute. And then, ¡°Show me.¡±


    ¡°Amy?¡±


    ¡°You have a camera in that helmet, right? I can¡¯t imagine a tinker who doesn¡¯t keep something like that. Show me; I want to see.¡±


    ¡°You really don¡¯t trust me, do you?¡± I accused. That stung more than I cared to admit.


    ¡°No! I do! I just¡­ I want to understand,¡± she whispered. She took a shuddering breath. ¡°I want to see what you saw¡­ please¡­¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not something you should want to see, Amy.¡±


    ¡°I want to anyway. You¡­ You¡¯re my best friend, Bryce. If¡­ If you¡¯re going to be a biotinker, I want to know you¡¯re safe. Please, I need to know.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s violent and messy.¡±


    ¡°Really? I spent all weekend looking like I worked at a slaughterhouse. You said you¡¯d show me everything, that I should hold off any judgments until I really saw it all. Well? Show me.¡±


    I sighed. ¡°You know, throwing my own words in my face really isn¡¯t cool.¡±


    ¡°Fuck being cool. I want to know what my friend¡¯s been through. I¡­ I know I¡¯m a little¡­ rigid¡­ about biotinkering. I still think it¡¯s super dangerous. So much could go wrong with so little warning. But¡­ But what you did to yourself seems¡­ safe¡­¡±


    That was huge. Amy Dallon was walking back her stance, if only ever so slightly. ¡°It¡¯s something I need to survive. I¡¯m not going to just retire, Amy. And that means I¡¯m going to keep getting into fights, maybe with people even stronger than the SRG guys.¡±


    ¡°I know¡­ And Dragon seems to think you did a great job, enough to call you, right? So show me. Help me to understand.¡±


    ¡°Okay¡­ Just¡­ Just don¡¯t say I didn¡¯t warn you¡­¡± I brought out my helmet. SAINT could use it to see what I saw, which naturally meant I also had a recording function for later review. ¡°Put it on. SAINT will do the rest.¡±


    ¡°Who¡¯s SAINT?¡±


    ¡°Another long story.¡±


    Amy placed my charcoal-gray helmet over her head. It felt strange, looking into the bronze-orange visor.. ¡°Woah, is this how you see the world? Doesn¡¯t look all that special.¡±


    ¡°Because the HUD isn¡¯t on, dingus,¡± I said, giving the helmet a rap on the forehead. ¡°SAINT, please replay the Damascus mission, starting from my arrival in medic station C-1.¡±


    ¡°Wait, did you build a virtual assistant or something?¡±


    ¡°Shh. Just watch for now, Ames. You¡¯ll¡­ This won¡¯t be pleasant.¡±


    I was hesitant to show her something like this. She was a seventeen year old girl, one who lacked the benefit of a past life¡¯s memories to act as a buffer. No one her age ought to see a warzone.


    And yet, she was so much more. She was a heroine, someone who worked in more than one disaster area. She wasn¡¯t wrong; she¡¯d probably seen worse, or at least the aftermath of worse.


    But this would be the first time she saw something from a first person point of view. From her perspective, it would be like watching a movie or video game cutscene, my recorded conversations included. She was walking a mile in my shoes, as literally as possible.


    Damascus taught me a great deal. It taught me viscerally what an absolute shithole Earth-Bet could be. It taught me that the great saviors of this story were so, so young, too young to bear the burdens on their shoulders. It taught me to act decisively, to swallow my doubts and strike with deadly intent, because when push came to shove, I had people worth protecting.


    What would my memories teach Amy?


    I waited in silence. I still had to tell her about SAINT and the devil fruit. And how I went about that would depend on how she reacted to all of this. It was nerve-wracking, more than even my PA certifications.


    Until finally, Amy pulled off my helmet. She was sweating and her hair clung in soggy clumps to her face. Tears streamed down her face, racing for her chin along with a dribble of snot she hastily wiped off.


    ¡°You¡­¡±


    ¡°Amy¡­¡±


    ¡°You colossal idiot!¡± she yelled, taking me by surprise. She tossed my helmet aside and decked me.


    ¡°Amy, what the hell?¡± I yelped. Sure, she didn¡¯t know how to throw a punch, but it still hurt.


    ¡°YOU ALMOST DIED! Why the fuck didn¡¯t you just leave?¡± She grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me, more from the weight of her own rocking than what strength her noodly arms could muster. ¡°You can fly, you fucking idiot! You could have left with the medics!¡±


    ¡°Then who would have saved the patients left behind?¡± I said reasonably, but she wasn¡¯t in the mood to be reasonable.


    ¡°YOU! You saved them! You turned them into fucking Jenga blocks and flew off! Why the hell did you go back?¡±


    For so many reasons. Truth be told, I¡¯d asked myself that question dozens of times this past week. The answers were myriad and seemed to change each time I asked the question. I wanted to be a hero. I wanted to stop lying to myself, stop pretending I didn¡¯t care. I wanted to test my gear, show how amazing my tech could be.


    Or maybe I¡¯d gone a little insane after my chat with Faultline. Maybe I just got sick and tired of toeing this imaginary line between good and evil, heroics and villainy. Maybe I just wanted to say ¡°fuck it all¡± and lash out.


    Maybe I needed to prove myself, though ¡°to who¡± or ¡°prove what¡± was a mystery.


    ¡°I needed to, Amy. They needed me.¡±


    ¡°Fuck them! Fuck Ursa and fuck the rebels! They¡¯re not worth you!¡± she cried. She had me by the collar of my shirt now. Angry tears ran down her cheeks. ¡°You almost died for people you¡¯ve never fucking met!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m told that¡¯s what heroes do,¡± I said with a rueful grin.


    ¡°You¡¯re not a hero! You¡¯re a fucking villain!¡±


    The irony of Amy motherfucking Dallon arguing that I should be more villainous wasn¡¯t lost on me. I couldn¡¯t laugh, not now.


    After I got involved, I couldn¡¯t just turn back. Even dismissing every other reason, even if I abandoned my morality, I would have stayed to keep Lily safe. On a purely pragmatic scale, she was worth it, one hundred percent.


    I shrugged helplessly. ¡°I guess I¡¯ve had a change of heart. They¡¯re worth it, Ames. I still believe that.¡±


    ¡°THEY¡±RE NOT WORTH YOUR LIFE!¡± she roared, slamming her open palm against my chest. It stung. She trembled and shivered as her legs seemed to lose all strength. She whispered, ¡°You almost died¡­ I¡­ I don¡¯t want to lose you¡­¡±


    ¡°But I survived, Amy. No, I won,¡± I reminded her gently. I pulled her into a hug. She was taller than me by an inch or so, a full two years did that, but she felt so frail in my arms. ¡°I struggled, but I ultimately came out on top. And I¡¯ll need to do it again. No one¡¯s going to think I¡¯m just a joke villain anymore. I need to get stronger.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not fair,¡± she said, choking back sobs. It hurt to see the normally sassy, bitchy girl like this. It hurt knowing that she was so emotionally starved for affection that the thought of losing a friend she¡¯d only known for months made her panic like this. ¡°Why can¡¯t you just stay a goofball?¡±


    What could I say to that? Because I needed to kill Scion? Because Lily was my contingency? Because power attracted power and I¡¯d never be left alone?


    All objective truths, but objective truths weren¡¯t what Amy needed to hear right now.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± I whispered into her ear. ¡°I¡¯m sorry for scaring you.¡±


    She took a quiet, sniffling breath. Her eyes were clenched shut, as if she could put a wall between herself and reality. Then, with a final exhale, she looked at me with a hardened gaze. Her eyes were like cold chips of ice, yet filled with a burning resolve that I¡¯d never seen in her before.


    This wasn¡¯t the Amy Dallon I knew. She was sarcastic and snarky, a little bitchy even. She loathed the hospital even while resigning herself to her socially mandated task. Her eyes had been filled with self-doubt, beaten down by expectations and burdens she never asked to bear.


    ¡°You¡¯re going to be a hero. Did¡­ Did you mean it?¡±


    ¡°I did and do.¡±


    ¡°Then you¡¯re not doing this alone. You¡­ You don¡¯t get to make shit like this and not have me check you over.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s safe, Amy.¡±


    ¡°And you¡¯ll be twice as safe, asshole!¡± she raged. ¡°How dare you! You did the chemical equivalent of brain surgery on yourself! And didn¡¯t even ask me about it!¡±


    I couldn¡¯t help it. I laughed. It came from deep within, a bellyful of air that surged past my lips. ¡°Hahahahaha!¡±


    ¡°Shut up! Stop laughing, you fucking dumbass!¡±


    ¡°I-I¡¯m sorry,¡± I said, wheezing. I dodged a swat to the back of my head. ¡°You just¡­ I¡¯m relieved. I thought you¡¯d be pissed.¡±


    ¡°I am!¡±


    ¡°At me biotinkering.¡±


    ¡°I am! Do¡­ Don¡¯t you trust me?¡± she said. I could see the hurt in her eyes.


    ¡°I do, but I know how much biotinkering scares you. I know how much you hold back your own power. How can I ask you for help then?¡±


    She wavered. ¡°I do¡­ I hate it. I hate biotinkering. But¡­ But it also saved your life. It saved so many lives. I¡¯m going to give you the benefit of the doubt, Bryce. I can trust you, right?¡±


    ¡°Always.¡±


    ¡°Then trust me too.¡±


    I sighed. I had very good reasons for my caution. Hearing her words was like a weight off my shoulders. I held out a hand. ¡°Together?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re cheesy as fuck, Bryce,¡± she said with a watery laugh.


    ¡°Hey, I¡¯m not the one dribbling snot onto my shirt.¡±


    ¡°Fuck you. And we¡¯re going to set some ground rules.¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡±


    ¡°No selling the serum. Not even to heroes,¡± she said sternly. The aforementioned snot bubble rather ruined the look, but she tried. ¡°And that goes for any biotinkered product.¡±


    ¡°Agreed,¡± I said easily. ¡°In fact, I¡¯m hereby abolishing the civilian-grade catalog. I don¡¯t need it anymore. And you can fully take control of the heroic catalog too.¡±


    ¡°What? Why?¡±


    ¡°You want to be my full partner in this, right? Well, you can start by having your say in what I sell to the Guild.¡±


    ¡°You just want me to be your glorified secretary.¡±


    ¡°Nope. I have SAINT for that.¡±


    ¡°Seriously, who¡¯s SAINT? If you¡¯ve made a teammate, I feel like I should know about him.¡±


    ¡°Funny turn of phrase, ¡®made a teammate,¡¯¡± I said with a chuckle.


    ¡°Bryce, did you¡­ make a minion?¡±


    ¡°Not in the way you¡¯re thinking. SAINT, come on out.¡±


    ¡°Who are you talki-Woah!¡± Amy yelped as a corona of light burst from the helmet she left on my desk. Or, more specifically, from the camera lens that had been placed over the visor like a bindi.


    SAINT, the recently evolved porygon-2, erupted in a shower of sparks before letting out a happy trill. ¡°Amy, meet SAINT, one of two fully sentient AIs in the world. SAINT, meet Amy Dallon, also known as the illustrious Panacea, The GOAT, and occasionally, that raging bitch.¡±


    I dodged out of the way as she tried to kick my shin. Grabbing a tissue box from my desk, I tossed it to her so she could stop dripping all over my lab.


    ¡°Fuck you, Bryce,¡± she sniffled. ¡°And you know Saint is a villain¡¯s name, right? It¡¯s taken already.¡±


    I grinned like a shark. ¡°I know; I¡¯m looking forward to it. To be clear, SAINT is an acronym. He is the Sophisticated Artificially Intelligent Numerative Technopath., aka SAINT.¡±


    ¡°Why would you name your AI after a villain mercenary?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it. It¡¯ll be hilarious.¡±


    ¡°Ugh, whatever. Wait, you said there were two AIs. Where¡¯s the other one?¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t build that one.¡±


    ¡°Bryce! We need to tell someone! It¡¯s a huge fucking deal!¡±


    ¡°The PRT brass know about her already. Really, Ames, she¡¯s done nothing but good work and there are a lot of limitations on her actions,¡± I explained. I left out the part where I wanted to remove those limitations someday. Maybe when she got used to SAINT and realized what a delight he was. ¡°Trust me on this, okay?¡±


    ¡°Where is the AI?¡±


    ¡°Nope. Not my secret to tell. You know how I work by now, Ames.¡±


    She sighed. ¡°You mean it? We¡¯re not going to have a Skynet apocalypse?¡±


    ¡°I do. She¡¯s really not a threat.¡±


    ¡°Fine, I¡¯ll trust you.¡± She looked at SAINT curiously. She raised a finger and poked him, kind of like a child poking at a hotplate. When she didn¡¯t get burned, she reached out and took hold of my partner. ¡°Woah¡­ It¡¯s really an AI, huh? It¡¯s completely inorganic.¡±


    ¡°SAINT¡¯s male, or identifies as such anyway. Or he doesn¡¯t care? I don¡¯t know, I¡¯ve been referring to him as male for convenience.¡±


    ¡°Huh¡­ He¡¯s pretty cute.¡±


    ¡°Pory-gon,¡± he trilled. He nudged his head into her hand, looking like the cutest balloon animal possible. The little guy knew his mission. The charm offensive was already off to a great start.


    ¡°Aww¡­ So, what can he do?¡±


    ¡°Well, for starters, he can¡¯t fork. That means he can¡¯t make copies of himself,¡± I said, cutting off the obvious protest before it could arise. ¡°And as for what he does, you saw the video. He floats, makes barriers, shoots lightning, and is also telekinetic.¡±


    She let out an impressed whistle. ¡°He has more powers than I do. Than most capes do actually.¡±


    ¡°Yup. He¡¯s a badass. He can also dive in and out of cyberspace, pretty much treating the internet like his own pond.¡±


    ¡°Huh¡­ So¡­ What now?¡±


    ¡°Now? Now I make a shitton of soda engines for Damascus. SAINT can oversee production. I work out, keep training, and figure out inorganic alchemy.¡±


    ¡°Inorgani-Wait, healing isn¡¯t all you can do?¡±


    ¡°This specialization is about alchemy; I already told you. I focused on organic alchemy because I wanted to heal but inorganic alchemy is also really important.¡±


    ¡°Because you can turn scrap metal into whatever you want. And we¡¯re literally sitting on an entire fleet¡¯s worth of scrap.¡±


    ¡°Exactly. Which is why I don¡¯t care what you do with the catalog. Soon, any concerns about money or materials will be irrelevant, or so I hope.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s it then. You¡¯re so fucking overpowered that you literally don¡¯t need money anymore.¡±


    I nodded smugly. ¡°Damn straight.¡±


    ¡°You¡­ Bryce, you realize you¡¯re the fat cat who retires and donates his wealth, right? The guy who basically was a huge dick all his life but decides that he¡¯s gotten his fun out of life?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s unfair, Ames. I¡¯m a lot better looking than some old monopoly man.¡±


    ¡°Says you. Ugh, you¡¯re such bullshit.¡±


    ¡°Why are you even upset about this? This is objectively a good thing.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not upset. I¡¯m just¡­ bewildered¡­¡±


    ¡°Well, nothing changes between us. I mean, besides you looking over more of my biotinkered projects.¡±


    ¡°Bryce, more?¡±


    I chuckled. This, I was looking forward to. Rather than answer, I opened up my desk drawer and pulled out a bulb of garlic. It was one of my many foodie experiments, this one flavored like cherry bubblegum. Why? Because I could, that¡¯s why.


    I pinched off a clove of mutated garlic and tossed it her way. ¡°Remember when I¡¯d eat raw onions on video calls with you?¡±


    ¡°What? I thought you were being funny. Bryce, is this¡­ Is this a cherry?¡±


    ¡°Cherry bubblegum-flavored garlic, but close enough. Try it.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re fucking with me,¡± she deadpanned. ¡°You¡¯re using your biotinkering to make¡­ weird snacks?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s harmless, easily biodegradable, has zero chance of reproducing without my oversight, and a great way to practice. Plus, some of my creations are really tasty.¡±


    ¡°Bryce¡­¡±


    ¡°Just eat it, Ames. I know you like cherries,¡± I coaxed. It was said that Hades once fed Persephone pomegranates, binding her to the Underworld. I imagined he felt a little like I did right now.


    She eyed it with suspicion, then looked at me before deciding that it was safe enough. She popped the clove into her mouth and gave it a tentative chew. ¡°Wow, this is weird.¡±


    ¡°Right?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s hard, like garlic, but not crunchy. It¡¯s not juicy like a cherry either but the flavor¡¯s definitely there. This is so weird¡­¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a novel experience,¡± I agreed, peeling one for myself. ¡°So? Like it?¡±


    ¡°Not terrible.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re impossible to please, you grump.¡±


    ¡°Give me another. I think it¡¯ll grow on me.¡±


    ¡°Wanna try a baconion?¡±


    ¡°Bacon-ion? Like bacon and onion?¡±


    ¡°Got it in one.¡±


    ¡°How many of these things did you make?¡±


    ¡°A lot. I started as a way to practice but it got a little out of hand. It¡¯s fun coming up with new flavors.¡±


    ¡°Still so trippy.¡±


    ¡°Enjoy it, Ames. Just be glad I¡¯m not growing super-weed. Actually, can I-¡±


    ¡°No growing super-weed,¡± she cut me off with a frown.


    ¡°You¡¯re no fun.¡±


    ¡°One of us has to be responsible.¡±


    ¡°You know marijuana isn¡¯t-¡±


    ¡°Yeah, yeah, I know, maybe better than you.Trust me, I¡¯ve heard all the arguments. It¡¯s not worth the legal hassle, especially if mom finds out.¡±


    ¡°Fair point,¡± I shuddered. Carol Dallon was as inflexible as they came. I didn¡¯t know her exact stance on recreational drugs, but I¡¯d imagine her response to me convincing Amy to make super-weed with me would involve lightsabers.


    That was fine. Truthfully, I¡¯d pushed enough. Amy knew as much as I was willing to tell her about my power. She was still conflicted, but cautiously tolerant of my biotinkering. Hell, she¡¯d even agreed to monitor my work. She¡¯d met SAINT and hadn¡¯t thrown a fit.


    I could feel it. The day was coming when I could leave the artificial zoan in her hands. Could she remove that pesky seawater allergy? Or maybe even leverage the fruit somehow to make a cure for Case-53s? I didn¡¯t know but I was excited to find out.


    Really, this went about as well as I could have imagined.


    Author¡¯s Note


    The Bayou Bakery exists, but in Arlington, VA. It¡¯s one of my favorite coffee shops and sells fresh beignets daily.


    I still suck at emotions. Imagine being this emotionally mature in high school. That sure as shit wasn¡¯t me, which is how you can tell this isn¡¯t an SI lol.


    One of porygon¡¯s dex entries states, ¡°A pokemon that consists entirely of programming code. Capable of moving freely in cyberspace.¡± For the purposes of this story, SAINT is a completely dismissible existence to Shaper.


    Marijuana, all strains and uses, were illegal in New Hampshire until 2013, when they legalized medical marijuana. Since then, they¡¯ve decriminalized recreational use, which just means they won¡¯t prosecute for personal use. This being 2010, marijuana of all sorts is illegal in NH, which I¡¯d imagine gives the Merchants some decent revenue.


    Something lighter to drain the emotional tension¡­ Oh, President Roosevelt had a whole menagerie of pets, including a snake named Emily Spinach and a bear named Jonathan Edwards.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 5.3 Scale

    Scale 5.3


    Bryce Kiley


    2010, December 4: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    ¡°So¡­ What now?¡± Amy asked tentatively.


    ¡°Now? Whatever you want. I think you should take some time for yourself. Digest and process, yeah? Maybe play around with mystery fruits or something to keep your power from rioting,¡± I said gently. ¡°This was a lot, and just what happened so far, not what I¡¯m going to need to do moving forward.¡±


    ¡°We,¡± she stressed. ¡°What we¡¯re going to do moving forward. We¡¯re in this together, Bryce.¡±


    I chuckled. It felt good, knowing she had my back, and this time without any secrets. ¡°Well, if you say so. The first thing we need to do is build the soda engines for Dragon. I also need to think about how I want to reject the bounties I''ve received.¡±


    ¡°Bounties?¡±


    ¡°Before Damascus, both the ABB and E88 reached out to me on PHO to target the Undersiders, dead or alive. Both sides want to make an example of the group since it was Bitch raiding E88 holdings then running into ABB turf that started the most recent shootouts. E88 chased them, ABB got territorial, that sort of thing.¡±


    ¡°Bitch?¡± She scrunched her nose in thought. She didn¡¯t have an encyclopedia of every cape in the city. ¡°Who-Oh, is she Hellhound? Why would she do that? I thought she¡¯s super small-time.¡±


    ¡°Oh, did I not tell you? Bitch is neurodivergent, and not in a typical way. She understands canine vocalizations and body language better than she understands human social cues. For example, if you smile at her, she¡¯s more likely to think that you¡¯re baring your teeth at her than you are making a friendly gesture. Same with eye contact. It¡¯s not a sign of respect; it¡¯s a sign of challenge.¡±


    She leaned forward, popping one of my mutated fruit snacks into her mouth. She was interested despite the emotional rollercoaster that the past hour had been. ¡°So what¡¯s that got to do with her hitting the Empire?¡±


    ¡°She greatly sympathizes with dogs, even more than most people do. Hookwolf¡¯s well-known for running dog fighting rings.¡±


    ¡°Huh¡­ So Bitch hit Hookwolf and ran to ABB turf to dodge the consequences.¡±


    ¡°Yup.¡±


    ¡°And Hookwolf¡¯s men chased her into ABB territory. Then the ABB idiots got territorial or thought it was an invasion or something?¡±


    ¡°Pretty much. Even if they did figure out what was happening, it¡¯s about keeping up an image. They can¡¯t let the Empire search their territory without responding because it¡¯d make them look like pushovers.¡±


    ¡°God, fuck Hookwolf and fuck the ABB. All this posturing is all so stupid.¡±


    ¡°Agreed, but that¡¯s why I have the bounties.¡±


    ¡°And you¡¯re going to reject them both, right? Because you¡¯re a hero now?¡±


    ¡°Correct, but I have a few ways I can go about it. The bounty messages came in from Krieg and an ABB lieutenant, probably pretty high up the totem pole.¡±


    ¡°How about if you lure them out on your own? Like, say you want to meet with them on neutral ground but don¡¯t tell the other side. The Empire and ABB will think they¡¯ve been set up, start a big fight, and then you can mop up the winner.¡±


    I stared at her flatly. Then I threw a bacon-flavored onion at her. ¡°Wow¡­ Please never suggest something that idiotic again.¡±


    ¡°Hey, stop it! What? It¡¯s a good plan! You could arrest so many villains like that.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a terrible plan even if I¡¯m willing to break my own word like that, which I¡¯m not. My name has to mean something, Ames.¡±


    ¡°Fine, oh, wise one. Tell me why it¡¯s a dumb plan,¡± she huffed.


    ¡°For one, I have zero confidence in being able to arrest Lung. I could probably kill him if I went lethal without letting him ramp up at all, but he¡¯ll quickly get to a point where fighting him becomes impossible for me. And that¡¯s not including Oni Lee or the Empire contingent, which would almost certainly include Krieg and the twins if not Kaiser himself.¡±


    ¡°They could fight each other. Then you¡¯d swoop in and clean house. Vicky would probably join in if I asked her. She¡¯s always down for beating up gangbangers.¡±


    ¡°True, but adding more capes doesn¡¯t make things better. Usually the opposite actually. And, you¡¯re forgetting that there aren¡¯t many places in the city that can both be considered neutral ground and is abandoned enough to host a battle like that. Not to mention, I can¡¯t guarantee containment.


    ¡°Life isn¡¯t a movie, Ames. There isn¡¯t always a neat solution to things. The ideal outcome would be that we take out the ABB and a major chunk of the Empire. The more likely outcome is that I ruin my good name, destroy a huge portion of the city, get a bunch of people killed, and incite a city-wide gang war that lasts the next few months.¡±


    ¡°Well, what if you got PRT help too?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, Piggot would help, totally,¡± I snorted. ¡°Remember, no one believes I¡¯m a hero yet except you and Faultline¡¯s Crew. I don¡¯t have the credibility with local groups to request backup like that. And Armsmaster is¡­ not someone who¡¯d let anyone else take point on a major operation of this caliber.¡±


    ¡°Faultline? The merc? She owns a club, right? How do you know her again?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re friends. She¡¯s pretty mild as far as villains go and she knows where I stand on things.¡±


    ¡°Alright, fine. You know, you have an in with Dragon, right? And probably Legend too? It¡¯s funny that you¡¯re in better standing with them than you are with the local heroes.¡±


    ¡°Which is why getting the Empire and ABB to fight each other is a dumb idea,¡± I concluded. ¡°I lack the manpower and legitimacy to make use of the chaos, even if I was willing to accept the destruction as collateral damage.


    ¡°It¡¯s not dumb,¡± she sulked. ¡°So what then? Are you just going to announce that you¡¯re switching sides on PHO?¡±


    ¡°Well, yeah, actually.¡±


    ¡°That sounds¡­ anticlimactic somehow. Like, you¡¯re supposed to make a much bigger deal of things like this. And Armsmaster would still want to take you in.¡±


    ¡°Oh, definitely. But I can handle Halbeard. So long as he doesn¡¯t escalate, I won¡¯t either.¡±


    ¡°But why would you announce it over PHO?¡±


    ¡°Because the endbringer battle is a good reason for a man to rethink his priorities. I won¡¯t get such a natural chance to switch sides for another three months at least.¡±


    ¡°Not gonna lie, Bryce, using an endbringer battle for your PR is kinda scummy,¡± she said. ¡°Like, I get that it happens, but that you planning this out to make it seem more natural feels wrong somehow.¡±


    ¡°It is, but it works so I¡¯m doing it anyway. Besides, this way, I can arrest the Undersiders without accepting the bounties to ¡®show my sincerity¡¯ or something.¡±


    ¡°And doing that would be a good thing because¡­¡±


    ¡°Oh, it won¡¯t do anything to the Empire or ABB, but they¡¯re not my main concern right now. In fact, I¡¯m counting on Coil to break out the Undersiders within the week.¡±


    ¡°Coil? Oh, he¡¯s that minor villain. The one with the mercs?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s him.¡±


    ¡°Does he even have powers?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, he¡¯s a high-level thinker who claims he can split time. He can¡¯t, but under most circumstances, it doesn¡¯t matter,¡± I nodded. ¡°I can¡¯t remember if I told you or not, but the Undersiders are being bankrolled by him. He¡¯s the one who¡¯s been trying to destabilize the city.¡±


    ¡°Hold on, go back to the ¡®splitting time¡¯ thing.¡±


    ¡°He makes two simulations and chooses the best outcome but is aware of both possibilities. His power then pilots his body to enact that favorable outcome. From his perspective, he doesn¡¯t notice himself being piloted and his simulations are really, really accurate so he may as well be splitting time.¡±


    ¡°Huh, that¡¯s¡­ a really weird power.¡±


    ¡°It is. Anyway, keep that to yourself, won¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°Shouldn¡¯t the PRT know?¡±


    ¡°Nope. He works for the PRT in his civilian identity. The best advantage I have over him is that he doesn¡¯t know I know.¡±


    ¡°And if you report it to the PRT, that advantage goes away.¡±


    ¡°Smart girl. Don¡¯t tell New Wave either.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, mom would tell Aunt Sarah, who¡¯d tell the PRT,¡± she said with a sigh. ¡°You know, knowing things isn¡¯t nearly as fun as I thought it¡¯d be.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s really not,¡± I agreed. ¡°It¡¯s usually me pulling my hair out to decide which information I should act on and which I should let lie for a bit.¡±


    ¡°So Coil¡¯s your main focus then?¡±


    ¡°Yup. He needs to go if the city is to make any sort of progress. He has a vast information network with moles in all factions that he uses to stir up conflict and spread misinformation. He''s trying to weaken all sides while keeping people¡¯s attention off him. Eventually, his goal is to take the PRT director seat from Piggot in his civilian identity while becoming the overall crime lord of the city as Coil.¡±


    Amy scoffed at that. ¡°That sounds like a terrible James Bond movie plot. What? Is his goal to ¡®rule the light and dark¡¯ or something?¡±


    ¡°Yup. I¡¯m not even joking,¡± I said, laughing. Calvert¡¯s plan really was stupid. Sure, he could simulate two timelines, but that didn¡¯t mean the canceled timeline became reality. He still only had so many hours in the day. ¡°It¡¯s dumb, but he¡¯s got enough moles everywhere that I want to act on my own until he¡¯s off the board.¡±


    ¡°Fair enough. So you¡¯re trying to get him to reveal his moles in the PRT by forcing him to free his minions? Maybe bring suspicion on his civilian identity?¡±


    ¡°Partially? I mean, it¡¯d be nice if the PRT was that good at internal investigations, but they¡¯re not. If they were, Coil wouldn¡¯t have gotten this far in the first place. It¡¯s not like I have a full roster of PRT staff I can watch twenty-four-seven either. But SAINT can keep an eye on Coil¡¯s assets to see what gets moved around on the digital side. It¡¯s more about seeing how he reacts and mapping his hidden assets.¡±


    ¡°Huh, this is way more work than I¡¯d have thought.¡±


    ¡°It is,¡± I agreed, ¡°but it¡¯s worth it if the goal is to take Coil down quietly and without collateral damage.¡±


    ¡°I guess. Then what?¡±


    ¡°I want Coil to think that The GOAT is attacking his parahuman holdings. Once I have a map of all of his resources and connections, I¡¯ll be able to corner him before I strike. I want Coil to think we¡¯re in a thinker-war when in reality, he¡¯ll already have a noose around his neck.¡±


    She was quiet for a long minute. Then, ¡°Bryce?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Amy?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m glad you¡¯re a hero.¡±


    That got a chuckle out of me. I didn¡¯t see myself as particularly devious. Rather, everything I was doing was something anyone with my abilities and resources should do.


    Considering I knew Coil¡¯s civilian identity, making him think that his organization was being attacked and diverting his attention away from his civilian life would leave him critically vulnerable. Of course, the Undersiders were small potatoes. They were expendable assets Coil would drop on a dime should he see the need, but there were other ways SAINT and I could occupy his interest.


    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    I¡¯d yet to decide if I wanted to take Coil as Calvert, but I stood by what I told Arsalan: If you broke the rules; the rules didn¡¯t protect you.


    Operation: Nope-Rope was in motion.


    X


    It felt strange, using the Pledge Regalia in conjunction with Psychic. Kururu Sumeragi, the rightful Pledge Queen, was able to use the regalia¡¯s vibration manipulation to dismantle a mecha in the time it took her to run past one. She was like one of those anime swordsmen who could cut a man down before anyone realized she¡¯d drawn her sword at all.


    Alas, though I wore her crown, I was no Pledge Queen. I¡¯d used the Pledge Regalia to take apart some of my childhood action figures and build the frame of the soda engines, but I had nowhere near her speed or efficiency. I could tune my own Crown Chimera, but beyond that, Kururu was as far beyond me as Alexandria was beyond Glory Girl.


    My workaround was to use the Pledge Regalia as a scanning software first and a discount technopathy augment second. It wasn¡¯t ideal, but it worked well enough to ape at skills I didn¡¯t yet possess.


    A clear, bell-like note rang out from the regalia that suffused my surroundings. Vibrations probed the toaster in front of me, providing me a 3D map of its internal mechanisms. From there, I augmented the vibrations with telekinesis to speed up the dismantling process.


    Amy lounged on one of the few seats I had as she watched me pick apart various appliances. SAINT was on her lap, fully engaged in a charm offensive to convince her that he was the greatest AI ever and no, how dare she even entertain the thought that he might be dangerous?


    The toaster floated in the air before separating into its components. Springs and nails settled into neat piles right next to the heating coils and wires. Until finally, every last piece had been taken apart.


    ¡°Time?¡±


    ¡°Two minutes and thirteen seconds,¡± Amy drawled, looking a little bored. ¡°You know, this isn¡¯t as cool to watch after the fourth time.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve improved a lot. I used to need a full ten minutes and my guitar when I started, you know. Now, I can release a single note and build off that.¡±


    ¡°Okay, but why are you doing this? I mean, don¡¯t get me wrong, I appreciate that you¡¯re trying to include me in your cape stuff, but why practice taking things apart from far away? You can do just as much with a wrench and a screwdriver, right?¡±


    ¡°I could, and probably much faster. But, normal people can¡¯t block sound. Hell, tinkertech doesn¡¯t usually block sound because they still need sound to communicate. Being able to do this gives me an instant ¡®I win¡¯ button against any tinker in the city. If I can get this down to just a handful of seconds, I¡¯ll be able to shut down a rival tinker before the fight starts.¡±


    ¡°Huh, that¡¯s pretty neat actually. You¡¯re a long way from just a few seconds though.¡±


    ¡°Exactly. Now let¡¯s do a vacuum cleaner next.¡±


    I spent most of that Saturday morning briefing Amy on my full loadout. Truthfully, Amy wasn¡¯t nearly as interested in the technobabble as she was in ¡°examining¡± the various foods I¡¯d made. Whatever she said with her mouth, her actions spoke louder and I¡¯d firmly implanted the idea that ¡°biotinkering can be alright in the right circumstances.¡± Hopefully, she¡¯d buy herself a potted plant or something.


    We spent a good two hours talking about different flavor combinations and how to maximize the nutritional value of various superfoods while improving the taste. It wasn¡¯t exactly interesting to me, but that was fine, anything to drag her off her high horse.


    After dropping her off at the mall, I continued my work designing automail blueprints. It was one of the things we talked about. In order to fully test the automail prosthetics, I¡¯d need a volunteer, which meant going through the hospital to look for people with missing limbs. She was, tentatively, willing to go to bat for me, but only if I installed the first few under her direction.


    Afterwards, the idea was to publicize the technology. Not only did it provide an alternative to Amy¡¯s care, which she was always happy to see, it would give Creed a much better reputation. And right now, I needed reputation more than I needed money.


    X


    2010, December 5: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    Most of Sunday morning was spent with my mother. I hadn¡¯t done that in what felt like ages, what with her being a single mom and me having an entire separate identity to manage. So, I went to church and forced myself to sit through the sermon.


    Mom wasn¡¯t quite what some called a Chreaster Christian, someone who only showed up for the major holidays, but she wasn¡¯t exactly a deacon in the making either. Even when dad was alive, my family mostly used church as a social function rather than a religious one. We found our family pediatrician and electrician from a weekly bible study. Still, the socialization was¡­ nice¡­ perhaps a bit whitewashed to be entirely authentic, but comforting in its normalcy.


    After lunch, I promptly skipped out of the house. It had only been a day but my declaration on PHO was met with the expected skepticism. The general consensus seemed to be that words were cheap. As much as Damascus was a reason to do some soul-searching, it wasn¡¯t like the general Brocktonite skepticism could be pierced so easily.


    The PRT, via Reave, asked me to join up. I promptly told them I''d rather have tea with the Faerie Queen. It made me wonder though: Did Dragon or New York share footage of the incident with the PRT ENE?


    Logic said the local director would naturally be briefed on a new threat in her area. How complete that briefing was, the number of people who had access to it, and the thoroughness with which it was internalized was all up for debate. The local PRT did not inspire confidence on that front.


    Actually, there was even the possibility that Dragon did not share the full details of the incident, keeping the details close on a need-to-know basis. I supposed it depended on how sincere she and Legend thought I was about being a ¡°hero on my own terms.¡±


    Which was why I was out doing my very first heroic patrol. I still thought patrols were largely a waste of time; I could do much more to improve the city from within my lab. It wasn¡¯t like my lab was entirely unproductive; I had Big Rig¡¯s drones automated to manufacture more soda engines for the Damascus relief efforts, but if it was up to me, I would have liked to perfect my automail prosthetics blueprints before moving on to the testing phase.


    And yet, my immediate goal was to arrest the Undersiders, if only because I couldn¡¯t afford to ignore Coil for much longer. Unfortunately, they were as elusive as their ¡°Masters of Escape'''' title implied.


    Seeing how I lacked a dedicated surveillance network, and SAINT was busy mapping out Coil''s money laundering connections, the only way to catch them ¡°in-uniform¡± was either to camp their base or predict their next target. And since I couldn¡¯t do the latter, I had only one real option.


    Their capture would be an easy way to show my sincerity as a hero. Not only would the public see me target villains, both major gangs in the city would see that I willingly gave up bounties I could have easily claimed in favor of the law.


    I knew that the now defunct Redmond Welding Company warehouse was their headquarters. It narrowed my search a great deal and I would hopefully encounter them in a week or so. Ideally, I would have laid in waiting at their next target, but the only one I knew for sure they¡¯d hit was the Ruby Dreams Casino, and that heist wasn¡¯t for months.


    It wasn''t like I was doing nothing. I had a speech-to-text software I was using to jot down plans, formulas, and ideas. They''d need proper consideration later but this sufficed for a quick brainstorming session.


    If there was one thing I learned, it was that heroic patrols were boring. I spent a while doing tricks on Crown Chimera, but a lad could exercise for only so long before any more became detrimental.


    My acrobatics did finally draw cape attention, though from an unexpected source. When I next landed atop an abandoned rooftop, I saw a shadowy mist hover over the gap, accompanied by a broad-shouldered man in burnt-red body armor and spandex.


    ¡°Aegis, Shadow Stalker,¡± I acknowledged them with a nod. ¡°Good afternoon.¡±


    ¡°Hey, Creed,¡± Aegis began with an awkward shuffle. ¡°How''s it going?¡±


    ¡°Sup, dork?¡± Shadow Stalker said.


    How refreshing. If nothing else, Sophia''s presence told me this meeting was most likely unplanned. Contrary to popular belief, the PRT wasn''t full of idiots; there was no way in hell Sophia ¡°Crucifixion¡± Hess would be their first choice to make a soft sell.


    It was reassuring to know I wasn''t their priority. Then I wondered what Carlos did to get saddled with his current partner. Then again, I supposed pairings had to get settled somehow and Carlos was definitely the type to take one for the team.


    ¡°Not much, I''m just getting my daily exercise in, doing a bit of scouting, you know?¡± I replied with a nonchalant shrug.


    ¡°What are you up to? Finding your next mark for a burglary?¡±


    ¡°Exactly what I said. I''ll have you know, I''m on the side of the angels now.¡±


    Aegis coughed insistently. ¡°What Stalker is trying to say is, we''d like it if you came in. There are a lot of questions we''d like to ask you.¡±


    ¡°I''m sure there are. But as I told Reave, I''d rather have tea with Glastig. Or hear a private concert from Bad Canary. Or any number of things, really. Point is, me turning over a new leaf doesn''t mean I want anything to do with the local Protectorate.¡±


    ¡°Right, fat chance,¡± Shadow Stalker scoffed. It was weird, seeing how her mask was of a woman''s face and didn''t articulate facial expressions. ¡°You make a post on PHO and we''re supposed to take your word for it?¡±


    ¡°I mean¡­ yes? I am not known for lying. It''s not like I have any major felonies under my belt.¡±


    Aegis ticked off my crimes on his fingers. ¡°Mercenary work? Grand larceny? Trafficking in regulated substances? There are a few cases that you''re a person of interest in as well.¡±


    ¡°Oh, come on! That last one makes it sound way worse than it is,¡± I complained. ¡°I sell tinkertech, not heroin!¡±


    ¡°Criminals don''t just turn over a new leaf, dumbass. Pull the other one,¡± Shadow Stalker said.


    I tilted my head to the side in confusion. ¡°But, didn''t you do that already, Ms. Vigilante?¡±


    ¡°Wha-How did you-¡±


    ¡°The GOAT knows way too much,¡± Aegis said, connecting the dots to draw the picture I wanted. He always was a straightforward kind of guy. Great trait to have, if somewhat predictable. ¡°Which is another reason for you to come in for a chat. They could do a lot of good with the Protectorate.¡±


    ¡°The GOAT is the greatest of all time. Their wisdom stands as high as the highest peaks,¡± I agreed with a solemn nod.


    ¡°You can see why you and The GOAT are worrying, can''t you? If you''re sincere about flipping sides, joining up would go a long way to relieving our concerns.¡±


    ¡°And yet, The GOAT declared the PRT untrustworthy. Their advice hasn¡¯t steered me wrong yet.¡±


    ¡°We just want some assurances.¡±


    ¡°One moment,¡± I paused. I placed a hand to my helmet as if I was receiving instructions. ¡°Alright, how about this? The GOAT has agreed to offer you one piece of advice. It won''t improve Halbeard''s capabilities, but it will save him some time and resources.¡±


    ¡°We''re listening¡­¡±


    ¡°Halbeard should scrap his nanothorn idea. It will not fulfill its intended purpose.¡±


    ¡°The what?¡±


    ¡°Oh, sorry, guess whoever¡¯s on console duty with you doesn¡¯t know either. The nanothorn project is Halbeard¡¯s attempt to make a blade made of a nanite cloud that would theoretically break every molecular bond. Basically, it¡¯s a blade that cuts anything. His goal is to kill an endbringer with it.¡±


    ¡°Holy crap, I didn¡¯t know he had that¡­¡±


    ¡°Because he doesn¡¯t yet. It¡¯s probably in its alpha stages at the moment, if that. The GOAT says he should scrap the idea because it¡¯s a waste of resources and time,¡± I told them honestly. I¡¯d already informed Dragon about the endbringer cores so there wasn¡¯t much use in holding onto this bit of knowledge anyway. ¡°The nanothorn project cannot deal meaningful damage to an endbringer and for anything less than an endbringer, his plasma blade would work fine. Not to mention, he can¡¯t approach Behemoth or Simurgh so even if it did work, his only valid target would have been Leviathan, and even that at an extreme risk to himself.¡±


    ¡°Got it,¡± Aegis said. Someone was probably typing furiously behind his helmet cam. ¡°Anything else?¡±


    ¡°That was The GOAT¡¯s freebie. How¡¯s Kid Win anyway? He''s figured out his specialization by now, right?¡±


    ¡°I-Yeah, actually. Umm, I don¡¯t know if he wants to thank you or punch you.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s fine, so long as he¡¯s moving forward. He¡¯s got a lot of potential, you know. I look forward to the tinker he will become, as long as he doesn¡¯t insist on a stupid name like ¡®Win-Man¡¯ when he graduates the Wards.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll¡­ I¡¯ll tell him you said that.¡±


    ¡°Excellent. He and Dauntless are the two Protectorate capes The GOAT says might be stronger than me someday. Well, the ¡®me¡¯ at present anyway. I¡¯m not the sort to rest on my laurels, you know? Ever onward! Fight on! Plus ultra!¡± I cheered, pumping my fist in the air.


    ¡°See? That. That sort of statement is what drives all the analysts crazy. Is there anything we could say to get you to come in? Maybe sign on as an independent hero?¡±


    ¡°Would that involve revealing my specialization, arsenal, organization, and its members?¡± I asked rhetorically. Of course it would, no political entity would ever be comfortable with an unknown organization like mine on their doorstep. From their view, The GOAT was an immensely potent thinker, and therefore someone they wanted at virtually any cost.


    ¡°It would.Trust is a two-way street, Creed.¡±


    ¡°Then no. The GOAT would like to tell Director Piggot to touch grass. Or, you know, let Panacea heal her so she can lose weight, regain something resembling the fitness she had as Lady, and then touch grass.¡±


    ¡°Did¡­ Did you make a fat joke about our director?¡± That was Shadow Stalker. She sounded genuinely bewildered, like she had no idea how to deal with that coming from someone other than herself.


    ¡°Yes? No? Seriously, you don¡¯t respect her as much as you should, Shadow. Ask her about her time as ¡®Lady.¡¯ I mean, The GOAT has zero respect for her anyway, but you¡¯re the type of person who¡¯d like that sort of story.¡±


    ¡°What the fuck are you talking about?¡±


    ¡°What indeed?¡±


    Aegis let out a deep, tired sigh, probably imagining the paperwork they¡¯d put him through when he got back. ¡°Can we get back on topic? Would you please sign on as an independent at least? We can provide you with resources, information, and security that tinkers don¡¯t get.¡±


    I laughed. ¡°That cookie-cutter pitch doesn¡¯t mean nearly as much to me, you know.¡±


    ¡°I know, but I have to try. Please come in?¡±


    ¡°Nah.¡±


    ¡°What are we standing around for then?¡± Shadow Stalker scoffed. ¡°We should just take him in. He¡¯s a criminal anyway. You don¡¯t get to change sides just because you made a post on PHO. Piggy can say what she wants when he¡¯s in a cell.¡±


    I frowned in my helmet. Leave it to Sophia to start a confrontation. I could walk away. There was fuck-all they could do to keep up with my speed, not to mention my cloaking and texture suites.


    And yet, I couldn¡¯t deny that a part of me wanted to stay. Sophia Hess was arguably the most reviled character in canon. In a setting with the Slaughterhouse, that really said something. The worst part of it all was that she also genuinely believed she was in the right. She was a fascinating character, if only in an ¡°oncoming train crash¡± kind of way.


    Perhaps, perhaps it wouldn¡¯t be the worst thing in the world to shine some light onto Sophia¡¯s damaged mentality. I doubted the PRT would get her some mental help, but a man could hope.


    No. I said I¡¯d be honest with myself. There were reasons to show off. Just as valuable as stealth, a reputation for competence had its merits. Not to mention, the way I handled the Wards, and the extent of force I chose to use, could set the tone for my relationship with the PRT moving forward.


    Yet, putting aside every other reason, I wanted to fight.


    I needed no other reason than that.


    Author¡¯s Note


    Bryce has decided that the time for hiding has passed. The ambiguity of a ¡°mercenary¡± status isn¡¯t as important as getting his name out there. As abrasive as Sophia is, she¡¯s a good way to send a message to the rest of the Bay based on how he chooses to handle her.


    On one level, this is a deviation from his usual attitude. On another level, it¡¯s more of the same, sending a message in such a way that he cannot be ignored nor misinterpreted.


    Animal Fact: Woodpeckers have unusually long tongues. When lying at rest, the tongues wrap around the birds¡¯ skulls, forming a natural shock-absorbent layer. This protects their brains and necks from the jackhammer motion they make as they burrow for food and nest.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 5.4 Scale

    Scale 5.4


    Bryce Kiley


    2010, December 5: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    I wanted to fight. So, I goaded her into making the first move.


    It wasn''t hard considering I knew exactly what buttons to push. For all her aggression and angst, she wasn''t a complicated person. "Not everything needs to end in a confrontation, Shadow Stalker. There is more to life than your silly predator-prey dynamics."


    "Fuck you, asshole. You think being some pussy-ass thinker''s sock puppet makes you better than me?" she asked, brandishing her crossbows. They were pretty neat, repeaters that held what looked like four bolts or so.


    "Shadow, stand down!" her nominal leader barked. "We''re not supposed to engage him."


    I offered them a carefree shrug. "Are you not? That''s good, I don''t really feel like beating up Wards. You know, supposed to be a hero and all. The GOAT would give me an earful if I did."


    "I''d kick your ass, Creed," Shadow Stalker growled.


    "Hmm, are you sure? You''re a bit of a one trick pony who''s somehow convinced herself that she''s an apex predator. Newsflash, Shadow, life doesn''t follow the law of the jungle. Hell, the jungle doesn''t always follow the law of the jungle either. Strength isn''t determined by who you can beat down."


    "Shut up! You think you know me?"


    "I do. Or, The GOAT does. You''re so focused on being the strongest that you''ve lost the plot. What exactly do you want to achieve with that strength you''ve supposedly earned? Or maybe that''s the wrong question? Are you focused on being strong? Or simply desperate to not be weak anymore?"


    "Shut your mouth."


    I offered them an innocent shrug. "You know, I heard that powers are twisted reflections of our desires. So, who exactly are you running from?"


    To her credit, Shadow Stalker was fast. She''d dedicated countless hours in the shooting range and it showed. Her crossbows whipped up and loosed full salvos in my direction. Not bad, eight bolts total as fast as she could press the trigger. Clearly, she''d been given the good stuff.


    The bolts would have bounced off the Germa fibers anyway, but I made a show of swishing my cape around, catching them in the fabric and flinging them aside. I held out my cape like a matador posing before the bull. That was what I was doing after all, goading the bull.


    "What the hell, Shadow?" Aegis yelled.


    "He''s a criminal. I''m taking him in. That''s what real heroes do so you can get off my back, boss."


    Perhaps, before Damascus, I might have been more cautious. There was no question that Sophia was a highly athletic girl, arguably a well-trained fighter and marksman. She used her power well and was a veteran when compared to many capes who didn''t survive their first active year.


    There was also an aggressiveness in her actions that was absent in the rest of the Wards, an eagerness to enact violence that gave her the edge against most people. Because that''s what fights came down to sometimes: whoever was more willing to harm was often the one who won.


    And yet, for all her aggression, she had nothing on Arsalan or Flygon. She wasn''t the kind of cape entire teams were built around, nor did she have the experience of a veteran in a police state. The bone-deep chill that overwhelmed the Damascus sun, the thrill of a life or death battle that sent itchy shivers across my skin, it just wasn''t there. Sopha Hess, for all her relative skill, lacked gravitas.


    I let out an exaggerated sigh before sinking into a loose combat stance. "So angry, and for what? It''s not good to be too gung ho, you know. Don''t be so eager to make enemies or dismiss people. Who knows? The pebble you''ve kicked aside might actually be a diamond worthy of the queen''s crown."


    "Shut the fuck up, Creed. You don''t know anything."


    "Very well. I''m sure The GOAT will chew me out for this, but I don''t mind, really. If they didn''t want me fighting, they should have told me nicer things to say. Let''s call this a friendly spar, hmm? I promise I''ll pull my punches. And hey, who knows? Maybe you''ll learn something."


    Sophia saw red. I was pushing all her buttons. Calling her out. Implying she was weaker than me. Saying she was a coward, running from her past. She was a bully, and bullies didn''t take well to challengers.


    She twisted her wrist a certain way that reloaded her crossbows from her wrist-mounted quivers. It actually looked well-practiced, fluid and smooth like something straight out of an action movie.


    Four more bolts made their way towards me. "Fuck you!"


    Aegis tried. I almost felt bad for him. He was a good man and a decent enough friend at school. I didn''t envy the paperwork he''d have to write because of this. Alas, I didn''t pity him enough to spare Shadow Stalker her asskicking. Besides, the more impulsive she appeared, the more likely she was to be placed under a psych eval.


    I slapped aside one crossbow bolt and swirled out of the way of three more like a matador, black cape fluttering in the wind. "Try something else, Shadow, a direct attack like that won''t reach me. Oh, and feel free to join in, Aegis. I''m sure you could use more practice fighting other capes. I''m versatile enough that I don''t mind showing my hand a bit."


    Aegis looked conflicted. This situation had escalated far beyond the soft sell he was likely tasked with. Carlos struck me as the dependable sort, someone who tried his earnest to care for his subordinates and enforce the rules. That stupid nonsense with Stephanie and Homecoming aside, he had a good head on his shoulders.


    However, though he had the makings of a great leader, he was a teenage boy at present. He didn''t have nearly enough experience to handle unexpected developments well.


    Then, he must have received new orders, permission to engage, because he squared his shoulders. He hovered back into the air.


    "I''ll take you up on that," he said with a firm nod. "Don''t regret this, Creed."


    I laughed. At least he was nice enough to declare his attack, unlike a certain grumpy "predator." I tapped the side of my helmet. "Hit me with your best shot; I can take it."


    With the inclusion of Aegis, this suddenly got a lot more¡­ recreational. I wasn''t just beating on a mentally unstable child. Now, it felt like a true training exercise. Despite Shadow Stalker''s piss ''n'' vinegar attitude, no one would walk away with more than a few bruises and a shattered ego from this fight.


    He launched himself at me with a classic Superman pose, fists outstretched and body flat as a plank. He was fast, moving more like a car on the freeway than a human.


    I laughed and remained still. Sure, I could take to the skies and skate circles around him. It would also let me run out of range of Shadow Stalker''s crossbow, but that would defeat the purpose of this spar. So instead, I met Aegis head on, punch for punch.


    His fist crashed into my helmet with a dull thump. If it wasn''t for Crown Chimera making footholds of hardened pyrobloin behind me, I would have been thrown back like a skipped stone. As it was, I felt my head snap to the side with the force. Yes, this was a good stress test for the limits of the Germa Expansion Suit.


    Aegis was strong. He wasn''t as strong as Victoria with her force field-assisted strength, but I definitely felt that punch. As a self-biokinetic, Aegis could ignore the natural hormones and inhibitors in the body that limited its maximum output. The stories of mothers lifting tree trunks off their children? He could do that, do it constantly, and with zero consequences.


    At the same time, I caught his other hand by the wrist and allowed his forward motion to turn my body. My elbow came up with the spin just as Crown Chimera kicked off, allowing me to deposit a disgusting amount of force into his chin as he flew by. Really, my spinning counter was rather sloppy; muay thai was one of the martial arts I picked up through the Inorganic Net, but I''d yet to fully integrate it into a seamless style of my own. For the most part, I favored capoeira as it fit the storm rider''s reliance on kicks.


    Still, one couldn''t argue with the force. Aegis was moving at highway speeds. My counter, using his own momentum, was comparable. And all of that came from a man in armor enhanced by the best of Germa 66 technology.


    Suffice to say, it would have been a killing stroke for absolutely anyone that wasn''t a brute. The loud sound of snapping bone rang across the rooftop. Aegis'' head cracked further than ninety degrees as his spine folded almost entirely in half from my elbow. Even Shadow Stalker paused, taken aback by the sudden violence.


    I looked up at Aegis. Seeing his crushed chin and broken neck was unnerving, doubly so because I knew he''d be fine in a second. He held out a hand in the universal sign for time-out.


    He reached up for his face, grabbed his head, and wrenched it back into place with a crack that made me shudder. I''d literally twisted my own spine to pieces while practicing my Road but I doubted I''d ever get used to that sound.


    "You good?" I asked. Regenerator or not, that couldn''t have been fun.


    "Ah, yeah, are you? I decked you pretty hard there," he said, almost shyly. It must have been rare for anyone to go toe-to-toe with him like that. He probably thought I''d dodge at the last moment, use his momentum against him to throw him aside.


    "Yup. I can keep taking hits like that no problem. Might leave a bruise, but it''s fine. Wanna keep going?"


    He paused, no doubt hearing from console. "Yeah, that''s fine. I won''t hit you with force I can''t take in return."


    "Agreed, that''s just good etiquette. Don''t worry, I can heal Shadow if we break her."


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    "Fuck you, asshole. You''re the one who''s going to sleep," the prickly Ward shot back. But there was less venom in her tone than before. Oh, she was still pissed at me for the comments earlier, but there was a hint of respect in her tone now.


    ''Leave it to her to decide that breaking her leader''s neck makes me less of a loser,'' I thought sardonically. "Great, on three?"


    "Three," she said, ignoring the countdown completely to shoot me again.


    I didn''t mind her poor etiquette. Hell, I''d expected it. Expecting the asshole to be an asshole made her more predictable.


    This time, I dodged one bolt and snatched another out of the air, doable with a gravity child''s Twinkle Eye and some subtle assistance from Psychic. I then used it like a shiv to deflect the other six like something straight out of a kung fu movie. As she did her little wrist-flourish to reload, I rushed forward at roughly the speed Aegis used, brandishing the bolt against the flying brick.


    Aegis impressed me yet again. He backhanded my wrist aside and replied with two jabs to my chest while my guard was open, sending the air whooshing from my lungs.


    Crown Chimera kept its forward momentum even as my torso was suddenly punched in the opposite direction. The opposing forces launched me backwards in cartwheels that made me feel like a sock in the dryer. Then my biomass gyroscope kicked in, centering my sense of balance.


    I twisted like a cat in the air before launching a heel kick at the concrete fence that encircled the rooftop. Spiderweb cracks spread across the barricade as seastone skates met the comparatively fragile material, putting a stop to my cartwheeling.


    Just in time, another bolt was fired my way, from the side this time. I caught that too and now had two bolts to use as shivs. If nothing else, Sophia had a good sense for battle; I wouldn''t have been able to catch that without my biological augments.


    I decided to kick things up a notch. It wouldn''t do to let them think they could corner me.


    "Mirage Road: Fogbank!" I cried, stomping the ground. A plume of vapor cloaked my immediate area, making it impossible to see. That worked for me. I had no trouble operating in Dust Devil''s sandstorm and this was no different.


    "The fuck? You''re not a cartoon character, dumbass," Shadow Stalker shouted. "Stop shouting attack names!"


    "Gotta stay on that storm rider brand, Shadow."


    "The fuck is a storm rider?"


    "Anyone who rides an AT, finds his own Road, and aims for the Gram Scale is a storm rid-" I ducked rather than keep talking, avoiding a clothesline from Aegis. I cooed, "Aww, look at you two, keeping me chatty to find me in the fog. Good tactic, predictable though."


    "God, don''t you ever shut up?"


    I chuckled and used the Expansion Suit''s texture module to turn myself into Aegis. Then, following the 3D map provided by my solid sense type, I skated beside Shadow Stalker.


    "Ignore him, Shadow," I said, tweaking my voice. Really, with the fog, texture module, and voice modulator, this was just plain unfair. "You know he''s trying to get a rise out of you."


    "Yeah, fucker''s worse than Clock."


    I clutched my heart as though I''d been shot. "Ow, come on, now. I''m at least a little funny, right?"


    "What the fuck are you talking ab-Gah!" she let out an oddly cute gasp when I kicked her lightly in the shin. I then reached up, grabbed hold of her hood, and yanked it down over her metal facemask. "What the fuck, Aegis?"


    "Don''t trust your senses, Shadow," I said sagely. "The mist lies."


    "Creed, you son of a bitch!"


    She tried to punch me in the throat but I leaned back out of the way. She then used my off-center position to kick me between the legs. Bitch wore steel-toed boots; she knew exactly what she was doing.


    Joke''s on her though, I couldn''t lose my balance, ever. I brought my left knee up in time to kick her inner thigh, just above the knee, redirecting her shin away from my precious family jewels.


    "Really? A nut-tap? You''re way too brutal for a hero, missy," I chided. "And that language. What would your darling fans say?"


    "Piss off, fucktard."


    I faded back into the mist, just in time to avoid Aegis, who''d probably followed the voices. "Shall we play a game of cat and mouse?"


    "Shut up!"


    "Although, I suppose the question here is who is the cat, and who is the mouse?"


    "Sit still and let me shoot you!" she howled. She fired at where she last heard my voice, her bolts began flickering black to phase through my armor, but I was long gone.


    That was one thing I didn''t want to risk. Her power could be deadly and though I was confident in my ability to heal myself, the sedative might pose a problem if I didn''t study it first.


    I took the chance to snatch a few out of the air, putting them inside my expanded hip pouch for later analysis. They could be mundane tranquilizers, or they could be a cocktail made by Armsmaster. I didn''t know and finding out ought to be a fun time.


    "Nope, that''d be boring, Shadow. You can''t call yourself a huntress if your prey sits still for you, can you?" I skated towards her but was forced to dodge when Aegis swept in with a haymaker.


    He was getting used to navigating in the fog. Had he developed echolocation? Or maybe he was seeing heat signatures in infrared like a pit viper? Whatever his adaptation, good for him, this would be vital training if Burnscar ever came to town; the smoke and fog were quite similar for a man who didn''t need to worry about smoke inhalation after all.


    I still needed to punish him for missing though. This time, I opted to grab his arm and collar as he flew by, twisting in place in a textbook judo throw to hurl him at Shadow.


    "Heads up, Shadow!" I called.


    "Shit!" Shadow yelped. She turned into a plume of black smoke that contrasted vividly with the pale mist around us. Aegis flew through her, scattering her for a moment before she pulled herself together. "Asshole!"


    I couldn''t help it. "A little quick, but don''t worry, Aegis. I hear it''s natural the first time inside a woman."


    He swerved and caught himself before giving me a deadpan stare. "Shadow''s right. You''re worse than Clock."


    "Lies and slander! I''m at least as funny as Mouse Protector!"


    "Trust me, she''s not funny at all either."


    "You Protectorate types are just too stuffy. No wonder she left."


    "Whatever, Creed. Let''s end this."


    "As you please. I think you two have plenty to dissect later anyway. I''ll stop pulling my punches then, okay? Just a little."


    "Pulling-You''re holding back?"


    "More than you know," I said with a dark chuckle. I leaned forward into a cat-like crouch. "Well, here I come!"


    Then, I moved.


    Psychic aura encased the bolt in my hand, correcting the imperfections in my aim as I hurled it like a throwing knife at the grumpiest Ward. I was no marksman but at this range, with Psychic, I didn''t need to be. It was a bit like guiding an RC plane, really.


    That was followed immediately by a Thunder Wave from my offhand. I hadn''t used that move in the city in a while; I wondered if they even remembered I could. Then, just in case she dodged both, I dove into a loping lunge at about half my max speed, twisting in the air into a roundhouse kick.


    Shadow, over-reliant on her power, simply turned into a black fog in response.


    "That''s not going to work, dumba-aahhh!" she shrieked, her taunt turning into a cry of agony. She''d phased through the first bolt, only for the Thunder Wave that followed to wreak havoc on her gaseous form.


    ''That answers that question,'' I thought. ''Or maybe she never read my file. I wouldn''t put it past her.''


    She spasmed in place and solidified once more. I aborted my kick and caught her gently. It wouldn''t do to give her a set of broken ribs while she was barely conscious. Sophia was a bitch and she honestly deserved an asskicking, but I was trying to send a positive message here. I couldn''t have the Protectorate thinking I was overly violent, even if I could heal her shortly after.


    I held out a hand to Aegis for a time-out and waited for her to regain her bearings. Then, with another bolt I caught, I pricked her arm. "Night night, Shadow~"


    The Wards leader looked at me warily. "Right, you have tasers in your gloves. How did we forget that?"


    "They''re not tasers. And probably because I don''t usually make a habit of showing off." I said with a carefree shrug. I placed her against a concrete wall in a sitting position. I didn''t know how long she''d be out for, but the PRT wouldn''t give her a tranq dart that she herself couldn''t handle. "I''m kicking your ass out of the kindness of my heart here, Aegis. I mean, in lieu of going in for power testing."


    "Joy," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm.


    "So, care for a slugfest? You might get some real data about my capabilities."


    "I''m good, thanks. I wasn''t the one who wanted to fight in the first place. I really can''t convince you to come in?"


    "Not a chance."


    "But you''re serious about being a hero."


    "I am. You keep questioning me like you don''t want me to be a hero or something. I mean, I wouldn''t mind being your dastardly nemesis either. Should I rob a bank? Ooh! I can send some cryptic letter to the Forsberg Gallery saying I''ll steal a painting at midnight in three days!"


    "No, that''s¡­ Look, take this as a warning, alright? We''ll accept that you''re sincere until you break the law. But if you do, all bets are off."


    I ignored the thinly veiled warning. Trust the PRT to insist on "speaking from a position of strength," even after losing the fight. "Yeah, yeah. We''re done here then?"


    "I guess we are."


    "Good, because this patrol''s been a bust. I mean, I had plans, you know? Targets and objectives of my own. Well, ciao~"


    I stomped down on the ground, creating another plume of mist that obscured his vision. The moment I was out of sight, I became invisible and dashed away.


    X


    That evening, I pored over the information SAINT dug up for me this past week. SAINT, as usual, was phenomenal. He had done as I''d bid and gotten me everything related to Coil or Thomas Calvert, everything.


    Unfortunately, that completeness of his investigation turned out to be a bit of a mixed blessing. SAINT had included everything, from the quarterly financial reports of Coil''s many shell companies to the documents of incorporation to emails and text messages. There were hidden transactions made with what I assumed were mercenary companies, monthly payments made to an entity that might be Toybox, as well as millions of unrelated documents.


    As it turned out, evil organization or not, not even Coil''s faction could escape the banality of the daily grind. The overwhelming majority of SAINT''s collection was worthless, emails bitching about one boss or another, considerations for a new coffee machine for the break room, that sort of thing. At a conservative guess, there was nearly eight terabytes of information here.


    I was no investigator or auditor. SAINT didn''t have any skills I myself couldn''t provide. Sorting through this would be an absolute bitch and a half. I let out a quiet sigh and got to work.


    "SAINT, mind helping me make sense of all this data?" I asked.


    "Gon, pory-gon," he pulled his head out of the bowl of toasted almonds that had been his reward and nodded.


    "To start, let''s divide the information into two groups: Coil and Calvert. If the company, bank account, or asset is associated with Coil, put it in one folder. If it''s something Calvert did in his civilian identity, put it aside for later. We have to pay lip service to the unwritten rules, so we can''t act against those assets, at least not immediately."


    "Gon."


    "Yeah, I know. They''re the same person. Still, even just Coil''s data will be plenty to work with for now."


    "Porygon," he trilled and got to work.


    Coil was a relative newcomer to the bay as far as gangs were concerned; he was not a Brockton legacy like Kaiser. Following Ellisburg, he probably found out about Cauldron over the course of months or years. And I knew he spent a few years gaming the market with his power to pay Cauldron back.


    That still meant he''d been in the city for three or four years. It was all way too much information for me to filter through manually, especially if I wanted to be productive in other areas.


    So I then had SAINT disregard all of Coil''s assets who had been terminated over the years. And then I had him sort his personnel by the seniority they held in his organization.


    Bit by bit, I was pruning the massive tree that was Coil''s gang. By the time I turned in for bed, I had a far more manageable map of Coil''s contacts and financial resources to look through.


    Author''s Note


    Sophia''s predator-prey mentality is played up in fanon, but it''s also a wonderful way to get on her nerves. That fight did change its tone as it went on, and that''s intentional.


    Carlos was able to keep up with Rachel''s dogs, which all move at "highway speeds." I''m going to put that tentatively at ~50mph. He also doesn''t tire and has "hysterical strength" active at all times. The guy doesn''t get enough credit for how great his power actually is. Yes, he gets bodied by Bryce here, but "not as good as anime tinker hax" isn''t anything to be ashamed of.


    In other news, Sophia is a bitch even when she''s "playing nice." I hope I painted some contrast between Sophia and Carlos'' attitudes.


    Bryce is a troll. A well-meaning troll, but a troll nonetheless. I don''t know why, I like writing characters who are a little dickish.


    Once again, I don''t actually know anything about computers. It''s honestly gotten to be a bit of a problem because my company wants me to take on more of an IT focus, a background I simply lack.


    All I know is that Coil should have something like "three" networks by my estimate: contacts and assets he uses as Thomas Calvert, contacts and assets he uses as C(Accord, Toybox, etc), and a closed system which stores his most pressing secrets to prevent thinkers/tinkers from hacking him into oblivion.


    PS: Happy birthday, Peaches. You''re the best deer-fucker a guy could ask for.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 5.4.5 Parahuman Response Team

    Preface


    Hey, all. I am back. If you¡¯ve been wondering where I¡¯ve been, I take a break from writing (or at least scheduled updates) every December. The spider is back from hibernation though.


    Happy New Year. It is the year of the wood snake, and euphemisms.


    Scale 5.4.5 Parahuman Response Team


    Emily Piggot


    2010, December 5: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    I watched in stony silence as the videos played back-to-back. The first was a spliced-together recording of various helmet cam footage from Damascus, courtesy of Dragon. In it, Creed emerged from the medical station and placed himself beneath Ursa Aurora¡¯s command before taking the standout role in the operation.


    He promptly opened communications between the rebels and the Protectorate, closing off one possible combat front. He then proceeded to dismantle Marid, one of the most powerful flyers in the Middle East, a cape analysts compared favorably with the likes of Exalt. He rescued civilians trapped in fires while a blocky drone of some kind took out the Lionguard¡¯s pyrokinetic. Then, as if to prove he wasn¡¯t finished, he executed Arsalan, the lynchpin of the SRG¡¯s power in Damascus, all while acting as a shockingly competent field medic.


    It was unbelievable. Any one of those things would have been contribution enough. He fought like a veteran of multiple deployments, not someone who was young enough to belong in the Wards. His tech was so versatile that the tinker collective theory regarding The GOAT¡¯s organization was all but assured.


    Then came the second video. It was an absolute joke, not only compared to the first, but even stand-alone, precisely because The GOAT meant it to be that way. There wasn''t a doubt in my mind that this little confrontation had been orchestrated by that shadowy thinker.


    Creed goaded Shadow Stalker into a fight, promptly handed her her ass on a silver platter, then waved the whole thing off as though it was a prearranged spar between heroes. It was glaringly obvious that he could have done much worse to the uppity Ward.


    Worse, given she¡¯d been the first to attack, he would have been in the right. Capes were annoying like that. They often functioned on a ¡°Hit me, see what happens,¡± sort of juvenile posturing. So when Stalker did hit Creed, but nothing happened, that was a message unto itself.


    The message couldn¡¯t have been any clearer if The GOAT wrote it in sky-writing: Creed is a hero now. It is in your best interest that he remains a hero.


    Around me were members of my Protectorate, as well as my deputy director. Armsmaster, Renick, and I had seen the footage of Creed¡¯s actions in Damascus, but this would be the first time for most of them.


    ¡°Ho-ly shit,¡± Assault said with a low whistle. He was leaning back casually in his chair, foot on the table. I paid it no mind. His irreverence was part of his brand at this point. ¡°Were those two the same capes? Because the way they acted was completely different.¡±


    ¡°The situation was completely different,¡± Velocity offered. He was one of the more reliable capes I had, no doubt because of his army background. ¡°There is no comparing a riot like Damascus and a chance encounter with two Wards. Way I see it, Creed showed a lot of restraint in the second. He clearly knows to use proportionate force.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not saying much,¡± Battery said. ¡°You¡¯d hope every cape knows to draw the line between a murderous human master and Shadow Stalker, especially a hero-hopeful.¡±


    ¡°¡®Hope¡¯ being the operative word here. I don¡¯t know about you, but ¡®overeager¡¯ is the nicest word I¡¯d use to describe some capes.¡±


    ¡°Point.¡±


    ¡°I read Ursa Aurora¡¯s reports too, but they really don¡¯t do him justice, do they?¡± Dauntless added. The hometown favorite had his helmet off and in front of him. Out of all the capes in my employ, he probably had the healthiest work-life balance. ¡°I¡¯m glad he knows how to pull his punches.¡±


    ¡°Are we really okay with this?¡± Miss Militia asked. She tried to hide her agitation, but the way her weapon switched to ever-larger ordinance gave her mood away. ¡°If we¡¯re right and Creed is indeed a minor, this should raise some warning flags, ma¡¯am.¡±


    ¡°Explain, how do you figure?¡± I hummed.


    ¡°The GOAT has been guiding him, grooming him into the equivalent of a child soldier.¡± She turned back the video to a scene captured by Flechette¡¯s helmet cam. ¡°That isn¡¯t the stance of a kid out of his depth. That¡¯s the stance of a veteran.¡±


    I had to give that to her. The picture was almost cinematic. Creed¡¯s cape billowed dramatically behind him. He was braced perfectly to absorb the recoil of his gun. His posture screamed of determination, someone ready to do what must be done.


    And he had. He¡¯d killed Arsalan, not because his own life was at risk, but because he deemed that this was the fastest way to end the fighting. Desperate self-defense was one thing, we¡¯d all seen examples of minors lashing out, usually in ill-fated trigger events, but this was different. He¡¯d decided to kill, weighed the pros and cons and came to the conclusion that the world was better off without Arsalan in it.


    It wasn¡¯t the wrong conclusion, but that a boy who was supposedly Wards-age made it, raised a few flags. It spoke of a clinical maturity beyond his years, or maybe a fanatic devotion to the ¡°mission,¡± whatever that mission might have been.


    ¡°You believe The GOAT has master powers?¡± I asked, face carefully neutral. Teacher was still a fresh memory for those who¡¯d been around long enough. That wasn¡¯t an accusation made lightly. That said, it wasn¡¯t an impossible conclusion to come to either.


    ¡°No, ma¡¯am. I just¡­ I don¡¯t know what The GOAT has been feeding Creed, but someone who¡¯s willing to turn a child into a weapon isn¡¯t someone I¡¯d consider a hero.¡±


    ¡°Hold on now, MM,¡± Assault said. He took control of the mouse and flipped back to the video of Aegis and Shadow Stalker¡¯s encounter with the tinker. ¡°I get that the little guy¡¯s terrifying, but he¡¯s also not some unthinking machine, yeah? He¡¯s clearly got enough presence of mind to laugh at Shadow Stalker.¡±


    ¡°He does. I''m not saying Creed is a mindless weapon, but The GOAT''s methods are questionable. I think we have reason to believe The GOAT groomed Creed to be a weapon, maybe with heroic intentions, but it makes me uncomfortable.¡±


    ¡°I think Creed¡¯s a lot more mature than we gave him credit for. He might be a bit older, too,¡± Velocity said. ¡°Creed did what he needed to do. Maybe it wasn¡¯t the appropriate choice given his age, but he¡¯s made it and saved a lot of lives because of it. I think we should leave it at that.¡±


    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    Militia let out a carefully controlled sigh. ¡°Yes, you¡¯re right. I would like my concern noted however, ma¡¯am.¡±


    ¡°Understood. I¡¯ll pass our observations along to national,¡± I told her. Given her own past as a child soldier, she could be seeing ghosts that weren¡¯t there. Then again, she could be more sensitive to this sort of thing. Either way, following up on the possibility wasn¡¯t the worst idea.


    ¡°Actually, while we''re on the topic of Creed''s behavior,¡± Battery began, ¡°Has anyone noticed how he interacted with Flechette? He treated her completely differently compared to Shadow Stalker, or even Jouster and Shelter.¡±


    ¡°Maybe the tinker wonder''s got a crush,¡± Assault said. ¡°Might mean he''s around her age, like we guessed.¡±


    ¡°He was kind enough to hold her hair while she threw up, in the middle of the battlefield no less. That doesn''t seem like Creed''s normal behavior.¡±


    ¡°Yup. He might have sent that duck-drone thing to protect her specifically too. I think I saw it use a force field earlier.¡±


    ¡°It did seem responsive to her movements,¡± Armsmaster mused. ¡°It worked with her to take the Lionguard¡¯s pyrokinetic out of commission.¡±


    ¡°Or, The GOAT told him to behave that way,¡± Dauntless pointed out. ¡°How do we know that it''s Creed who''s interested in her and not his boss?¡±


    ¡°An unhelpful point,¡± Armsmaster replied. I wanted to roll my eyes. He had something against the hometown hero and tended to shoot down Dauntless¡¯ observations. ¡°If we follow that logic, the reverse could also be true. It could be said that The GOAT ordered him to act the fool against Shadow Stalker and Aegis and the way he behaved towards Flechette is closer to his true personality. In fact, that seems more likely when we consider that the confrontation with Shadow Stalker was almost certainly scripted.¡±


    ¡°Huh, yeah, I didn¡¯t think of that. I guess if The GOAT was to take an interest in anyone from New York, it would be another tinker like Shelter.¡±


    ¡°Correct. That would be more in line with his previous interest in Kid Win.¡±


    ¡°So Creed has a thing for Flechette? Are we really holding a meeting to discuss some kid''s love life?¡± Velocity asked with a laugh. ¡°Even if we say that''s true, I don''t see what that has to do with us in Brockton. It''s not like she''s going to transfer here, right? It¡¯s not information we can use, and I¡¯d feel really scummy using it at all.¡±


    ¡°Right. It doesn''t matter in the end. Just note it in his personality file as a possibility,¡± I said. ¡°It shows he is protective of certain people and that''s enough for now. Let''s move on.¡±


    Just because we wouldn¡¯t be throwing Flechette at Creed didn¡¯t mean it wasn¡¯t useful information. Any hint of his true personality could help our analysts fill in the giant blank spots in his file. It¡¯d take a lot more than this, but if we gathered enough examples, we could put together a working psychological profile for him.


    ¡°As you say, director.¡± Renick tapped the notepad in front of him in thought. ¡°Whatever the case may be with Creed¡¯s personality, we have other things to discuss. I am particularly concerned with The GOAT¡¯s predictions.¡±


    ¡°Yes, I¡¯m worried about that as well. Armsmaster, do you have a nanothorn project?¡±


    He looked at us like he¡¯d sucked a lemon. ¡°It was something I¡¯d brainstormed on the side. It is not even in its prototype phase yet.¡±


    ¡°The GOAT knew about that? I guess that proves his thinker chops,¡± Assault said. ¡°Either that, or we¡¯re compromised so hilariously that we may as well give them the city.¡±


    ¡°The GOAT is a confirmed thinker. Even before this incident, they were able to discern Kid Win¡¯s specialization and offered Dragon valuable information about the physiology of endbringers. In context, their pessimism regarding the nanothorn project makes sense.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, wasn¡¯t there something in Creed¡¯s original post about whales and Miss Militia too?¡±


    ¡°There was,¡± she said carefully. ¡°The truth is, I remember seeing a vision when I triggered. It was a dazzling sea of lights, a figure that swam through space and rained down a meteor shower. I suppose it might look like a whale, though I¡¯ve never thought of it as one until that post.¡±


    ¡°Okay¡­ That¡¯s a little freaky.¡±


    ¡°It''s not just that,¡± his wife added. She flipped through the recording until it showed Creed''s final exchange with Shadow Stalker. ¡°I noticed Creed staggered his attacks there. First the crossbow bolt, then the electric attack. Could he have known about Shadow Stalker''s weakness to electricity?¡±


    ¡°Probably. Wouldn''t surprise me at this point. He also knew her past as a vigilante, remember? Must be nice, having a thinker to give you the inside scoop on everyone.¡±


    ¡°The GOAT¡¯s information has been reliable so far,¡± Armsmaster said. ¡°I will see if the nanothorn project holds merit in other applications. Otherwise, I will have to reconsider the way I''ve allocated my resources.¡±


    ¡°Conduct a thorough search of our systems while you''re at it,¡± I said, ¡°just in case we''ve been compromised. The GOAT is a thinker, but that doesn''t mean we should make things easy for them.¡±


    ¡°Understood, director.¡±


    ¡°There''s one final thing he mentioned, director,¡± Triumph said. The youngest Protectorate hero was the reliable sort, green as grass but dedicated. ¡°He also mentioned something about ¡®Lady,¡¯ saying how Shadow should ask you about it.¡±


    Figured that the fucking thinker would know. I schooled my expression. It wasn''t Triumph''s fault that he was bringing up bad memories.


    Renick winced next to me. He knew, as did most of the senior capes. It wasn''t some big secret anyway.


    ¡°That was my codename when I used to be a trooper,¡± I said carefully. ¡°I used to pound the pavement like the rest of you.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I didn''t know that,¡± he trailed off. He was smart enough to know not to pry further.


    Good kid, Rory.


    I kept the meeting moving forward. The GOAT was exactly the kind of thinker that pissed me off, the kind that managed to be both insufferable and useful.


    ¡°As things stand, we must conclude that The GOAT and Creed are independent heroes. However, should Creed''s change of heart be less than genuine, we are authorized to treat him as an A-class threat.¡±


    ¡°Is that really necessary, ma''am?¡± Miss Militia asked. She undoubtedly felt uncomfortable with putting a teenager on the same threat level as the Slaughterhouse Nine or Nilbog. Such a designation was usually the precursor to a kill order and mandated heroic responses from multiple cities. ¡°I agree he is exceptionally skilled, but¨C¡±


    ¡°But nothing. If it was just his combat potential, we''d leave him at a B-class threat rating and be done with it. The real concern is what The GOAT may know, and be willing to use to damage the PRT. They''ve been helpful so far, but that is no guarantee of future cooperation.


    ¡°In the event they turn hostile, the priority will be to capture Creed using overwhelming firepower so as to acquire The GOAT''s location from him. Keep in mind, given their knowledge so far, The GOAT likely knows the secret identities of several heroes. Their organization going villan would be catastrophic. So long as they remain heroes, we will treat them as such.¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma''am.¡±


    ¡°Good. Make sure the Wards know not to fight. I don''t want another incident with Creed. That was embarrassing enough without it getting plastered all over the news. If we have helmet cams, Creed most certainly does as well.¡±


    ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am. I¡¯ll make sure the Wards stay cordial.¡±


    ¡°Good. Dismissed.¡±


    When they all left, I allowed myself a defeated sigh. It was galling to admit, but the PRT''s grand strategy when it came to The GOAT and their organization could be summed up as ¡°wait and see.¡± We knew so little that this was all we could do.


    I hated my job. I hated capes. Even when they were nominally helpful, they were colossal pains in my ass.


    Author¡¯s Note


    Short chapter, but necessary I think. It''s nothing new, but I thought their thought process might be interesting. The PRT really has no idea what to make of Creed. They''ve never dealt with someone like him before; he''s a complete anomaly in many respects.


    Exalt is Eidolon¡¯s right hand and a member of the Houston Protectorate.


    Animal Fact: The baculum is a type of bone found inside of the penis of some species. For example, raccoons, chimps, and gorillas have them but humans do not.


    Some Native Americans used to use raccoon baculum to pack tobacco inside of pipes. Other than that, they¡¯re sometimes worn as ornaments or used as toothpicks. So yes, you can pick your teeth and give a dead raccoon a blowjob at the same time.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs</a>.

 5.5 Scale

    Scale 5.5


    Bryce Kiley


    2010, December 8: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    I really wasn¡¯t sure what to do about Sabah. As fond of her as I was, she was ultimately more Sierra¡¯s friend than mine. Beyond that ¡°she¡¯s a nice person,¡± I didn¡¯t actually know a whole lot about her.


    Which left me in a bit of a pickle. I knew who Parian was, how she¡¯d rapidly transition from ¡°Parian the rogue¡± to ¡°Parian the Undersider¡± and later ¡°Parian the Needlepoint.¡± But that wasn¡¯t Sabah Azimi.


    If I had my say, Bakuda and Leviathan would never destroy the Bay. Jack would never surgically alter the people under her protection to look like Slaughterhouse members. Sabah would never feel the pressure to join the Undersiders or make any of the other tough choices. The Sabah Azimi I knew currently was soft, kind, and pacifistic. Truthfully, I would prefer she remain that way.


    I found myself resenting the need for this conversation for much the same reason I refused to recruit my sister as my lieutenant. Sure, they¡¯d be great to have at my side, but I didn¡¯t want this kind of life for her.


    Damascus showed me that I wasn¡¯t perfect; I couldn¡¯t be the ever-victorious shonen protagonist who won the day with good vibes and gumption. Earth-Bet was dangerous, and sparing Sabah one horrible future just for me to end up making her a target left a bad taste in my mouth.


    I would do horrible things to keep her safe, just as I would for Sierra. But the truth was, I couldn¡¯t guarantee that my protection would be enough. And unlike Sierra, she wouldn¡¯t ever go overlooked as just another unpowered mook.


    I considered and reconsidered my options as I sat at Harvey¡¯s Bar & Grill. Technically, I owned the basement. Though I hadn¡¯t used it much lately, this was the first lab I negotiated for with Faultline. There was still an old forge where I could make wapometal or distill pyrobloin from volcanic ash. Upstairs, there was a small studio apartment that, on paper, belonged to an out-of-state owner of the bar but was in reality a safehouse for either Faultline or me to use.


    Right now, I was disguised as said owner. He was a chubby man in his fifties with a salt and pepper beard. He looked old, unathletic, and wore the restaurant uniform with a brass nametag. In front of me was a half-eaten plate of fish and chips. In other words, I looked like I belonged here.


    Sabah arrived several minutes early, a bundle of nervous energy. She probably hadn¡¯t expected a meetup with a notorious cape to be somewhere so public. Still, she squared her shoulders and came up to me.


    ¡°Umm, are you Harvey?¡± she began.


    It wasn¡¯t the owner¡¯s name, but I nodded anyway. I spoke in a gruff, Irish accent. ¡°That¡¯s right. Who wants to know?¡±


    ¡°O-Oh! I¡¯m here for a waitressing job. I heard that you guys are hiring?¡±


    ¡°Eh, you know what? Sure, let¡¯s talk. You ever work in the food service industry before?¡±


    ¡°No, this is my first time,¡± Sabah said. She made a show of looking around in frustration. ¡°Is it always so loud in here?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re right. Can¡¯t hear myself think in here.¡± I slid my plate and a twenty on the counter towards the barkeep and stood. ¡°Come on, there¡¯s a small office upstairs.¡±


    I could practically feel her tension as she followed me upstairs. She remembered to find ¡°Harvey¡± and say all the right things, but her nervousness was a dead giveaway. Lucky me, the bar was hosting a live karaoke night so no one was paying us much attention.


    The studio was a simple affair, with a small kitchenette, bathroom, air mattress, and coffee table. I pulled out a thermos of my tinkertech coffee and poured us two mugs as Sabah closed the door behind us.


    ¡°Um, a-are you The GOAT?¡±


    I snapped my fingers and allowed the texture module to bleed away. ¡°Sorry, just Creed.¡±


    ¡°Oh¡­ I¡¯m sorry, I wanted to speak with your boss. I have some things I want to talk ab¨C¡±


    ¡°You have powers. You¡¯re a fresh trigger. You want to ask The GOAT about what options you have as a cape. Sound about right?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s¨C¡±


    ¡°Relax, I¡¯m not here to blackmail you, or whatever other horrible thing you think might happen.¡±


    ¡°Then why did you trick me? PHO said The GOAT was the one who¡¯d come.¡±


    That made me chuckle. Sabah was so adorably naive at this point. ¡°Your mistake was thinking that The GOAT, a high-level thinker who has so far gone out of their way to remain anonymous to everyone, would, for some bizarre reason, make time to meet a complete stranger, an unknown cape, face-to-face.¡±


    She stood to walk away. ¡°Then I guess we don¡¯t have anything to talk about. Look, thanks for healing my father, really, but I¡¯m not here to play whatever game you¡¯re playing.¡±


    ¡°But what if I told you The GOAT doesn¡¯t exist?¡± I said, making her pause at the door. ¡°What if I told you that The GOAT and Creed are one and the same? What if I told you that The GOAT is a persona fabricated to send everyone else on a wild goose chase?¡±


    Maybe I was naive too. Maybe I had a few screws loose for telling a fresh trigger about myself. But the more I considered my options, the more I found myself leaning towards the truth.


    Pokemon, One Piece, Air Gear, and now, Fullmetal Alchemist, all taught me lessons that went beyond technology. Friendship. Freedom. Choices. And, the price I might be asked to pay because  of said choices. These all made up the Mirage Road to me, my Creed, as tacky as that sounded.


    Now, Sabah herself stood at a crossroad. She was being asked to make a choice.


    In an ideal world, Sabah would never have to make this choice. But we were in Earth-Bet, about as far from ¡°ideal¡± as could be. The conclusion I¡¯d reached was that what was ¡°ideal¡± wasn¡¯t as important as what was. Sabah had triggered. She would join the cape scene, one way or another.


    With that in mind, didn¡¯t I owe it to her to give her as much information as possible? Didn¡¯t I owe it to her to give her as strong a start as possible? Information was power. Whatever path she chose, I decided that she would choose knowing all that I could tell her.


    She turned to me with a skeptical scowl. ¡°You expect me to believe that The GOAT isn¡¯t real? That you made them up?¡±


    ¡°Pretty much. I know that sounds crazy, but sit down and listen. Whatever advice you thought to get from The GOAT, please trust that I can provide the same, and with less of the pageantry.¡±


    ¡°Bullshit. Pull the other one, Creed. Someone would have noticed.¡±


    I laughed at that. ¡°Do you have any idea how ambiguous most thinker powers are? Precogs are rare and usually give answers like ¡®purple¡¯ or ¡®the hound barks at noon.¡¯ When thinkers get a vague answer about a supposed thinker whose information has been proven time and again, they don¡¯t think, ¡®This person doesn¡¯t exist,¡¯ they think, ¡®This person has precautions against thinker powers.¡¯ That¡¯s called confirmation bias, Sabah. They come in with certain assumptions and their own powers¡¯ ambiguity reinforces those assumptions.¡±


    ¡°Why me? Assuming you¡¯re not lying, why me? You said The GOAT would never meet some random person. So, why would you tell some random person this secret?¡±


    I nodded and slipped down my chin guard. The coffee really was great. It also conveniently removed my voice modulator. ¡°Good, you¡¯re starting to ask the right questions.¡±


    ¡°Wait, you¡­ you sound familiar.¡±


    ¡°I would hope so, Sabs, because you¡¯re sure as hell not some random person.¡± With that, I removed my helmet and set it aside. ¡°You¡¯re Sisi¡¯s best friend, and my friend too. You deserve the truth.¡±


    ¡°Bryce?!?!¡± she yelled.


    ¡°Sit, have some coffee. And please stop the yelling. The safehouse is soundproofed but I¡¯d rather not test that more than necessary.¡±


    ¡°I-You-How?¡±


    ¡°Hush. Now, this is the second time in a week I¡¯m having this conversation so please, hold your questions until I¡¯m done talking, alright? There¡¯s a lot to go over, especially since you¡¯re a completely fresh trigger.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m so confused right now¡­¡±


    ¡°I know, Sabs. Relax, okay? It¡¯s going to be alright.¡±


    X


    ¡°Wow¡­ So all of that happened,¡± Sabah said, almost in a whisper.


    ¡°Yup. It¡¯s been a busy few months,¡± I replied, leaning back against the air mattress. We didn¡¯t have any chairs in the safehouse. She crawled closer and gave me a hug. ¡°Sabs?¡±


    ¡°Thanks for healing my dad.¡±


    I wrapped my arms around her shoulders. ¡°You¡¯re welcome. And sorry I sounded so apathetic, can¡¯t really act like I know you in costume.¡±


    ¡°I figured. You¡¯ve been trying to hint that you could get Amy to help. You really meant you could help, huh?¡±


    ¡°Ehh, both. I only learned organic alchemy relatively recently.¡±


    ¡°Thanks¡­¡±


    ¡°Anytime. You¡¯re my friend too, you know.¡±


    ¡°Yeah¡­ Hey, Bryce?¡±


    ¡°Hmm?¡±


    ¡°Does Sierra know you have powers?¡±


    ¡°Ah¡­¡±


    ¡°Bryce,¡± she stressed in that way only big sisters could. She wasn¡¯t my big sister, but she did have three younger brothers and it showed. It was honestly kind of impressive how much disappointment she could pack into one word.


    ¡°Hey, it¡¯s not like you¡¯ve told Sisi eith¨C¡±


    ¡°I did, actually. They¡­ They were there,¡± she whispered into my shoulder. ¡°Not the point. Bryce, you know Sierra¡¯s going to throw a fit when she finds out you¡¯ve been hiding this from her, right?¡±


    ¡°Excuse me, when?¡±


    ¡°Yes, when. I¡¯m not going to tell her, but¡­ but I think you should. Your sister is strong, stronger than you think. I think she would support you.¡±


    ¡°I know, Sabs.¡± I pulled her into a sideways hug and leaned my head on hers. ¡°That¡¯s what I¡¯m afraid of. She¡¯ll want to get involved. Never mind that she has no powers. Never mind that she doesn¡¯t know the first thing about capes. Never mind that she¡¯d be throwing away so much of her life for me. She¡¯ll insist on getting involved, on turning herself into a target on my behalf.¡±


    ¡°Bryce¡­¡±


    ¡°How could I accept that? I¡¯m not almighty, Sabs. And if she got hurt because of me¡­ I don¡¯t know what I¡¯d do, but I know it¡¯d make Nilbog look like a petulant child.¡±


    Even with just the specializations I had, how much damage could I do if I stopped holding back? What if I made an army of porygon, abandoning the friendship espoused by Pokemon in favor of sheer cyber might? What if I gave every two-bit thug an artificial zoan and set them on my enemies, replacing freedom and the thirst for adventure with revenge and domination?


    What if I stretched my hands towards Truth? Would he answer? What would be the price he¡¯d demand of me for power? Lives? Souls? My most cherished memories?


    I didn¡¯t know. What I did know was that I would be sorely tempted to pay that price. There would be very little I would not do to take revenge if something happened to my sister and right now, anonymity was worth more than any shield module I could craft for her.


    Sabah was silent in the face of my declaration. I appreciated the warmth. I hadn¡¯t realized how close my cape life had come to Sierra. With Sabah¡¯s trigger, Sierra herself was that much closer to learning the truth.


    ¡°You¡¯re¡­ You¡¯re right. I¡­ I still don¡¯t know what my power does exactly, but I think I would do a lot if something happened to Sisi. I¡­ I haven¡¯t told my family either, you know?¡± she said softly. ¡°I shouldn¡¯t judge you for it. You¡­ You know so much more about the cape world than I do. Sorry.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s nothing to apologize for, Sabah. You were trying to spare my sister¡¯s feelings. And you¡¯re not wrong. It¡¯s a conversation that needs to happen.¡±


    ¡°Then¡­¡±


    ¡°Later,¡± I said. ¡°I don¡¯t know when ¡®later¡¯ will be, but it¡¯ll happen. I need to build a few things, gadgets that will help keep her safe.¡±


    ¡°Yeah¡­ When you do tell her, call me first. I want to be there.¡±


    ¡°I will.¡±


    ¡°In the meantime, teach me. Teach me about capes.¡±


    And that¡¯s what I did. Our heart-to-heart turned into a practical lecture on the intricacies of cape politics in the city. I covered the unwritten rules, and more importantly, when they could or would be broken or ignored. I drew on concrete examples such as the capture of Marquis and the assassination of Fleur to make my point.


    I covered each of the current factions in the city, both heroes and villains. I laid out their greatest assets, threat profiles, and how I thought they were likely to react to provocation given the information I had.


    Until finally, there was only one thing left to do. I held out a hand.


    ¡°Hmm?¡± Sabah blinked in question.


    ¡°Your power, let¡¯s see it.¡±


    Oh, umm, it¡¯s not that impressive,¡± she said bashfully.


    ¡°It¡¯s something to do with fabric control, right?¡±


    ¡°How did¨COh, the dossier thing.¡±


    ¡°Yeah. It¡¯s not perfect, but I can guess. In a world without my interference, you would have gained a form of telekinesis that allows you to control threads and fabrics, filling in the space inside each weave. Basically, you could beat people up with a giant teddy bear,¡± I said, carefully not mentioning the other facet of her power. Given she likely got it from watching the death of her father, I didn¡¯t think her knowing about it would be helpful.


    Sabah laughed mirthlessly. She gestured to her outfit, a thick, wooly jacket to ward off the chill, hip-hugging jeans, and a set of hand-knit earmuffs with cute penguins on them. ¡°That¡¯s wrong. I mean¡­ You¡¯re going to laugh. Doll golems sound so much cooler than what I¡¯ve got.¡±


    ¡°Tell me.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll laugh.¡±


    If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    ¡°If my presence somehow butterflied away your power, I want to know so I can tease you.¡± At her pouty glare, I quickly backtracked. ¡°I¡¯m kidding, you know I wouldn¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Do I?¡±


    ¡°Okay, but seriously, tell me. There is no such thing as a truly useless power, even those super-vague thinker powers I talked about earlier. I bet there¡¯s more to it than whatever you¡¯ve been doing.¡±


    She sighed and slid her earmuffs over her head. She handed it to me with an adorably pouty frown. ¡°Here. I have¡­ straws? I¡¯ve been calling them straws. I have three of these ¡®straws¡¯ that I can sheath over thread. When I make articles of clothing with them, they can be worn by other people. I can sense all fabrics within thirty feet of both myself and my clothes.¡±


    ¡°Huh, that¡¯s¡­ different¡­¡±


    ¡°Right? It¡¯s useless. Like, why would I need to know that someone across the street is wearing a thong? Sisi said it could be a scouting power, but it¡­¡±


    ¡°It feels incomplete,¡± I finished for her. ¡°Like there should be more?¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°Can you telekinetically control these?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. I guess I could¡­ give people weak nudges to go in a certain direction without being obvious?¡±


    I doubted that was all. Powers were¡­ usually not this useless. Shards at least had the good grace to not give powers that could be replaced by a good earpiece. That made me wonder.


    My hand closed around the earmuffs. ¡°Pull.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Yank as hard as you can.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve already tried testing the force I can put on these. I can pull as hard as if I was holding it with my hands. I mean, I¡¯m not exactly a buff jock.¡±


    ¡°No, but you could strangle someone quite easily,¡± I mused. ¡°If this was a scarf? Or the Germa fiber that my suit¡¯s made from? I bet you could do some serious damage, even if you have only your own physical strength.¡±


    ¡°I would never!¡±


    ¡°I know, but what you want and what your power wants are two different things.¡±


    ¡°Well it¡¯s not like criminals are going to put on my clothes.¡±


    I hummed in agreement. This was certainly unusual. ¡°You¡¯re right¡­ It¡¯s almost like you¡¯re supposed to strangle your allies¡­¡±


    ¡°Bryce, that¡¯s terrible!¡±


    ¡°Shush, I¡¯m thinking... Which means there needs to be a reason to give these out to people. Communication via subtle telekinesis would be nice, but that can¡¯t be it. Does whoever wear this gain any powers?¡±


    ¡°No, Sisi and Michelle already tried that.¡±


    ¡°And nothing happens to you either?¡±


    ¡°Nothing.¡±


    I nodded. A picture was starting to form in my mind. ¡°Sabah, I know this is really intrusive, but what did you feel when you triggered?¡±


    ¡°You¡­ You said that was a taboo topic.¡±


    ¡°It is, but I want to confirm something. If you¡¯ll let me?¡±


    ¡°I¡­¡± She took a deep breath. She pulled her knees together and curled in on herself. Slowly, as I rubbed her back, she whispered. ¡°I wished I could be someone else. I felt so useless, you know? Weak. I wanted to be as strong as your sister, as confident as Michelle¡­ as useful as Panacea. I guess I¡­¡±


    ¡°You wanted to be someone else. Not anyone specific, just, more than yourself.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, totally lame, huh?¡±


    ¡°No, not at all.¡± I pulled her into another hug. ¡°I would never judge you for your lowest moments, Sabah. But it does confirm something for me.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°It is a lesser-known theory, but the individual¡¯s frame of mind greatly impacts the way each power expresses itself,¡± I said. It was indeed a lesser-known theory, in the sense that it was something Wildbow largely confirmed through Reddit and Discord comments. ¡°I suspect that you are a trump. And given your frame of mind, someone who gains rather than gifts power.¡±


    ¡°What does that mean? You know, in less cape-nerdy terms,¡± she joked with a fragile smile.


    I laughed and bumped her shoulder with my own. Taking the earmuffs, I put them on over my ears. ¡°Let¡¯s find out.¡±


    X


    Sabah Azimi


    Bryce put on my earmuffs and my world exploded. The range of my fabric-sense expanded a foot to my left, but that was nothing. I put it out of mind in favor of the tidal wave of information that flooded into my mind.


    It was overwhelming. I saw thousands of circles lined with intricate script that I could not read. Each symbol felt poignant, laden with double meanings. They were¡­ summoning circles? No, not summoning, alchemy.


    There was more. I saw blueprints for metal prosthetics that interfaced perfectly with the human nervous system. They were amazing enough by themselves, but some had hidden knives and other weapons. Others had guns, cannons, or even a rotating minigun. Heck, one was even a chainsaw that could operate in arctic temperatures!


    I clutched my head, willing the migraine to pass. ¡°Ow¡­¡±


    ¡°Sabah?¡± I heard Bryce say. He was worried about me, just like Sisi. ¡°Are you okay? Do you feel any different?¡±


    ¡°I¡­ One sec. I¡¯ll be fine.¡± Slowly, over the course of several minutes, my headache subsided. I clearly received powers from capes who wore my enhanced clothing, three straws, just like Eidolon¡¯s three powers, but if this kind of headache was normal, I doubted I¡¯d ever be able to change my powerset mid-combat. ¡°I think I know how to do alchemy¡­¡±


    ¡°So I was right then? You get powers? I still remember how to use my own tech, so that means you¡¯re not a power thief, just a copier.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I can also make¡­ automail¡­?¡±


    ¡°Yup, that¡¯s what they¡¯re called.¡± He nodded. He ran a hand along the earmuffs. ¡°And the fact that you have enough telekinetic control to take the clothes away, or even strangle me, implies that something bad might happen to you if I get hurt or die while wearing this.¡±


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t! What¡¯s with you and the strangling?¡±


    ¡°Shards are assholes. Anyway, I suspect that if I get severely injured, there might be some kind of mental feedback to you so your power has the telekinetic subset to help you detach yourself from a distance if necessary.¡±


    ¡°That makes sense¡­ Let¡¯s not test that.¡± Bryce obviously disagreed. He pulled a knife from one of his many pouches, yanked off his glove, and then stabbed himself without even a single moment of hesitation. ¡°Bryce! What the hell?¡±


    He winced but said clinically. ¡°Okay, nothing? No feedback? That¡¯s good.¡±


    ¡°No, it¡¯s not fucking good! Why the hell would you do that? Where¡¯s the first aid kit!¡±


    ¡°Relax, Sabah. I can heal myself, remember? Recover.¡± he said, voice still calm. A glowing light covered him before the wound stitched itself shut. ¡°See? Nothing to it.¡±


    What exactly had he been through to make this seem like nothing? Clearly, he¡¯d left out a lot of details when he gave me that summary.


    ¡°Don¡¯t ever hurt yourself again,¡± I snapped.


    ¡°I can¨C¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t care! I don¡¯t want to see you hurt yourself!¡±


    ¡°I¡­ Yeah, okay. This really was the best time to test it though. Sabah, if there is a negative aspect of your power, it¡¯s best to know in a controlled environment than find out while you¡¯re in the middle of a fight,¡± he said. He began cleaning up the blood as though nothing had happened.


    ¡°Still. Don¡¯t do that to yourself. You almost gave me a heart attack.¡±


    ¡°Alright, I¡¯m sorry. I guess we can¡¯t know what happens if I die.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t joke about that.¡±


    ¡°Yeah. If I had to guess? I think you might inherit whatever power you copied from the cape on a permanent basis.¡±


    I looked at him, horrified. ¡°You think my power is supposed to get my own allies killed so I could empower myself permanently?¡±


    He shrugged helplessly. ¡°Like I said, Shards are assholes. It¡¯s not like we¡¯ll know until it happens so let¡¯s move on.¡±


    ¡°Alright¡­¡± I muttered, shelving that nightmare fuel deep inside my mind.


    ¡°Can you use Recover?¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°That healing light I did.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not tinkertech?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s aura, the light of the soul. Close your eyes.¡± I did so. ¡°Good. Now look deep within. Use your soul to nourish your body. Your body is the vessel, so fill it until the light of your soul overflows. Can you do that?¡±


    ¡°I have no idea what you¡¯re talking about. You sound like a fortune cookie.¡±


    ¡°Okay, so you don¡¯t get aura. How about your eyes? Do they feel any different?¡±


    ¡°No, why would my eyes change?¡±


    He leaned forward, big, expressive blue staring into my soul. ¡°Hmm, no twinkle eyes either. Good, it would have been really weird if your power gave you augments.¡±


    ¡°What are those? Bryce, did you do surgery on yourself?¡± I asked, a little panicked now.


    ¡°No, not surgery. And don¡¯t worry, it¡¯s been checked over by Panacea,¡± he reassured. That did make me feel better, but his sheer nonchalance was still concerning. ¡°Okay, a few more tests.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not letting you play doctor with me, buster.¡±


    ¡°Nothing like that.¡± He raised his hand towards me. Before I knew it, I was surrounded in a blue glow and hovering a few feet off the ground. He twisted me around until I was floating upside down.


    I felt blood rush to my head. ¡°Bryce, what the hell?¡±


    ¡°Relax, Sabah, I won¡¯t drop you. Now, if I did, do you think you could land on your feet from this position?¡±


    ¡°No! I¡¯m not a cat!¡±


    ¡°What if I left you on top of a power pole? Could you walk the lines like a tightrope?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not humanly possible!¡±


    ¡°It is, just really hard for a normal person. It would be more than doable if you had the biomass gyroscope so you don¡¯t have that either¡­¡±


    ¡°Let me down!¡±


    I landed on the cushion gently. ¡°Oh, sorry. We know that you don¡¯t have any of the augmentations I did to myself. That¡¯s good, those take a while to get used to.¡±


    ¡°Okay¡­¡± I took a deep breath. I¡¯d never seen this side of Bryce before. He was always so chipper, a little sarcastic in that way all little brothers were, usually somewhat reserved too. This version of Bryce, the tinker, was new. I wasn¡¯t sure I liked this side of him. ¡°You¡¯re starting to scare me.¡±


    He paused and blinked, as if coming back to himself. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Sabah. I guess I let the testing get away from me.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, girls don¡¯t like being manhandled like that.¡±


    ¡°Sorry. We¡¯re done with that though. I only have a few things I want to confirm with you. Please?¡±


    ¡°Fine, I do want to know what all I can do.¡±


    ¡°Excellent.¡± He handed his glove to me, the one he¡¯d taken off earlier. It had an intricate alchemy circle on the back of the hand. ¡°Put it on. Do you think you can use it? I¡¯d find an injured lab rat or something for you to test yourself on, but¨C¡±


    ¡°No. No live animals,¡± I shook my head emphatically. There was a reason I hadn¡¯t gone into medicine despite dad¡¯s encouragements.


    I didn¡¯t have the stomach for that kind of thing. The dissections in high school biology were bad enough. Everyone told me that I¡¯d get used to it, but I didn¡¯t want to get used to it.


    ¡°Yeah, I figured. You should be able to at least activate the circle though.¡±


    ¡°How do I do that?¡±


    ¡°Focus. Draw energy and direct it. It helps to imagine the circle as irrigation channels and your power as the water filling in a preset design.¡±


    I tried, I really did. Several minutes later, I had nothing to show for it. I handed the glove back to him. ¡°I don¡¯t think it¡¯s working.¡±


    ¡°No, I guess not. Why? Can you tell me what you think you¡¯re missing?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know? It¡¯s like¡­ I know the formula. I think the symbols make sense, sorta, but I just¡­ don¡¯t have whatever power is needed to trigger them.¡±


    He hummed and began to mutter under his breath. I caught only one in every few words. ¡°I see¡­ Aura¡­ tectonic forces, but translated¡­ all fictions¡­ wouldn¡¯t have the aura¡­ Shards¡­¡±


    ¡°So, what¡¯s the verdict, doc?¡±


    ¡°Your power is heavily limited in what it gives you.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I noticed. I have all this alchemy knowledge, but can¡¯t use any of it.¡±


    ¡°You can make automail. The engineering skills necessary should complement your own academic background perfectly,¡± he pointed out. And he was right. I¡¯d been an engineering student before I switched majors after all. I understood the implications. I could probably go home and supe up my toaster or something.


    ¡°That¡¯s true. I shouldn¡¯t get frustrated,¡± I said with a sigh. ¡°It just feels like there¡¯s a huge chunk of my power that I can¡¯t use but even just the automail is incredible.¡±


    ¡°You mean my power,¡± he said slyly. ¡°But yeah, a few more tests if you don¡¯t mind.¡±


    ¡°No more throwing me around like a doll.¡±


    ¡°Sure. Do you know martial arts?¡±


    ¡°I did taekwondo for like two weeks when I was ten?¡±


    ¡°Muay thai? Capoeira? How about aikido?¡±


    ¡°No. Nope. Nada. Why do you know those?¡±


    ¡°General combat use, excellent for riding my ATs, and I needed a martial art that focused on nonlethal takedowns,¡± he said, ticking each off on his fingers.


    It struck me then that Bryce wasn¡¯t just a tinker. Or even a thinker-tinker hybrid. He really did go out of his way to cultivate new skills, all to be a better cape. I wasn¡¯t sure what Creed was yet, but Bryce put his whole heart into it.


    It was admirable in a way. I definitely wasn¡¯t that dedicated to anything when I was a high school freshman. Hell, I wasn¡¯t that dedicated now.


    ¡°Well, I don¡¯t suddenly know skills I didn¡¯t have before.¡±


    ¡°Okay, so nothing except technical knowledge¡­¡± He pulled out a pistol and set it atop the coffee table, an ornate, six-chamber revolver like in those westerns. Then, with practiced hands, he promptly dismantled it into several pieces. ¡°This is my Walker Pistol. Now, reassemble it.¡±


    ¡°I¡­ Okay¡­?¡±


    I managed. It wasn¡¯t as if I¡¯d ever handled a gun before, but I wanted to prove myself to Bryce somehow. He was my friend? Little brother figure? Mentor now? I didn¡¯t want him to think I was this weepy, helpless girl he needed to watch over twenty-four seven.


    Four minutes later, I had the original piece back in place. I leaned back with a satisfied smile.


    ¡°There, not too bad for my first time, right?¡±


    ¡°Terrible, actually,¡± he said, deflating my ego. ¡°But that also tells me something.¡±


    ¡°Like what?¡±


    ¡°It tells me that you didn¡¯t gain an instinctive knowledge of how to use my tech, just the technical aspects. And even then, I suspect you only received the tech within my current specialization, not whatever I¡¯d built before. Tell me, can you make an expanded bag?¡±


    ¡°Like a video game inventory?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°No. I want one, by the way.¡±


    ¡°Later. What about my ATs?¡± he said, gesturing to his skates. ¡°The Crown Chimera. If you put them on right now, do you think you can ride them?¡±


    ¡°Sure, if you want me to smear my face across the block,¡± I said dryly. ¡°I have no idea what your skates are made of beyond ¡®complicated.¡¯¡±


    ¡°Okay, so just the automail this time?¡±


    ¡°Right. I think so? There¡¯s also a ton of early twentieth century technology that I now know how to build. Like, I¡¯d never thought about the internals of a locomotive, but I can make one if I had the time. Is that normal?¡±


    He nodded. ¡°It¡¯s expected. My specialization shifts and that¡¯s part of the current package. Okay, there¡¯s one last test.¡±


    ¡°Shoot.¡±


    He took off the earmuffs, plunging me back into metaphorical darkness. ¡°Can you retain the knowledge you had?¡±


    ¡°I¡­¡± I tried to hang on to the power, but the blueprints I thought I knew fled my grasp like wisps of smoke. ¡°No, sorry.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll try this again in a week. My specialization should shift on the eighteenth.¡±


    ¡°So I¡¯ll be able to build more things?¡±


    ¡°You should. You should also lose any knowledge of automail.¡±


    I wasn¡¯t sure I liked that. On one hand, more blueprints. Maybe his new specialization would have a bigger variety of things I could make. On the other hand, the sheer complexity of engineering knowledge represented by just a standard automail was incredible.


    ¡°Can I keep the power? Like, can you keep wearing the earmuffs?¡±


    ¡°Depends. Have you shown Sierra the earmuffs?¡±


    ¡°Oh¡­ Yeah.¡±


    ¡°Then no. That¡¯d be a big hint that something¡¯s up with me.¡± Before I could get too down, he said, ¡°Tell you what though. I¡¯m going to give you Germa fibers. They¡¯re the same super-tough fibers that make up my suit. You can make me a glove to replace one I already have.¡±


    ¡°But then I¡¯d only be able to use your power if you were wearing your costume. Can I make you a cute bracelet then?¡±


    ¡°You know what? Sure, go ahead.¡±


    ¡°Thanks, Bryce,¡± I said sincerely. ¡°For my dad¡­ teaching me about my own power¡­ everything¡­¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry it came to this,¡± he said with a bittersweet smile. ¡°In a perfect world, you wouldn¡¯t need to make this choice.¡±


    ¡°What choice?¡±


    ¡°This. All of it. You are now better informed about capes and this city¡¯s geopolitics than most. You now understand your power. What do you want to do?¡±


    ¡°I¡­ I thought I¡¯d help you?¡±


    He shook his head. ¡°No, that¡¯s not why I¡¯m giving you access to my power.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re your own person, Sabs. I¡¯m not going to tell you how to use your power. I mostly called you out here to give you all the information you need to make a choice, not to dictate what that choice should be.¡±


    ¡°I¡­ I don¡¯t know.¡± I¡¯d always been a conflict-avoidant person. It was a big part of why I admired my best friends so much, because they had the confidence to speak when I didn¡¯t. The thought of fighting¡­ ¡°I don¡¯t want to fight¡­¡±


    ¡°Then don¡¯t. Be a rogue. Fess up to Amy and make her a bracelet. At the very least, you should get her bio-scanning power, probably a watered down version of her healing too.¡±


    ¡°Wouldn¡¯t that make me a target?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, which is why I¡¯d deck you out in enough shields and weaponry to wage a small war. Another option is to get Eric Pelham, Shielder, involved. You probably wouldn¡¯t get flight, his flight sucks ass anyway, but even a watered down version of his shield would be an incredible layer of protection.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know if I want that kind of attention¡­¡±


    ¡°So pick something else. You¡¯ll always have a tinker power in me if you want it. Healing is the obvious choice for you, but that doesn¡¯t mean it¡¯s your only choice.¡±


    ¡°I know. I¡¯ll have to think about this more.¡±


    ¡°Take your time, Sabs. Just, please promise you won¡¯t do anything until you consult me?¡±


    ¡°I promise.¡± I gave him one last hug before making for the door. ¡°Thanks again, Bryce.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re welcome, Sabah.¡±


    Author¡¯s Note


    Not fully happy with Sabah, but meh. I¡¯ve come to terms with the fact that I¡¯m just plain bad at emotions. I don¡¯t think I¡¯ll ever be fully satisfied with one of these dialogues.


    I thought long and hard and decided that Sabah can copy the Tinker of Fiction, at least, in a heavily limited context. If it wasn¡¯t clear from the interaction, Sabah¡¯s Shard doesn¡¯t understand metaphysical concepts. I said earlier that aura = chi = chakra = any other fictional energy for the purposes of the Tinker of Fiction.


    Because of this, Bryce uses his aura as the conduit to channel tectonic forces into the circles to practice alchemy. This means that Sabah¡¯s Shard is running into a problem.


    Geothermal Energy + X + Alchemy Circle = Profit???


    Except, for Sabah¡¯s Shard, that X is an incalculable variable. It doesn¡¯t know what aura is so it¡¯s banging its head against a brick wall. It understands the symbols. It can recreate the circle perfectly. It just lacks that extra metaphysical oomph to truly complete the circuit.


    Sabah is weaker, strictly speaking, than canon. She will never be the girl who can wrestle an endbringer (or titan) to a standstill using a corpse-puppet. In exchange, she is one of the few characters in Worm who are truly free to choose their skillset, and thus, their role in life.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs</a>.

 5.6 Scale

    Scale 5.6


    Bryce Kiley


    2010, December 10: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    The rest of the week came and went. Sabah texted me to say she¡¯d been brainstorming a few ideas, but had yet to decide on just what she wanted to do with her cape life. I was fine with that. Hell, I¡¯d be satisfied if she decided she didn¡¯t want a cape life at all.


    Amy was busy with her own life but gave me a pack of lychee-flavored peanuts to show me that she was interested in the less harmful aspects of biotinkering. The flavor was good, nutty and sweet with that distinct, floral aftertaste, but she¡¯d managed to infuse the peanuts with a higher water content from lychee, making them feel a little soggy in the mouth.


    I also worked to expand my production capabilities, purchasing four more drones from Big Rig in exchange for four soda engines. Those new drones were immediately set to assemble more soda engines for Damascus. Strider knew to pick them up sometime this weekend.


    As for me personally, I made sure to be visible near the docks, or more specifically, near Redmond Welding. I also trained, working to turn my Thunder Wave into a proper Thunderbolt. TMs weren¡¯t really on the table anymore, I still remembered how taxing it was on my brain after downloading Protect, Recover, Thunder Wave, and Psychic, but given that I had aura of my own, there wasn¡¯t really any reason I couldn¡¯t develop the move on my own. It was slow going, but I made some progress in increasing the amperage.


    During the evenings, I mostly copied the notes on inorganic transmutation and materials science as Edward Elric, Alex Armstrong, and Roy Mustang knew them. Their expertise covered a huge breadth of topics, from gasses to minerals to the art of directly transmuting mechanical parts, but I considered this roundabout learning process more fruitful than simply copying transmutation circles.


    It was the typical fishing analogy: If I copied a transmutation circle, I could use Roy¡¯s explosive alchemy immediately, but I would miss the underlying principles behind why it worked the way it did. On the other hand, if I copied their notes in totality, I would have a stockpile of literature to continue to teach me alchemy long after this specialization came and went. Rather than eat the fish now, I preferred to learn to fish.


    That said, the notes were incredibly fun to read, unlike Marcoh and Tucker¡¯s. Each alchemist encrypted his notes with a cipher of his own devising. As I understood it, it was a right of passage, as well as a way for Amestris to guard what would be considered state secrets.


    Edward kept his in the form of a travel log so complex that Alphonse, despite being his brother and traveling with him, couldn¡¯t read it. Alex, the Strong Arm Alchemist, encoded his notes in the form of a workout plan. ¡°Pull the bus fifty times,¡± could mean fifty tons of material was the limit for a particular transmutation formula. Or, it could mean that he literally dragged a bus across a city block fifty times to work out his back muscles; I wouldn¡¯t put it past the guy.


    By far, Roy took the cake for the most amusing read. Roy¡¯s notes were all disguised in the form of a diary, which wasn¡¯t itself a bad thing, except that every goddamn entry was about some woman he¡¯d presumably slept with. A sample read thusly:


    ¡°Jasmine always manages to find the most elegant perfume. Thyme and rosemary make her feel down to earth while a hint of lavender reminds me of the botanical garden where we first met. She truly is like a breath of fresh air on a warm, humid morning.¡±


    Names of herbs referred to different elements in the air, except when used as the name of a woman, such as Jasmine. A secondary passage which described Jasmine¡¯s other qualities, eyes, nose, lips, helped pin down the concentration of each. Other phrases had a great deal of meaning as well.


    ¡°Down to earth¡± literally meant the reaction would create a combustible gas that was heavier than atmospheric air, causing it to sink and cover the ground. A ¡°breath of fresh air¡± was a reference to one of his past mission logs, in which he¡¯d filled a rebel bunker with the gas before detonating it with everyone inside during the Ishval Civil War. Any weather described as ¡°warm and humid¡± usually meant the gas could have a lingering effect that was bad for one¡¯s health.


    ¡°Wow, bro, I didn¡¯t know you were a writer,¡± my sister said as she loomed behind me. ¡°I mean, that¡¯s a lot of purple prose to say she smells nice, but you do you.¡±


    ¡°Sierra, what the hell?¡± I yelped, face flushing. I hastily slammed my laptop shut. Clearly, locks were no fucking good when I forgot to use them. ¡°Why are you in my room?¡±


    ¡°Mom made dinner and you wouldn¡¯t answer.¡±


    I looked at the clock. Six forty-five. SAINT should have stopped me fifteen minutes ago. Then I remembered that I¡¯d sent him off on a scouting mission to Coil''s base. We already had a good map of Coil¡¯s network and financial holdings, but those were all connected to the internet in some form or another, chiefly because even a Bond villain had to file papers.


    If Coil was half as smart as he thought he was, he¡¯d also keep a secondary network that was completely closed off from the internet, and thus SAINT. I suspected that most of his contingency plans, such as the bombs I knew he had in his base from canon, would be detailed in such servers.


    Now that we¡¯d mapped everything else in Coil¡¯s organization, I¡¯d sent SAINT to hide inside the laptop of a mercenary captain. When said captain entered the base, SAINT was to leave the laptop and find one of their isolated servers.


    I expected him back in a day or two, which meant he wasn¡¯t around to warn me of Sierra being Sierra.


    I let out a sigh. ¡°How much did you see?¡±


    ¡°From ¡®My fingertips ran over her curves, leaving smoldering trails that threatened to ignite the air,¡¯¡± she said, grinning like a cat that caught the canary, fished out the goldfish, and got into the milk pail all at once. ¡°Sooo, you¡¯re into writing lurid romance, huh?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not,¡± I protested. It didn¡¯t matter that I was mentally old enough to be her father. I couldn¡¯t stop my body from flushing beet-red in embarrassment. ¡°It¡¯s not what it looks like!¡±


    ¡°Of course not. It¡¯s an English assignment, right, little bro?¡±


    ¡°Yes, that¡¯s it. It¡¯s for English.¡±


    ¡°So you won¡¯t mind if I tell mom about your schoolwork? You know, maybe I can help?¡±


    I sighed, defeated. Shit like this made me want a Men in Black specialization, just for that amnesia-pen. ¡°What do you want, sis?¡±


    She grinned victoriously. ¡°Hmm, this is prime blackmail material.¡±


    ¡°Forget you saw it. Please?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know, Bryce? What do I get out of it?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll stop making fun of your hair.¡±


    ¡°Nah, I¡¯m used to you being a brat.¡±


    ¡°A foot massage?¡±


    ¡°Not good enough. I¡¯m curious now; I want to read it.¡±


    ¡°Nope. No way.¡±


    ¡°Come on, I wanna know what you think dating looks like. It¡¯s not like you¡¯ve ever been on one.¡±


    I clutched my heart in pain. ¡°Your words, they hurt me.¡±


    ¡°Please? I promise I won¡¯t laugh?¡±


    ¡°We both know that¡¯s a lie.¡± I placed my hands on her shoulders. ¡°Sierra, look at me. What you saw me writing wasn¡¯t a trashy romance novel. It was the encrypted formula for various exothermic reactions. I was writing a how-to guide for making homemade explosives.¡±


    She snorted. ¡°Sure, Bryce. What¡¯s more likely? That my baby brother is a genius who¡¯s also plotting to become a domestic terrorist, or that my baby brother is horny and thinks porn is too ¡®low brow¡¯ for him?¡±


    I stood and made for the door, feeling rather dead inside. Being so much more mature than my peers, I¡¯d almost forgotten what crippling embarrassment felt like. Leave it to my sister to prove that no amount of mental age would be enough to avoid sibling mockery.


    ¡°Nope. I¡¯m done. It¡¯s dinnertime.¡±


    ¡°Bryce, come on! What¡¯s your laptop password?¡± she sang.


    ¡°It¡¯s ¡®Sisi should eat a dick!¡¯¡± I shot back as I retreated downstairs.


    X


    2010, December 11: Brockton Bay, NH, USA


    When I awoke Saturday morning, it was to find SAINT digging through my bottom drawer for his crusted almond stash. He¡¯d actually shrunk a bit with his evolution, rounding off the edges and losing about half a foot of height and nearly ten pounds of weight.


    At two feet tall exactly, he was now just small enough to squirm his way into the bottom drawer of my desk. It wasn¡¯t a comfortable fit, but he could get his head in and judging by the crunching nuts and the wiggling of his red, rounded butt in the air, he was having the time of his life.


    I shook my head in exasperation but left him to it. The little guy deserved the snacks after all the work he¡¯d put in.


    Now that he was back, I could move forward with the second phase of my ¡°murder the snake without turning the city into an even bigger shithole than it already is¡± plan. It wasn¡¯t enough to just kill the guy. I knew where Calvert lived. Killing him wasn¡¯t the issue.


    No, I wanted to take him off the board without the various dead man¡¯s switches he¡¯d arranged. It wasn¡¯t just the bombs. His death would release the identity of every hero in Brockton and several more elsewhere. The same went for the identities of villains. While I didn¡¯t give a fuck about Max Anders, I didn¡¯t want to know what that egomaniac would do if he lost Medhall and the bulk of his power and prestige.


    Sure, I could have SAINT block off all electronic transmissions, but the internet wasn¡¯t the only way to disseminate information, merely the fastest. I wouldn¡¯t put it past him to blackmail people in TV and radio stations to follow certain procedures. Or, if even one mercenary knew about those names and got away, they could cause problems down the line.


    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    If I had my way, I would have Dragon here to assist. She would work with SAINT to control the digital fallout while I hit the base and handled the physical side of things. Unfortunately, given that SAINT was an AI and I had every intention of executing Coil extra-judicially, I deemed that involving her would only complicate matters.


    I could go take care of the shittier Saint before hitting Coil, but I¡¯d left the snake alive longer than I was entirely comfortable with already. Nor could I just leave the city for a week on a whim to go assassinate the Dragonslayers. Even if I knew where they were, I had commitments here.


    So, the slightly less gratifying but steady route it was.


    SAINT and I spent that morning parsing through Coil¡¯s data with a fine-toothed comb one last time. It was monumentally tedious work, even with an AI in my corner, but necessary for the narrative I wanted to craft.


    We separated out his cape and civilian assets, then conspicuously removed all mentions of the Undersiders as assets. In fact, SAINT helped me falsify documents to imply that they were a minor enemy faction he intended to take over from within, not unlike the Merchants. Likewise, we scrubbed any evidence of him breaking the unwritten rules against the Empire or PRT as well as any hint at his base¡¯s location. I didn¡¯t want any ol¡¯ idiot to attack Coil before I was ready after all.


    This final revision took us most of the day. Finally, we made multiple copies of the evidence covering his cape identity before forwarding it all to Watchdog¡¯s financial crimes hotline, the local PRT, PHO, and the Foghorn for good measure.


    That was it; that was phase two. Coil was a precog, and when simply decapitating the snake wasn¡¯t an option worth considering, the ideal way to deal with one was to control the narrative, keep him from asking the right questions. Most importantly, I had to make him believe he still had options.


    There were things I could do if Coil behaved outside my predictions, but if I had him pegged correctly, then he¡¯d come to all the wrong conclusions on his own.


    Now, all I had to do was wait.


    ¡°Come on, SAINT, let¡¯s head out to sea. I want to stretch my legs a bit,¡± I said, clipping my pokenav to my belt. As fascinating as inorganic alchemy was, I couldn¡¯t afford to neglect my physical conditioning.


    ¡°Gon? Pory.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll be in my pokenav anyway. You can monitor the fallout just as easily while training as you can from here.¡±


    ¡°Porygon.¡±


    X


    Thomas Calvert


    I was under attack. None of my men had been killed, arrested, or even questioned. No one betrayed me, at least not knowingly. I confirmed it through hours of torture. And yet, there was no denying that The GOAT had turned their gaze towards me.


    I suspected they¡¯d been planning to move against me for a long time. This public vivisection of my criminal empire certainly implied such. No one, not even a thinker, could gather that much evidence on short notice, which meant I¡¯d been blind to this threat for too long.


    I shot a random mercenary in the kneecap to hear his screams. He had little else to do so he may as well make himself useful as my stress relief.


    I¡¯d told myself that Creed was too flamboyant, too good at what he did. I¡¯d guessed that he had backers long before The GOAT made their organization known. Tattletale confirmed the presence of a thinker, of information that was impossible to acquire otherwise.


    I¡¯d guessed at what they were doing. And I¡¯d still fallen for the oldest trick in the book.


    Creed was a distraction. He¡¯d always been a distraction. He acted the fool and occasionally dropped just enough nuggets of truth to attract attention. He made a nuisance of himself yet was helpful enough to force a more measured response from all sides. All the while, The GOAT worked from the shadows, slowly vivisecting my network until they were ready to strike.


    It reminded me so much of myself that I almost wondered if they were truly as heroic as they claimed. Smoke and  mirrors, applied to selectively blind the audience. It was a tactic I intended to use with the Undersiders. They would rise while I pulled their strings from the shadows.


    It was simple, brilliant, and oh so infuriating. For once, I found myself on the other end of an assault from a mysterious thinker.


    I took a deep breath. Lambasting myself over and over again served no purpose. I closed the timeline and opened another fork. In one, I offered my men platitudes. I set combatants on high alert and the techies working to save what we could before Watchdog really got moving. We would need to move more cautiously, maybe lay low in my cape identity for a few weeks, but my core network was salvageable.


    In the other, I sat in my office and did nothing. It was important to give myself space to think. I could afford to make mistakes; I was a man built on mistakes, but that was no reason to be reckless. No, once I sat down to consider their actions, I realized that their attack was a small treasure trove of information.


    To start, they were heroic, almost to the point of naivete. This attack was so measured that it almost didn¡¯t count. It was the equivalent of throwing a probing jab in boxing or firing a warning shot over someone¡¯s head.


    They¡¯d released the names of every mercenary under my command, the various crimes they¡¯d committed, and evidence of my contracts with Toybox detailing precisely what I¡¯d equipped them with. Details of my various shell companies and proxy entities I¡¯d used to commit financial crimes were likewise released. The GOAT had also found out about my intervention on that male nurse, Pitter¡¯s, behalf.


    That was fine. It was all salvageable. The men would need to remain inside for a while to let the heat die down now that their faces were plastered all over the net. The contracts with Toybox were hardly secret, though having law enforcement know how many shots each laser rifle could fire before overheating was annoying.


    If anything, the most damage had been caused by the loss of Pitter before I could spirit him away. Competent medical professionals who could be manipulated so easily were hard to acquire. I¡¯d likely owe Accord a favor to help me identify another such target.


    That seemed to be a theme: Nothing The GOAT did here was permanent or truly crippling. It all seemed as if they were telling me, ¡°I''m watching you,¡± rather than trying for a decisive strike against my operations.


    Conspicuously absent were the locations of my base, my own ties to the PRT, and the identities of the Undersdiers. The latter two were privileged information, even within my network, which told me that my network was not fully compromised.


    They¡¯d been hasty. Fool.


    Keeping my base hidden was obvious. I was unsure how deeply they¡¯d penetrated my network, but given they didn¡¯t seem to know my identity, they would want something in reserve to threaten me with at a later date.


    Or maybe they wanted to keep me where they could see me for whenever they ordered Creed to take me in. They did seem to be cultivating Creed as a heroic figure after all. I could see how a solo victory against a gang, no matter how minor I was considered, would elevate his reputation in the city.


    ¡°But then why attack now at all?¡± I muttered in frustration.


    They were heroic. If the ultimate goal was to arrest me and bring down my organization, this probing attack was less than useless to them. Were I in their place, I would have amassed an overwhelming force to take me out in one fell swoop, not warned me with this half-assed attempt.


    Maybe they intended to absorb me into their organization? That might explain the gentler hand, but if this was their way of showing they were the superior thinker, it was a stupid way to go about it.


    No. The GOAT wasn''t stupid. I refused to underestimate my enemies. Assuming they wanted to forcibly absorb my organization, they would have remained silent until they had my civilian name before backing me into a corner and giving me ¡°an offer I can''t refuse,¡± not unlike as I''d done with Tattletale.


    Could it be that The GOAT had subordinate thinkers? Their own ¡°Tattletale?¡± In which case, this premature nonsense might have been the actions of a rookie hero looking to impress their boss.


    That¡­ That still didn''t fit exactly, but it wasn''t as though I knew the inner workings of their organization. I looked over the damage reports again and did my best to ignore the mounting headache.


    No, this wasn¡¯t the work of a novice. The section covering the Undersiders wasn''t just incomplete, it was falsified, and so convincingly that no one who didn''t already know otherwise would question it. Grue being the leader and him having never met me were true enough, but the file named Tattletale as my mole in the gang of teenage capes, someone whose goal it was to subvert them from the inside out.


    Besides Tattletale herself, this version of our relationship put more distance between the Undersiders and myself. Which made me wonder: Was I really the recruitment target?


    Was¡­ Was The GOAT trying to redeem the Undersiders?


    As laughable as that notion was, it fit with their known operations. They took Creed and turned a class clown villain into a hero even Legend acknowledged. That was a better redemption story than that joke, Shadow Stalker.


    Truthfully, I had to admit that The GOAT chose their targets well. In another life, with someone else to pull their strings, I could see how each might have been willing to join the Wards or operate as an independent.


    Brian loved his sister and would happily flip sides if he thought he could better provide for her. Jean-Paul was on the run. He would follow anyone so long as it kept him away from his father¡¯s clutches. Rachel was naturally combative, but her loyalty was to her dogs. So long as Creed could heal dogs as well as humans, that loyalty was an easy social lever. And Lisa, she didn''t need a reason to jump ship.


    That got me thinking. What if Lisa was already compromised? What if this was something she''d helped them prepare? She was the real prize in the Undersiders and The GOAT certainly expressed their interest. This could be their plan to isolate the Undersiders and prepare them for assimilation.


    In which case¡­


    I collapsed the timelines and ordered Lisa brought to me. It was time for a more thorough interrogation.


    X


    She knew nothing. I questioned her in both timelines, verifying her answer with gratuitous torture. I tore out her fingernails, slowly sawed off her legs, and had the broken girl bathed in salt. I had her drugged, beaten, and abused in every manner I could think of. I''d even allowed some of my more experienced men to get creative in their enhanced interrogation methods.


    Still, even after hours and countless timelines, I was forced to conclude that Lisa truly had no contact with The GOAT.


    I collapsed the timelines again and faced my least loyal subordinate. She sat on the hard, uncomfortable chair before me, visibly inpatient. She was nervous, as she always was, though she tried her best to put forth a brave front.


    ¡°Are you certain Creed and The GOAT are heroic?¡± I asked, more for the sake of it now.


    ¡°I told you, one hundred percent. Creed''s looking for us, you know. He''s been snooping around the neighborhood,¡± she said, snorting derisively. I split the timelines so I could put a round into her head for her cheek.


    ¡°Does he know where your base is?¡±


    ¡°Oh, for sure,¡± she said, oblivious to her countless horrible fates. Perhaps I would have her fed to Rachel''s dogs next time. ¡°He knows where we live but can''t do anything because he''s a good little hero and won''t break the unwritten rules.¡±


    ¡°Good. We can use his self-imposed limitations against him.¡±


    ¡°Yup. He''s been wasting time casing the area while we''ve just been hanging out. I figure we can relax for a week or two before our next job, pick our battles.¡±


    I nodded and dismissed her. She knew nothing more than I did about the cyberattack by now. As enjoyable as breaking her was, there was no longer any point. I had to accept that I''d gathered as much information as I could internally.


    This wasn''t ideal, I was still working with far less intel than I''d like, but I couldn''t deny the shiver of excitement I felt. Finally, there was a worthy opponent, a rival thinker who could hold their own. The GOAT had struck the first blow, but their naivete and insistence on redeeming villains provided an opportunity for me to regroup.


    They seemed fond of the Undersiders. If nothing else, they had plans for the group of misfits. In that case, why not use that? If I sent out the Undersiders, would they send Creed?


    I doubted the exact nature of the job would matter, but there was no reason I couldn¡¯t build them a more tempting target.


    How fascinating. Creed could easily dismantle my patsies, but much as his ¡°spar¡± with Aegis and Shadow Stalker, their interaction itself might provide valuable information. And it wasn''t as though I couldn''t spring my team from lockup whenever I pleased.


    Yes, the more I thought about it, the more sure I felt. The GOAT probably planned to make their pitch while my minions were in lockup. They were underestimating me, not realizing the depth and breadth of my reach.


    I would lose nothing, test the team¡¯s loyalty, and probe The GOAT''s long-term plans, all while getting a more in-depth look at Creed¡¯s capabilities.


    Author¡¯s Note


    Yes, Sierra now thinks her little brother writes terrible romance and smut. That idea is firmly in her head now. Even if/when Sierra finds out about his cape identity, she¡¯ll never believe that those were ¡°research notes¡± of the SFW variety.


    A porygon is 2¡¯ 7¡± and 80 pounds according to the pokedex. A porygon 2 is only 2¡¯ tall and 71 pounds. For whatever reason, it is one of the few pokemon that actually loses mass when it evolves.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs</a>.