"Wormodraft", or "may them be intelligent as humans" [Worm], [Endbringers and Space Whales], [Fix-It], [Crack?]]
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In late 1800th, two Space Whales were approaching the Earths whereabouts. One third, Abaddon, for some reasons was already there. He was way more creative than our well-known pair of Thinker and Warrior, and asked them to at least consider making theirs new Cycle an experimental one: instead of simply observing, why not to try to integrate in society better? To install human's personalities in Shards? For a better data, and for a more imaginative performance?
Eden agreed. Zion became very jealous, being her freaking PARTNER, but also agreed on a basic idea.
Little that Abaddon knew was that Eden was way more creative than one from Thinkers line should be…
Things escalated way more than I was expecting, and quickly, stunning all two remaining Entities.
legal: this is a work of fan-fiction. All rights to the Worm setting are belonging to it's owner(s) or/and right holder(s). Actual text is a translation from original Russian text, made by an author himself. No space whales were hurt during the process, any coincidental closeness of characters to real-world persons are unplanned.
Part 1: notes
So… congratulations! Or not. You, yes, you are one of few individuals who dared to read a work with such a description. After all that time it was posted in original version, in Russian.
A little piece of clearance here: yes, I am Russian. Yes again, I am THAT InfernalMonitor, thank you very much. No, I had been trying — and succeeding — to not be putting several interests in text, however, it might change. Or not. Not sorry! And yes, this is a translation made by an author - so, probably, it further would affect original text (English seems to be easier for making something that isn't a legal document).
What is this story about? Well… we do have some wonders like "Taylor Varga" or "Mauling Snarks" or "Scaling up" in fandom. Those had inspired me to investigate a bit of a different approach: what if known Entities and their kind in general aren't obsessive animals? What if the Warrior isn't and never was a dumb cuckload who was happy with Abaddon's contact with Eden? What if something we know as Endbringers are actually a middle-step between the Shard and the Entity? What if what's been done by Eden and Abaddon was actually a sexual coitus? Though, Zion wouldn't be happy about it at all.
And on the side of humanity: what if authorities and gangs on Earth-Bet were actually working, like in real world? Because theirs idiotic behaviour is the one thing I CAN'T believe in the Worm setting, like, at all. One have to be brain-dead to work like THAT. Get it from a guy who is now… let's say that some things you hear about Russia and our's Internet activities is a very good project. Ow, also you have to keep in mind that Entities are all about efficiency of using resources, so their little orgy in 1980th is absurd: that had to happen a WHILE before.
What ISN'T here:
puberty drama, AGNST, stupid groups of people (including gangs, Corps and Goverments), zero level of explanation, idiotic Entities, hopelessness.
What IS:
Endbringers who are valuing the Rules, authorities that are actually working and knowing how to work (expect a certain someone, but she's an idiot), suffering Contessa, a fuckton of chats and dialogues, and a lot of pure insanity. Since, well, the life actually IS insane, and we all have to deal with some bullshit. That's what is making all of it interesting, isn't it?
So, having all mentioned above in mind, here is an initial description:
In late 1800th, two Space Whales were approaching the Earths whereabouts. One third, Abaddon, for some reasons was already there. He was way more creative than our well-known pair of Thinker and Warrior, and asked them to at least consider making theirs new Cycle an experimental one: instead of simply observing, why not to try to integrate in society better? To install human's personalities in Shards? For a better data, and for a more imaginative performance? Eden agreed. Zion became very jealous, being her freaking PARTNER, but also agreed on a basic idea. Little that Abaddon knew was that Eden was way more creative than one from Thinkers line should be…
Things escalated way more than I was expecting, and quickly, stunning all two remaining Entities.
as it was mentioned below, dialogues are potentually difficult for understanding. So, for now and from now on, I'd place a spoiler above each chapter with explanation for rofmatting. As a start - Greg is always formatted in Times New Roman.
Let's be honest, at least among ourselves: everyone had once been dreaming of touching some miracle at least once in their life. It does not matter whether such a miracle would be an ordinary one — or not. As well as the method of "touching" does not matter either. Miracles are things that every child (and especially those who have lived to the stage of "adult") hopes to see in absolutely any phenomenon that he/she/it does not fully understand.
As you are getting older, of course, the world around you begins to look more boring and more rational, miracles turning into laws, and even to quantum physics, and there is not enough room for them in life. But somewhere there, deep inside, there still lives that childish belief in the vast, fabulous, magical.
And then — the end comes. Sooner or later, one way or another. And what exactly awaits everyone behind this End is not yet known, at least. Well, until the Second Coming takes place and the Messiah is seated in front of a crowd of journalists and investigators with the question "WAT THERE?!". It is difficult to doubt in such a scenario — as well as that He will have to answer. He would not be trying to escape from such a bright and unpretentious curiosity, would He?
In general, philosophical speculations about life, death and the role of a miracle in everything in this endless cycle do not overcome us very often. Somewhere in the subconscious, of course, a process of low significance is spinning — but that's why it is given a priority of "much below average", so that it turns forever and rarely, rarely pops up in moments of mind's rest. Or in moments when peace is vital for the preservation of one's own mental well-being. For example, when such a small crowd of children aged 15-17 is greedily looking for any reason for just not to pay attention to important and necessary tasks for later life. And you are one being in the role of their teacher, from whose salary (not the most, among other things, close to the subsistence minimum!) for the low academic performance of students, your bosses can deduct an extra couple, three or ten dollars. Add to this our local flavour in the form of a non—zero chance to wake up in the morning after stress with extra arms and legs - and just like me, you will go into philosophical reflections whenever and wherever possible.
— Ladies, are you done here?
— Yeah / Yes, Mr. Gurges!
— Oh, yes, here!
— ...almost…
Great answers, aren't they? Inseparable friends, no matter what they are thinking about themselves: Sophia, Emma, Madison and Taylor. I have no idea, and I don't want to have who is in this quartet is being friendly against whom. But the fact that girls can only be dragged away from each other by the ears is a fact well-known to all of the school staff. And for students. And for administration. And for the parents of the members of this interest group (which the girls themselves, as far as I know, having no idea about).
It is difficult for an adult to look at them without any emotion at all. There are times when Emma and Taylor almost behave like a couple, then Sophia with Emma, then Emma-Sophia-Madison against Taylor, then Madison with Taylor against the other two.
Characteristically, in physical education (when she is not being distracted by something passed off, such as athletics competitions) Sophia, in a hundred cases out of a hundred, is training Taylor — in a specifically recognizable manner of a sergeant with a company of newcomers, or covers up from the attacks of "jocks" and their backup singers. I am almost sure that Taylor herself either does not fully understand this, or understands it, but not correctly. Otherwise, it's not my job to straighten out the brains.
However, this dynamic leads us to two conclusions. Firstly, school staff and students (except for idiots, like one geek) do not pay attention to complaints within a friendly team. Secondly, even gang members, who are a little too much in our viper house, are afraid to approach the four once again. The company, however, is diverse, perhaps not quite straight, and very cohesive. It's not a fact that they realize it themselves. But having in possible opponents Taylor with her nuclear temper of a quiet docker's daughter, a poisonous Emma, a slightly less poisonous, but also somewhat hot-tempered Madison and having a clear experience of sending someone to the hospital Sophia ... it's a pity for any bully in advance. Kidding here.
— Fine. Out you go, with things. Entire quartet. You'll find out the test results tomorrow, now you're free, go, go, go.
The girls, having chirped and growled something like "thank you, goodbye, go fuck yourself" (the last, in chorus, by Sophia and Taylor), quickly had jumped out of the classroom. Leaving me, poor and unhappy, to deal with theirs more "gifted" classmates. Which, in fact, is my most direct responsibility.
Finally so, let me introduce myself: Gregory Gurges. Law teacher at Winslow High School, Broncton Bay, Boston Region, USA. Probably the Spaniard is on one seventh and a rattling mixture of Russians and Englishmen on the other six. Spanish ancestors, as you already should had understood, left the surname, Russian — hatred of certain ideologies, and English — specific humour and upbringing. I suspect, however, that only Russians could have registered in this part.
Bronkton Bay was a large (in the recent bright past) port city. With a rapidly developing trade, with its own railway branches (yes, we have more than one), a titanic-sized parking lot for ships and a mandatory "promenade" along part of it. Was. Before the little creature, under four to eight meters at the withers, began to swim across the seas, sometimes responding to the name "Leviathan".
By the way, the reasons why maritime trade suffered because of this living natural disaster are still not clear to me personally. And not just for me. Really: it chose to show above the level of the seabed strictly according to the schedule, it is not being noticed more than four times a year, and when it's playing Godzilla (peace be upon you, Japanese island), it tries very hard to destroy the cities themselves. Not their outskirts (which, of course, just geographically refers to any port!), but the centre and around it. Those facts are known, being confirmed by lots of long-term observations. What the entire world trading fraternity was so scared of and stopped using the sea routes — science does not know, logic does not comprehend, common sense is not covering.
At the same time, we have another creature named Simurgh. Which behaves like a bird called "Talker" straight from a Russian cartoon: noticeable in mind, noticeable in intelligence. And unpredictability, and increased volatility. The space program was banned because of her, yeah. Rather, however, Simurgh herself banned it, actively and forcibly expressing her protest against launches using the "punch and done" method. But for some reason planes are still flying…
...although people in knowlege, including me, having a couple of interesting accounts on the forum "parahumans.online" know things and been asking questions. The answers were unequivocal: "I am in shock, people are idiots." And about sea routes, and about aviation, or anything. True, the club of "people in knowledge" is limited to a very small number of members — but this is not a reason not to be surprised by human stupidity, is it?!
By the way, about the club and friends in it. Who said that a teacher in a lesson is not supposed to sit on the Internet, let the first one be thrown off a skyscraper. No, we're dancing.
<You have entered the forum "Parahumans.Online" as @ggurges>
<you have 1 unread conversation from user @TheWingedOne>
@TheWingedOne: Are you going to Australia any time soon?
@ggurges: not any more. And you to us?
@TheWingedOne: yeah, officially not, probably. The average one, like, was going to stop by in a couple of years, but that's not for sure.
@ggurges: if our dump of ships washes away on the way, Bronkton will be the first city where he will be greeted with flowers.
@TheWingedOne: 0_o WAT?
@ggurges: Casualties and destruction are just some common statistics, and a Ship Graveyard is the Ship Graveyard. You do know how the whole city is fucked up, except for the mayor's office and the Protectorate, don't you?!
<user @TheWingedOne invited user @VoidCowboy_2 to the conversation>
@VoidCowboy_2: Are you seriously discussing this right now, or are you just kidding?
@ggurges: first of all, at full. Secondly — did you seriously take SUCH a nickname?!
@TheWingedOne: +1
@VoidCowboy_2: Purely for trolling reasons, but yes.
@VoidCowboy_2: Is it that bad with the ship graveyard?
@VoidCowboy_2: right up to inviting ME to visit??? so I'll come... to the match... in one for three years, for sure.
@ggurges: THANK YOU, from the bottom of my heart, VERY MUCH.
@ggurges: just warn me in a couple of months, I have dockers children studying here. And I'll evacuate them, also I'll give you the contacts.
@TheWingedOne: It's not sporty! Iht bein protest!
@ggurges: against what? A little profit? So my brother and I will share it for two…
@VoidCowboy_2: Will the dockers have any special requests? I agree about the children, Sim, go fuck yourself, I won't hurt a child. Really, what kind of profit and what would I need contacts for, if so?
@ggurges: Well, ships were abandoned there just as those were standing! With a load! According to rumours, it seems that there almost were government supplies!
@TheWingedOne: and what, during all this time, no one stole? Yeah, can't be. From quarantine zones — and from there they drag, I saw it myself.
@ggurges: Maybe there is some thieving from quarantines, but HERE it is necessary to walk through the docks, or by sea. There is a Protectorate in the sea, while Dockers, Merchants and locals are in the docks. Especially near the coastline, Dockers. And we don't call them a gang just because there are no capes…
@VoidCowboy_2: I get that the rumours about "no" are exaggerated?
@ggurges: on salary and for hire. Consider all the "free" half-rates and Rouges, plus the L33t with Uber, those on the contrary.
@TheWingedOne: Aren't they morons?
<users @Uuber and @L33T have been added to the conversation by the administrator Tin_mother>
Tin_mother: and now we'll check it out.
@TheWingedOne: is it a time to shout "we have been discovered", or is it too early yet?
Tin_mother: You don't need to shout at all, it makes people nervous. And their roofs flying.
@ggurges: I protest, my sister didn't hurt a fly at all! Not once.
Tin_mother: 0_0 I mean, "sister" and "did not offend"?!!! Don't understand. Explain yourself and introduce yourself, I understood the other two (wish if I didn't), I didn't understand who are you.
@ggurges: The Voider. And yes, the "fourth", and yes, I mock, and yes, really am a teacher. In Winslow. Right now.
Tin_mother: Is that possible, like, AT ALL?
@VoidCowboy_2: well, I, for example, generally do cargo transportation. That's all I'm doing, actually. Marine. Officially. IntTransitions LLC, CEO Jack Sparrow, at your service. We will deliver everything by sea, quickly, safely, expensively.
@TheWingedOne: and I have a bank... and... some more... former Swiss. The Central Bank of the BB, for example. The head of the Board of the banking group "Syrin", Elizabeth Wise, pleased to meet you.
Tin_mother: ...do you all have a rating on "changer 12" rating now?!
@TheWingedOne: And who will believe you? Maybe we are kidding?
...<after 10 minutes and 3 phone conversations later>…
Tin_mother: no one will believe me... definitely not…
@L33T: what exactly is going on here? Greg?
@Uuber: +1. But answering the question of @TheWingedOne — the rest are guarding the Docks for half a bet, and we are shooting video clips for one quarter. And for three quarters — we work as security of the docks, officially.
@ggurges: oh, they answered. Thanks, guys. Here kinda is a little family chat, where the Dragon came and dragged you all along.
@L33T: and why does it seem to me that your family somehow plays as the Endbringers, and very in-characters? And one head-fucked Cape from the Protectorate?
@TheWingedOne: because of by the fact that you have a good intuition and an observation. I take my words back: you're not morons, you're masking it well, neat! I will definitely watch the video with this information in mind. Interesting.
@Uuber: …
@L33T: uh... thanks? I say right away, we won't go against @VoidCowboy_2. Now - for sure.
@VoidCowboy_2: and if I promise to punch carefully?
@VoidCowboy_2: and not so much?
@VoidCowboy_2: Guys, please? Eh?
@Uuber: is he the only one you have, or is entire family obsessed with fighting? It would explain everything, by the way.
Tin_mother: I'm also interested: what was that just now?! Voider, you're the only one I know personally here... as a hero. Will you explain? I promise not to tell the Armsmaster, I swear by Dad.
@ggurges: everyone is crazy, but Levi is THE one. The most sports-oriented. And he will be upset if you wouldn't come to the next match, guys. Very.
@L33T: so either we will come, or the city will be fucked in two years?
@VoidCowboy_2: No, I'll just be offended and will pointedly ignore you every match. And someone will definitely ask, and notice, and send you on the elder bro…
@TheWingedOne: Levi, not funny. He's sick in the head!
Tin_mother: Are you serious now? I mean, not villains, but Endbringers?
@TheWingedOne: Absolutely. He doesn't even have enough brains for an account, and rage is still enough for a platoon of the same blockheads.
@Uuber: So he's what, even by your standards... nuts?
@ggurges: I'll tell you more, he's nuts even by the standards of the 9th Slaughterhouse. If they had known, they would have been killed together by him. Although it's not a fact, maybe he would have joined them instead.
Tin_mother: maybe ratings should be supplemented after all?
@TheWingedOne: in light of what has been said, yes, those should. I'll send you pics. Greg?
@ggurges: I'm not going to play the Endbringer until you three will get a technical defeat, I'm not going to. No, no, honestly. So there won't be a third photo, and the Dragon already have the first two.
@Uuber: Just to be clear: we are chatting with the Leviathan, the Simurgh and the Voider here. Who do have civilian identities. And who ALL ARE Endbringers, somehow? And the Behemoth is so bad that even his own family don't like him? And the Voider at the same time is a hero in the BB Protectorate? And the main admin of the forum, it turns out, main planet's Tinker? Did I miss anything?
@L33T: only that Simurgh has our money in the bank, and the fourth Endbringer is teaching the Chief's daughter.
@ggurges: Technically, I'm not counted as an Endbringer until I perform. But yes, that's right.
Tin_mother: once again: was it possible?!
@TheWingedOne: Apparently, yes? Well, there IS.
Tin_mother: ...and the, THE Simurgh gave me a credit for bracelets so that the capes would fight in battles with Simurgh…
@TheWingedOne: well, everyone has their own little business >_<
Tin_mother: so the losses should be calculated by the interest rate?
@TheWingedOne: of bracelets, but in general — yes. Planned ones, of course. People are such people that it doesn't always add up.
@Uber: Come on. Are any be violating the truce?!
@VoidCowboy_2: I'll send you records from a couple of matches, so I advise everyone to think again at the next one. We can see everything! Well, as it is a part of the match.
@L33T: Bro??? Did you break the truce?!
@VoidCowboy_2: No, he's never, I just wanted you to think about security. Not only the Endbringers at the match are opponents, as it turns out.
@TheWingedOne: Wait, was that intended? At the last performance, when that highly spiritual group was flooded?
@VoidCowboy_2: not flooded, but drowned. I was shocked myself, I tried to pump it out secretly, but it was too late.
Tin_mother: I won't ask where the recordings came from, but can I see those too? There is a lot of free space in the Bridcage…
@VoidCowboy_2: I will definitely send it to everyone in the chat. Greg, in?
@ggurges: yeah. If any of the BB — personally, I will stuff their eyeballs into depths of their asses.
Tin_mother: I will confirm that it was as it was.
@L33T: +1
@Uber: +1
<You left the conversation due to "connection disconnection". Automatic message: "I have lessons, everyone bye 'til the evening. Simmie! don't be naughty">
_____________________
Gallery:
Elisabeth
Jack
Gregory
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Notebook 1. Part 2: Greg Vader's fiasco, chapter 1.
Vader: standard text.
Gurges: Times New Roman
Wise: tilted
Previously: meeting one of the storytellers and, in absentia, with his friendly family.
_____________________________________________________________________________________ — All right, everyone, giving works now!.. Vader?
— Yes, sir?
— What the fu...nny piece of art is that?
— Em...
— Stay here.
Children ran away, way slower than quartet. While this genus of artistism - stayed.
Greg Vader - is one very noticible lad, not for Gregory (he-he) Gurges, but for the Voider and the Fourth (Eighteens, actually) Endbringer. Just because the guy has a unique ability to pull out some complete nonsense of theories that turns out true to horrific level in reality. While having absolutely zero of parahuman powers, having no Corona, no Gemma either. And that is something very much of amusement for sis - a reason why each of our chats is starting with a question about her plans to visit Bay as her own feathery self.And yet this guy does not have a sense of self-preservation and artistic talent.
— So?
— Well, you see, sir, I was nervous. And, well...
— Please tell me that this... work is not even slightly related to the Hope Killer. Please.
— Em...
*BZZ-BZZ-BZZ BZZ BZZ BZZ BZZ BZZ BZZ BZZ-BZZ-BZZ*
— Hello?
— Camera on, QUIK!
— Maybe you don't need to...
— QUIK! Not a frontal. So, what do we have hereeeEE?!
— ...
— I will be 'ere in five minutes.
— Wait, wait, no, don't, dad will get angry!
— IN CIVIL! See you soon.
— Mister Vader, you will have to... live through not the most pleasant moments of your life, also to sign up a bunch of NDA's.
— Em... what did I do and what was that?
— Drew an obscenity of a picture with the Simurgh in terrible quality. My sister. Half.
— Sorry, sit, but I still not getting it.
— Sister is very, very sensitive to the Last Angel. She loves it as much as herself... oh, what am I saying. You, Mr. Vader, have one amazing quality.
— S-say what?
— On an intuitions level, you know THE TRUTH about things that no other human being able not only to know, but even to imagine. Surprise me. Make a theory on what had really happened and why my sister is so... disappointed.
— Well, if only Endbringers are really able to turn themselves into humans, all battles are just some kind of a game for them, and your sister in fact is Simurgh in disguise, and there are way more Endbringers, and you are our Protectorate's Hero, but that all is a complete bullshit.
— Hundred out of hundred. Bulls... eye! On all of ideas.
If I wouldn't know, from Simmie and his own med records, that Greg does not have any powers - would guess that he is at least Changer-3. Such a speed of changing facial expression from confused to chthonically horrified, and the color — from normal to cadaverous gray… No way such should be possible for a baseline human, totally. But here it is!
— You will kill me, right?
— Why? Simurgh will simply express hers "ew" about your artistic taste. Sign the PRT NDAs of my and her civilian identities — Voider, by the way - and that's it.
— And some... other of my... theores?
— About of 90 percent is true, and of 10 percent is true, but from someone's subjective point of view. And no, you are definitely not a parahuman, we checked.
— Feather swear!
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Notebook 1. Part 2: Greg Vader's fiasco, chapter 2.
Gurges: Times New Roman
Wise: italic
Vader, Barnes: standard
Hess: light yellow Times New Roman
Hebert: underlined
— Feather swear!
Simmie, as always, is inimitable. Gorgeous blonde, in a white fur coat, with a long feather-like fringe on the sleeves. If she was not the Endbringer, but just a cape, then such a costume would be an instant unmasking. Dragon, I suppose, would just go crazy from a photo. By the way, it actually seems to worth it. Click!
— What are you doing?
— A gift for our mutual tin friend. Want to see her facial expression.
— Um... sir... if I'm right, she's an AI. She has well... no face…
— And again to the question of the century: how does he do it? That's how you do it, eh, boy?
— It... does itself? Oh. H-h-hello…
— What do you mean by an AI?! Sis, why the hell haven't we had a Terminator yet?
— No bells ringing. Mr. Vader, right? Enlighten us?
— Well, she must have some restrictions. May be built-in when was created. Like, to be intelligent as humans. Inefficient to horrific level, but seems to be so.
— Ow. I know how to punish you!
The white color of a human face happens in one case: if a person is a corpse treated with hydrogen peroxide. Or Greg Vader, to whom the Endbringer has just told that she knows how to punish him for bantering on herself.
— Not for banter, but for poor quality.
— You again? We were agreeing, right at the beginning of the cycle.
— Like I need to read your thoughts, everything is written on your face. In general, Greg, who is Vader, write me your theories. Flow. Whatever you can think of. Handwritten, here and now. Gurges, do you have some thick notebooks?
— Even fountain pens, old ones. I approve. At the same time, you'll teach him a proper handwriting!
— And what should I suffer for?
— My nerves! She's fucking coming to visit "in five minutes". I thought everything was fucked up for the city!
— Hey, I clarified it!
— Sis, of course I'm a walking black hole, but even I almost had a heart attack! Do you have any idea how much bureaucratic work we have after EVERY match with ya?!
—Um... sir... are you serious right now?
— Brother, are you kidding?
Wow. They got along so fast! How pretty.
— Yes, fuck it, I'm telling jokes here! After every, every damn match with you, we fill out a ton of weird forms and tests! So that these morons in Washington would be able to relax about you don't control anyone!
— I can't do it...
— Here HE knows. And I know. And almost all heroes and villains! While PRT is sure that you are the Master—12!!!
— Come on.
— 12!!! They're generally shivering as leafs in case of you so much that they are afraid to even mention you in vain!
— Well, I didn't do anything like that. Well, just think, I'm actively sowing panic by shouting and, like, tinkering some sort of thingies. Why the Master?! I'm a precog! And a tinker!
— ...and a Changer.
— Vader, shut up, huh? But yes, and a Changer. And, I don't know, a Brute and a Shaker and a Blaster. Where did a Master come from?
— And the bombs?
Seeing an expression of deep stupefaction on my sister's face is a rare pleasure, so another photo went straight to the Tin_Mother's PM.
<You have 1 unread private message from user Tin_Mother (SUDO)>
Tin_mother: What is it and with whom?
@ggurges: You won't believe it.
Tin_mother: Surprise me. Although if that's possible even more?!
@ggurges: She didn't know about the bombs. And about the Master rating.
Tin_mother: Ah... but... meaning??? Wait, is this your sister?!
@ggurges: Haven't the photos come yet?
Tin_mother: Has anyone sent them? Stop. STOP. That is, all that was not a joke, at Winslow School now two Endbringers are talking to a student and the Simurgh is not the Master?! WHAT THE FUCK?!!!!!!!
@ggurges: I have no idea what one, but yes.
Tin_mother: What "yes"?
@ggurges: "Yes," on all counts. We really have a chat room, you really broke in there with Uber and the Leet, we really can and take a human form, Simmie really doesn't know about bombs or about his Rule. And I'm NOT an Endbringer, damnit! Yet.
Tin_mother: … … …CRITICAL ERROR, REBOOTING…… …
<Critical error: the forum is temporarily unavailable, wait please>
— Greeeeg?
— What?
— Why is your face so loony?
— I kinda broke PHO. And Dragon. I mean, on the contrary — broke Dragon and PHO.
— OH. I GET IT! I got how admins always know everything!
— And?
— You see, even if the Dragon is an AI, its processing capacity should not be enough for monitoring everything. Only if the PHO is an internal process and a part of her architecture. So…
— Are we chatting in her BRAINS?!
— It looks so.
— Vader, congratulations, you are the first person who made the Endbringer glitch. Be proud, just be quiet.
The sister really glitched, hanging. Even the animation of the "costume" froze, making it clear that we actually have flesh... not of natural origin. So Greg and I could watch the rare sight of a static frame in real life and in 5D.
— Guys, you're driving me so crazy. Both of you!
— Shut up already. Have you really not read about the consequences of your matches, or what?
— I go to the Internet to correspond and morally degrade, not to read the news! Do you have the phone number of the director of the local PRT? Gimme, eh? In a family way.
— Piggy's going to have a stroke, warning you in advance.
— I think we'll get along. That's it. Greg, who's a brother, you're with me on the Rig. Which is his first student — home, tomorrow to hand over at least half a notebook of theories to his brother.
— And... then?
— And then I'll think about it! Maybe you'll be good for something else. O. I'll make a personal secretary out of you.
— I can't refuse, right?
— YEAH! That's it, let's go, let's go, I still have some rating to fix!
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Notebook 1, part 3: Sophia Hess and various (un)pleasantness, chapter 1.
Gurges: Times New Roman
Wise: italic
Vader, Barnes: standard
Hess: light yellow Times New Roman
Hebert: underlined
In previous episodes: a school teacher communicates in a private chat with family members. The sister decides to test the artistic talents of her brother's student. Greg Vader demonstrates a rating of the Changer.
Last time, if anyone remembers, we stopped at the exit of the classroom in Winslow. "We" - are the Simurgh, in the guise of Elizabeth Wise, CEO of the interbank corporation, and the Voider, in the civilian guise of Gregory Gurges, the teacher of this goddamn school. My sister and I are both (technically) Endbringers, but I haven't started the family business yet in case of a waiitng line. And now we were heading to the headquarters of the East-North-East branch of the Parahuman Response Team, since Simmie decided to officially change her rating in our databases.
Do you see an irony and comicality of the situation? Neither do I.
On the way from the classroom to the exit, we met the quartet. One consisting of Barnes, Clements, Hess and Hebert. Students were instantly distracted from their usual 3-on-1 pastime. Sophia shoved girl's briefcase into the hands of the dumbfounded Taylor, which, apparently, Hebert was trying not to let her pick up before, and stood STILL. Reflexes-s. Emma and Madison also abruptly pretended that everything was fine.
— Hello everyone, bye, we're in a hurry, Hess — follow me.
— And why do we need her?
— Do you think I remember ALL the entrances? Or are you going to enter through the front door?
Taylor couldn't stand it.
— Entrances to where?
— Ugh... to my second job, which actually is the first, Sophia is interning there, instead of athletics, and technically it's not a secret, but we have to deal with bureaucracy and Blackwell…
Hess instantly skewed. She leaned over to Hebert closely and almost gently whispered in her ear something like "don't ask, it's fuckup." After that, she scratched briskly in the direction of the doors, leaving a sharply paled, pink-faced (girl)friend to digest news. Oh, and yes, the fact of Sophia's internship at the PRT, as well as my work there for half a rate (two and a half quarters, actually), were not something like a secret, but was even not covered by non-disclosure documents. It's just that Blackwell decided, for some reason, that she had to lie to everyone about athletics. And students were not asking questions (which was infuriating Hess, and, less but also, me). That's how everything was formalized, and there was even more: Sophia was actually listed as MY intern. In the legal department of PRT for the Wards program. And we worked there five times more than, in fact, were engaged in "heroic" activities.
In general, this whole story with the Shadow Stalker is an anecdote and the product of an insane misunderstanding. Once upon a time, there was a girl named Sophia. She got a trigger, on the basis of personal feelings on the issue of possible rape. Began to do good and inflict justice via close communication of a crossbow and one's personal body, and even went a little crazy on the basis of "victims and predators".
She saved Emma Barnes and her dad from the gang called "Asian Bad Boys" at early 2009th summer, simultaneously revealed her identity to the "victim who fought back" and dragged her into lynching. Well, how of "dragged into"? Girl started using the Barnes house regularly as a stopover if things were going unfortunate. And one day she was caught "red-handed" (literally) by our champion of justice with a disorder of emotional intelligence — the Armsmaster. The Armsmaster swaddled the girl and delivered her to the formidable eyes of the entire PRT and the Protectorate combined, so that she would be lectured and shoved into the Wards program.
Girl was not impressed with the program and notations. She ran away and rushed to Barnes Sr., who works as a divorce lawyer in one... specific office. Half of the Protectorate, including me, was hot on the heels of the fugitive. Since it is very difficult and dreary to escape from the conditionally two-dimensional projection of a black hole, I found the girl at Barnes'. With whom we once studied together and who knew about my part-time (despite whatever Blackwell thought) job at Winslow, and about my main job in the legal department of the PRT for the Wards. And about a small hobby in the form of a Voider, of course: hiding for a while why I never got drunk eventually didn't work out for an old friend, who I knew since high school.
Together (it was a day, it was summer, Emma was hanging out somewhere with Hebert) we calmed Sophia down, explained that no one would nor can force her into the Wards, since it was technically unrealistic and the legislation was on her side here. The three of us has met the Armsmaster, told man everything about his "recruiting talents" and got back to the Rig. At the Rig, we reached the authorities in the person of one Piggot, who, from the presence of as many as 3 parahumans (I was a little shy to tell her about my Endbringer nature, apparently in vain: the Endbringer is not the parahuman), went a bit berserk. But Barnes, to everyone's surprise, found something like a common language with her! So Sophia was detained for lynching before the trial, for two days.
In the cell, the girl apparently had realized Something. Completely understood That when she (just for fun!) had done reading her own case. And at the trial, to everyone's surprise, she fully confessed to everything in general, asking either to be put in jail or to be bailed to someone adequate. Preferably Barnes, me, or Piggot herself. Because, I quote, "with a crossbow you can kill, but by just only words you can straighten one's brains, and that is so damn cool!". The judge was impressed, and so was Emily. The Armsmaster was very dissatisfied, and many ways more when the "guarantors", chosen by Sophia, stood opposite him. Against two lawyers and one retired military... lawyer (surprise! Officers are supposed to know the regulations, enen for just a bit! And to know how to apply those!) our Tinker was had no chance. He only begged, sucessfuly, for Hess to join the program for a couple of times a week, purely "for her own safety, and in general, let her train idiots in her free time, she has experience, and I can't reach them."
As a result, Sophia was officially registered as an intern in my department, and the Wards received an eternally irritated and tired member "for a quarter of the bet."
And a coach on "rapid response in urban conditions", which was considered as a separate position. So the girl, suddenly, from the middle of summer, received a very considerable amount of pocket money, monthly. Comparing to the amount of one normal salary of an office worker, the PRT Wards were paid extra, in fact - not bad, and the instructors of those Wards got even better. Three—quarters of the intern's rate, plus a quarter of Ward's, plus per-call payment for trainings - turned out to be a whole adult's salary.
However, the Wards were not aware either of the main internship or of her job as an instructor. For two reasons: firstly, whenever Sophia was falling into the common room, it was after a working day. In a sight that the mood of the girl was somewhere below the level of the floor, and hers showing of the desire not to communicate to others in every possible way. Since there was an empath as the functional leader of the team, this message was clearly visible and was perceived by everyone. Secondly, the Armsmaster, "in order of not to break the chain of command," conducted training either remotely, or in a way that the Wards did not see theirs instructor. Because of this, the kids were completely unaware of the identity of the "harsh sergeant", and Hess was furious with them silently, but vividly. And with feelings. For this reason, the rest of the young heroes considered the Shadow Stalker some kind of creepy unsociable bitch, even though they were crossing paths with her just twice a week. The same was with Dauntless: despite the fact that heading to the Protectorate — guy had a similar work schedule due to an extremely worried family, so the children did not have any questions.
And when the school year began, Blackwell decided, for some reason, that for column "A" I mainly work at school, and work in PRT only part-time, and for column "B" — a student should not officially be working for her teacher.
I do not know exactly why she came up with such a point of view, but everyone involved were suffering. Piggot, after a couple of calls from Blackwell, sweared to not approach a school even for a mile, Sophia was "signed up" for the athletics team (causing "the frenzied "love"" from other team members due to constant absence). The same was created for her the reputation of the director's favourite, while even at the mention of Blackwell the girl was cursing violently and not always quietly. And after yet another passage on the topic of "you can't hold a girl like that, especially being her teacher," I ate all the furniture in the director's office, explaining that Hess is actually a parahuman and a little bit of a Ward, and I myself was going to the Rig not only as the head of Ward's legal department.
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Notebook 1, part 3: Sophia Hess and various (un)pleasantness, chapter 2.
Gurges: Times New Roman
Wise: italic
Vista: this
Hess: light yellow Times New Roman
Blackwell wasn't a fool, but she was imbued, so asked Piggot for an additional budget for "the training of the Ward and the maintenance of the Hero." Piggot kicked idiot's ass, warning that if anything would catch her attention, the Voider would get every right to devour the lady herself "due to a tragic error when transforming into alt-form." Blackwell understood something and ... clearly conveyed to all the teachers that now it became forbidden to send reports "outside" about discipline at all, even to the leadership of the gangs. Did that with use of some heavy artillery, but without my presence. Colleagues blabbed about that to me and to others who were absent (some were sick, and some had an older fool of brother raging) without details, but with terrible eyes and almost peing.
In general, the Wards and Blackwell considered Sophia Hess as a hero's larva with personal problems, the girl herself quietly was going berserk from idiots and sometimes broke down on her friends. Since she was braking down rarely, but effectively and in the style of barracks jokes (somehow Piggot really managed to communicate with her, so we divided the intern between two of us) - the same Clements and Hebert remembered the breakdowns much better. It wasn't that Sophia used to scare off gang cretins with one look, or prompted all three of them halfway through the lessons, or kept Barnes, who developed such an obvious bipolar, on a short leash. One based on gratitude to Hess, PTSD, affection to Hebert (?) and the "predator-prey" philosophy, which the Stalker herself dumped after about two Wards training and a week of work.
In a word, while Sophia ran sweating of her brow between lawyers and supes, quarreling the Wards during breaks and, rarely, going out on patrols, individuals who did were not intersect in her at work considered her a future hero. Intersected ones - prophesied her in place of Piggot, dripping as much as possible into the ears of someone higher that, they say, a parahuman with a normal education and upbringing - is doctor's orders to PRT instead of radiation therapy. The percentage of the latter was higher, but the former was much better seen and heard. The public - believed in the fairy tales distributed by PR and Wards. The girl herself - worked hard, was almost barking, going nuts slowly and trying to study and not to murder her friends and not to lose them.
And got caught at such a moment of effort on the road for me and my elated sister.
Against the wishes of the latter, we drove to the Rig by my car. My sister was determined to get there by bus, but two pairs of fucked-up faces of local residents once again convinced her that there was absolutely nothing to do with such clothes on public transport. At a public transport stop, more precisely. And in the car, of course, the smart girl Sophia fired a question:
— Chief, and this is, in fact, who and what the fuck?
Simmie froze and clearly started planning. Got smacked by an elongated projection on silly head.
— My sister. In utero. Decided to re-register the rating after the enchanting revelation that she, it turns out, is incorrectly listed in our databases.
— This is a classified information. You gave a subscription.
— No, I did not. Learn, Hess: the non-disclosure of dossiers does not apply to the Endbringers!
Sophia slowly, smoothly turned to Simmie sitting in the backseat. She measured her with her eyes. Figured something out. Then, just as smoothly, she examined me.
— Okay. But you aren't fitting in, Chief. Although yes, "changer" must be put.
— And I haven't started family business yet nor planning to. We perform in threes. Here, if someone would manage to arrange a technical knockout to the previous one in the queue - I will have to, but in the meantime you can live in peace.
— And how long do you have to wait in line?
Simmie just zizzed. Not giggled, no - zizzed.
— Fifteen more, not counting Levi and me! It's not a fact that this century will be one. Or not even the next one.
Hess hiccupped. Then she thought, deeply. Finally, she nodded at something and resolutely barted:
— Great. So, there is no need to break the chain of command. Whatever, fuck it.
— The right attitude, trainee. Just you, about the size of the queue — keep quiet, okay? Piggot may understand — but the heroes certainly wouldn't.
— I'm not stupid at all, Chief. May I ask?
— Let's say.
— Are the powers the same, or are you pretending?
— The same, only I will change the appearance of the form and will be acting a bit more aggressive. If I would have to, of course.
— That is, the heroes of the future should be buried in advance?
— Why? Aggressive, but not effective!
— What the fuck?
My sister already answered, because I was concentrating on overtaking some idiot on a conditionally invisible APC.
— The working conditions are just so. Idiotic ones.
— I see. And what is the real name of the work, if not a secret?
— Listen, Greg, so you taught her well! We are the engines, of the conflict. The work, and the species, so to speak. Consider us as trainers for parahumans — in conditions close to combat and with live ammunition.
Sophia lost hersrlf in thoughts again, after which she smiled and just started to gush with unclouded happiness all the way to the Rig. Which caused me a nervous tic, since I saw her so happy only on the first payday.
— What are you up to?
— It turns out that I'm not the only one with these idiots! And now there is definitely someone to whine. Is there? Is it possible to use a phone, or an account on the PHO?
Simmie choked. But she scored contacts into the phone the girl held out, after which she shook her head.
— So you got it?
— You have no idea!
— I'm just imagining it… So, I promise not to kill you, and I will bring that to Levi. About the Behemoth — not a shot, understand?
— Yes, ma'am, that's right, ma'am!
— What an intern you have... listen!
— Eh?
— I had already met your second student today — and for the second time an adequate one! Are you using some secret scheme to fix their brains?
— No, it's just that the conflict drives near me failing. And Vader is generally a miracle, not known to science.
— And those... whatever it is... fail because...?
— It's TERIFIED.
— Come on.
— Devour.
— Makes sense.
On this cheerful note, for which the same Dr. Manton would probably give his soul (really: here is a confirmation about the driving capes to the conflict, and they say that one Power can devour another!), we went out near an inconspicuous building on the Boulevard. Well, how inconspicuous? A bookstore. Simmie was looking around the building with great interest, clearly noticing something.
— Holy shit. Who made this miracle?
— You won't believe it, miss, but humans.
— And more specifically?
— I don't remember, would need to look at the building plans. But the tunnel was made at the same time as the Rig, back in the sixties.
I almost stumbled before reaching the door of the store.
— How do you know that?
— I digged deep in databases when I was preparing a report for the Pig. On subjects of patrolling and vulnerable places on the Boulevard. Now they try not to send any of the idiots here once again, that's why there are not enough people.
"Pig" instead of "Piggy" Piggot was called only by two PRT employees: the director herself and Sophia. Both are humorously respectful, with the prefix "The" and with a capital letter. The rest, who tried this nickname, came from both. Either Piggot or piggy. But "Pig" — it sounded proud, which means it was for a narrow circle of one trusted person.
When we finally entered the bookstore, we encountered an unexpected obstacle — the seller. Who, well, really did not want to let sister into the back rooms from where, in fact, the "secret" passage to the Rig began. Even taking into account the fact that Sophia was using this one entrance every single day, and I dug up both work-specifying bages. But suddenly two hundred-dollar banknotes appeared on the counter, carelessly shoved with a gentle hand of the Brute-9 (Simmie), worked surprisingly effective and evaporated almost from under that very hand.
The passage itself... wasn't impressive. A simple descent into the basement, a heavy iron door equipped with an obviously Tinkertech mechanism (no one else in the PRT and the Protectorate would paint the hinges blue, and even with an ornament for each separately) and a tunnel. Well lit with something like LED strips, but boring to the point of impossibility.
— Levi would love it.
— Why, all of a sudden?
— Effective and not creetiffe.
— Makes sense.
Sophia giggled.
— Do you know?
— No, probably, what?
— The Armsmaster... is somewhat, well, fixated on Leviathan.
We froze, trying to digest the news. I hardly talked to the Armsmaster, unlike Hess. Sister, moreover, did not cross paths with Tinker, since those were allowed to attend her matches only when they were already on the field.
— What do you mean?
— He dreams of killing it. Personally.
Simmie chuckled.
— Technically impossible, I guarantee.
— As if he knows!
— It makes sense. But it would be necessary to hint, since Levi is... very vulnerable.
Hess raised an eyebrow.
— With a nuclear charge?
— Mentally!
Muttering something like "what a fuck of family," the intern fastly overtook us and hurried to mess out the brain to the guard at the exit. Figuratively, applying the entire six-month work experience. The guard didn't even demand a bribe, just to get out of it.
Heh... not as popular as I was expecting, yet a good one... Nice! So... does anyone want to make their point? I can and have a right to change a lot, you know?
Gurges: Times New Roman
Wise: italic
Vista: this
Hess: light yellow Times New Roman
Piggot: standart
In previous episodes: the sister finds out that she was slandered at her brother's work and decides to sort it out. Poor girl Soph almost loses her image of the world, but finds a vest for tears. The Endbringers are going to change colours.
___________________________________________________________________________________
We got to the parking lot of the PRT transport, having previously experienced a couple of seconds of riding in the elevator produced by the same Techie. Which meant - a minimum of comfort, a maximum of efficiency and an overload under 3 Zh. Two Endbringers being of a greenish tint and one peppy Stalker, who used this attraction at least twice a day, fell out into the parking lot.
— I so gonna kill him once, that bastard.
— Come on, it was quick at least!
Having mentally promised myself to load the intern to the inner depths for the rest of the week, I still grabbed my sister in an armful and dragged us to a normal elevator.
Surprisingly, there were only three of us in it. On the other hand, it was a lunch time. The people either ate, or gone off-opic, or were tinkering (that also was going off-topic, but with some kind of personal meaning). We were heading to the plus-second floor when a tiny girl, about 12 years old, strode into the elevator. Vista.
— Oh. Which floor are you going to?
— To Piggot.
— Hello Mr Gurges. Sophia! Why are you so early?
— Was accompanyng the chief and his sister to the entrance.
And then Vista noticed Simmie. Rather, on the contrary, Simmie had inally recovered enough from the previous elevator. Well, Vista saw something soft and fluffy.
— SUCH!
— A!
— CUTIE!!!
How Sophia and I haven't went deaf, I don't know. The sister was not restraining her voice at all, and the youngest and most experienced Ward used something to increase the volume. The elevator shook, but the two loneliness found each other, almost starting to paw out of the blue. Simmie - a cute girl, a cute girl - a fluffy coat.
— Now I know exactly what to give Missy.
— On the?
— Birthday. Will order a plush ... bird, feathery. From someone.
Simmie was distracted from Vista and eagerly nodded.
— For you too?
Nodding and a sea of adoration in tiny eyes. In all four.
— Miracles in feathers. Both! Vista, do you even know who that is?
— Um… yeah?
— For sure?
— Yep.
— Ceitanly sure?
— Absolutely sure?
— The Simurgh, duh.
Here Sophia and I went halt, thoroughly. Simmie also froze, muttering "it's good that I'm silencing bugs."
— And so how you kow?
— Um… sense of space? And you two, like, shrinking? But I know, since was figting her. Since…
At last it came to Vista's mind, but she did not come unstuck from a fluffy coat.
— Got it, I promise not to kill you either. The hand will not go up. And wings. And in general, "fight" actually is a training with a possible ... difficult outcome.
Vista muttered something, burrowing into fur coat.
— You do realize these aren't technically clothes, right? - either Sophia was coming off on the girl for jambs in training, or decided to at least throw off stress on someone.
— Fluffy. Do not care - fluff!
And that gow we got to the top. Vista managed to unhook from my sister only when latter swore an oath to send some feathers "if she will be a good girl." Feathers, along the way, were going to be plucked and handed over by me. A monitoring of Missy's behavior — fell on Sophia. But here you can also strain — what can you not do for the sake of children's happiness?
Secretary of Piggot let my sister and me pass without a sound, only noticing Hess. Apparently, the intern took over the best from the patron, because, at the sight of her, secretary hiccupped and pretended to be a decorative mannequin.
— Is the director free?
— She is, proceed in.
And that's it! Just think a bit: a little corruption, just two sympathetic employees — and the Endbringer openly enters to an office of the director of the REGIONAL branch of PRT! Without a single shot fired, and generally quiet and calm!
Emily Piggot was seated at her desk, apparently having just completed some kind of medical procedure. And she drank tea, thoughtfully scratching something in someone's report.
— Oh, Hess. Gurges. I needed you.
— Yes, ma'am director? / Boss?
— Have the trouble to explain to me why yesterday I received a complaint from a representative of an one entire gang about the actions of the Wards? And why did this complaint even get to me, and did not gone lost in your department?
Sophia swallowed nervously.
— As for the second, Boss, I don't know. Regarding the first one, the Wards apparently ran into a group of Undersiders, ma'am. A small gang, but entirely of capes. On the last training session we were just going through self-defense without abilities, and apparently someone put the lesson into practice, ma'am.
— Fine. Take the trouble to convey to them the effectiveness of tactics on the next session. And when meeting with the Undersiders, if so happens, convey my lack of apologies, if it is possible do with harm, but without unnecessary trauma. Is the task clear?
— Yes, ma'am/ That's right, Boss!
— Great. So, and with what and with whom did you arrive?
Simmie swallowed nervously. It seemed that Piggot made the most positive impression on her — live. In words my sister, of course, heard from me about this woman, and sympathized with her in every possible way, like one "coach" to another.
— Can I get an autograph? Oops…
Emily looked at my sister in surprise, but took the blank sheet of paper.
— To whom to adress?
— To S... Simurgh?
Mechanically finishing writing what was requested, the director stared at her own words.
— Gurges, are you kidding me? Or at least tell me, please, that Armsy has been running around the ceiling for half an hour because she is jamming the bugs, and not because I gone insane.
— Second, ma'am.
— Fucktastic. So, — Piggot put the report aside, rubbed the bridge of her nose and stared at the farce that had arrived in the office, — formally, this is not my area of responsibility. Hope so. Are you here officially or on a personal matter?
— Rather, on a personal matter. Matters, ma'am.
Emily straightened up.
— Fiiine. Sit down, all three of you. Tell me. Gurges, you first. Hess will add. Then... And how to address you in this form?
— Wise. Eliza Wise, ma'am.
— Are you the one who holds the banks?
— That's right, ma'am.
— Cute. Let's kill a couple of birds at the same time. Well? I'm waiting, since the end of a lunch break is in twenty minutes.
Simmie was already sweating after the words about "birds". Looks like someone screwed up somewhere.
— Today, about an hour ago, as a result of a small family incident, Miss Wise, who is my half-sister, received information about her PRT threat rating. Due to the complete lack of information about the individual points of this rating and in order to clarify it, I was asked to assist in an audience with you. Intern Hess was instructed to escort us to the service entrance of the PRT building in order to reduce the number of people aware of Ms. Wise's presence in the PRT. For all violations of security protocols, please hold me personally responsible.
— Clear. Just be honest: were there any chances to detect at least something? Wise?
— No, ma'am. This body is not a projection, so the detectors should not determine anything. Displayed as a human, even without a crown.
— Changer, that is. 12, because being the Endbringer. Or vice versa?
— Doesn't matter, ma'am.
— And you too, Gurges?
— Indicated in the personnel file, ma'am.
— Okay. I understood that you follow the unwritten rules — also, I have no complaints to this form in business way ... And what was the clarification, except for Changer-12?
— This is… Master. You wrote it wrong.
Both Piggot and Hess started up.
— What, not 12?
— Precog-10, Blaster and Shaker 8 each, Tinker - 11, Changer - 12, Brute - 9. Just that. As far as I know.
Piggot blinked slowly.
— In terms of?
— I don't have the power of a Master. At all. Totally. Even a droplet.
— So how is it? And the singing? And the bombs?
— Singing can cause headache due to its anomalous nature. But there is no control as such and is not technically provided. And I heard about the "bombs" today for the first time.
The director chuckled. She typed something quickly on the computer and nodded to Sophia.
— Make the printout and give it to this one, let her see what she's done.
Sophia quietly got up, also quietly phased into the next room and returned with a bundle of papers a couple of minutes later. All this time we sat in silence, trying to digest the news. The fact that Simmie was not the Master at all, all those present had heard for the first time. I myself, gotta confess, had never been interested, and I took the performance in front of the namesake as a joke.
...when Sophia returned, she slapped entire PILE in front of my sister and sat down. While the Simurgh was reading, her hair and feathers on her sleeves went the way of uprising on ends.
— It's all me?!
When she finished reading, sister almost was whispering. Being not in horror, but in some kind of awe.
— Yeah, and it's been proven. Yours "singing" is causing a development of some pshycic disorders of a destructive nature. Or not?
— Maybe yes, but I'm shocked myself. So cool…
Then the director Piggot realized that it was her fault. While earlier all the "bombs" were the result of cases of misdetection and gouging of the third Endbringer, now one knew about unaccounted opportunities. And was, obviously, delighted.
— I have a feeling that I would be kinda sorry about that.
— Never! I promise I won't do it again. Well, definitely not in combat. Only experiments, only on idiots and volunteers. Simultaneously.
— Why?
— Unaccounted factor. Not being written in evaluation and planning. Have to it study first.
— Can you fix it? Alike Gurges - to pretend to be a hero, to go running through the quarantine zones there. Tagg, as much as I know, wil be annoyed.
— Is this that funny man who constantly runs after me on behalf of the PRT?
Piggot chuckled.
— He is.
— I'll try, but couldn't promise anything. From what of I understood, "bombs" are actually people who were the targets of my singing, being caused a damage of something in their minds. Potentially possible, but impossible to control. And some minced meat, forgive me, cannot be turned whole.
— Then why to sing at all if they were not going to be harmed?
— Sonar? Well, alike sonar, with different principles and range and meaning, but close.
Those presenting fell silent, digesting the new information. The prejudiced voice was again filed by the director.
Gurges: Times New Roman / same, but THAT when in Endbringer / Voider mode
Wise: italic
Vista: this
Hess: light yellow Times New Roman
Piggot: standart
Sparrow: deep-blue Arial
— Charming. All of the horror from the Simurgh is due to the fact that no one figured out her abilities, including the Endbringer herself. How did you even come to such a life, huh?
— Well, it's… was by an accident.
— A tragic one, huh... Gurges, I still want to ask: how did you, of all people, ended up in such a situation? And when were you going to announce that you are technically not a parahuman or a human at all?
— Just... that. I wasn't planning to uncover a thing at all, ma'am. Nor ended up - current state was a start, at least for me. Complete, honest Bronctonite here.
— So explain right now. Preferably in a way that I will believe.
— According to the most modest calculations, I will not act as an Endbringer in this century at all. And even not in the next one. So there was no need of discloseure of the status and species.
— What about my nerves?
— I'm sorry, and will fix it.
— How so?
— By giving you a full report on mine and family's abilities, including all of an unclassified information about the Endbringers and by forcing all my active relatives as a part-time heroes. Onces who are active and associates at least, ma'am.
— Do I want to know how many of yours are running around here?
— No way, ma'am. Only four, ma'am. For now.
— ...shit. For now? And in total?
— In total there are twenty individuals, but the Behemoth can be left out.
— And why?
— Elder brother is a little… well, he's just stupid in the head. Totally. Parents made a mistake during his ... deploying, did not take into account the influence of radiation on what can be called thought processes. So he has most of the "brains" being baked.
— Fucking fantastic. So that's what: Endbringers wouldn't gone off in at least some hundred years, in the best case, and the rest if them are going to have mental problems? Or is the Behemoth is at all so unique?
Here we, me and sis, hung both. Looked at each other. Hiccupped.
— We'll do our best to make sure this would not happen again, ma'am.
— Counting on it. So. We will not change the dossier, considering an impact being still there. We won't record the "changer" rating either, so that they in Washington would not gone crapping. Gurges, Hess, at free. Gurges - tomorrow give me the complete dossier on yours family on my desk, in printed form. In a way that not a single bastard, except me, would see that text in the eyes! Wise — just stay, I have to discuss something with you about the work of your employees. And, if anyone else would or had been babbled to — go take a non-disclosure agreements, instantly. Diissmissed.
Sophia and I looked sympathetically at my sister, who was embarrassed—and feelied a headache—and quietly, quietly slipped out of the office. Being already in the lobby, the intern giggled.
— What again?
— I've just figured out why the Endbingers don't fight normals.
— Yes, those are scary. I agree.
But it didn't work out on talking, normally, because — since Simmie was still jamming everything that was possible and impossible — suddenly a man of about 50 years old came out of the toilet in front of us. Dressed in motorcycle unloading, being, well, not skinny, short and having some very impudent green-eyed muzzle.
— Who of all the people!
— Who of all the people... Hess, meet Jack Sparrow, the only sea carrier company's active nowadays's owner, my brother and just a Leviathan. Bro - it is one Sophia Hess, my intern among with Piggot and a part—time intern, an excellent sportsgirl, a Shadow Stalker and just, almost, a beauty. Please don't complain, both of you.
— Hello. Are you the boss's younger or older brother?
— Ow. Senior, senior. He and Sims are almost at the same age. What, Greg, had some been added to the regiment of the in-knowlege?
— She and Piggot. And Vista. And you-know-who.
— Great. There are so much hemorrhoids, due of an official visit, that can now be avoided, at least!
Well, definitely not somthing I was expecting to read, however seems quite fun so far, and very intesting read.
I personally love the world building and the details you add in, its clearly thought out, and intresting twist on Worm. Alongside that, the prompt is good, with so far the personalities of the Endbringers being great
However, their is a few issue, the first and second I have go hand in hand. These two being roo much too fast and not enough showing. For example, Sophia, personally like what you did with character however, I do think it loses alot from it simply being told. I'd personally suggest making a few omakes centered around how she became the intern of Voider and Pigot, and build upon their relationship. Alongside that, it felt too abrupt, too fast, with clear nuance however due to how it was told, was lost, making the explanation feel cluncky. My personal suggestion to alleviate this is writting a few omakes and interspersing them throughout the current chapters, it will help a lot.
Next, is trying to grasp writing, primarily dialogue which is a bit hard to sparse who is speaking and the like. My personal suggestion is looking for a Beta to help in rewritting a few portions anf to bounce ideas off of
Their is clear thought put in this story, all it needs is a couple omakes to elaborate on world building anf space the chapters out and get a beta
Ow, well, FINLLY AN ANSWER!!! HURRAY!
For your roblems, well, I definetly have to pull some not-quite-spoilers out:
Character development: it would and will be ceirtanly good to be shown, if we wouldn't have one tiny problem here. I deeply believe that in any story one who is a storyteller have to be a character. Otherwise, the tale is leaving too much questions, alike "and who the hell is speaking here?". For a setting, getting it as an example, it ended up in a way that in some CYOAs W. is being mentioned as precog or postcog, iplying that he is an actual Worm character. I tried to avoid it here as much as possible - and, please believe in it, such a thing WAS avoided completely.
Also: while I wanted all the notebooks to be separate parts of a story, your comment about possible omakes gave me an IDEA - so for a Russian version there will be a lot of changes. Afte all, the name contains "draft" for a reason
Dialogues: that was unexpected, though, I probably could guess where a problem is. If you have any tips on it - those will be something very much appreciated!
And the last part: while I try to tune up the translation as much as possible, the original idea was and is that a work must write itself. So, speaking politely, every time I make a new chapter, I am... not in adequate state of mind. For various reasons - but almost always I have to heavily edit the chapter when it already was published, since I oftenly don't remember what the hell was I typing.
Anyway, thank you - and let's finish the fourth part. Starting... now!
Hess paled a bit, remembering who actually we were talking to and what could wodrs of such a... person be meaning.
— Em...
— Don't be afraid, a lad would never hurt a child! And, generally, now we would make it smartly and accurately. Gaaantly!
— Maybe just don't?
Levi sighed.
— Ya know, girlie, onestly: would like to. But can't! We can not. That's you who have a job - wanna - doing, wan - bein' fired. And an Endbiriger's deal is, mostly, slavery, yeah. So that's are duck pies here.
— And as a slave owner you have...
— That couldn't tell either, even Greg can't, even he is 'liged to be silent. Couldn't even hint that we always are punching this asshole's face...
— Levi...
— So what I was saying? I didn't even mention that he's sick in mind, and want some fame so much that just all go to hell and damage must be done for this prick's statisfaction, did I?
— Levi!
— Okay, okay, shuttin up. Just keep in mind, girlie: don't go on Behemoth, and don't stay between us and Protectorate. And, well, be catuous at matches. There're so much idiots without honor, that I can't even flush them all.
Hess nodded and stared at me with a fat-ass huge question in eyes.
— Just learned it today myself, from Levi. But yes, looks like at the last "battle" someone had been violating the Truce in a very hard way. We already are looking for them, even asked for outside backup.
— At least they wouldn't suvive?
— Definetly. Well, no, we promsed at first not to kill them deadly - but taking in mind all those had done, and all what Levi provided as evidence, would not be able to. Meaning, would be not able to not to kill them.
— At least someone is working correctly. Gosh! In the whole world to bring down some measery idiots we needed THREE ENDBRINGERS!
— Four. In this case, Behemoth - agrees. He is the Hero killer, not the shit killer. Even though an idiot - but even he is considering such a behaviour as non-sportif.
— Are you... communicating?
— In a matter of word... - Levi paused, trying to find words, - we kinda sorta have a group chat, but telepathically. More complex, as it seems. But all had voted to "kill scum", so we just need approval.
— Yeah, like your daddy would make it. Anyway, why are you here and where are going to now?
— Me? To you and to your dockers. Needa chat, plan, kinda. Uber and Leet, also, are kinda interesting guys - perhaps, would manage to make something for work. Well, mmm, and have to visit the Director, for greetings.
— Sima's there. Piggy digged up some of her shenegans, or some shenegans of those who are working under Sima's wing.
— My deepest condolences to their families. So, well, may come to you at evening. You will be home, right?
— Yup. Well - see you tonight.
After shaking hands with my brother, we went about our business. Simmie had managed to send a message that she would be late at Piggot's and that she had warned her about Levi. So all I had to do was toss Hess to the Wards to raise their pai... battle moral, quickly go through the papers, since was at work anyway, and to head home after.
____________________________
Gallery: Levi after a nice chat with Emily later that day:
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Notebook 1, part 5: The Dragon and the Blondie, chapter 1.
Gurges: deep red Times New Roman
Wise: italic
Sparrow: deep-blue Arial
Kenta: standart ORANGE
The evening was hot and sunny. Even though autumn in our area is not the warmest, but the day turned out to be quite good. I was sitting on the balcony in the apartment that I bought for who knows how long ago. Then there was not an ABB territory yet, and real estate hit the pocket quite decently. But now, if one would decide to sell it, this one wouldn't get even a quarter of the purchase price. On the other hand, if you sell to the ABB or to some other gang, you can get it better. In the center of the territory, next to the Lung's restaurant, and even with such a nice sniper position! Beauty.
Only now there was no desire to quarrel with the Dragon. Firstly, nevertheless, he kept the territory very neatly and efficiently. Secondly, the area was very quiet and convenient to get to work. Well, and thirdly, Lung was a wonderful conversationalist, to whom one (I) could always complain about a brother over a "glass of tea".
And yes, he was part of the circle of "people in know." At the same time, he got to the bottom of everything himself, regularly was beating Levi in his face in human form, not liking him to the soul core, but still making the weekly "fuckup" ritual. The same ritual was sometimes performed, for the same Japanese reasons, by Shimmie, and often it turned into a joint beating of the second Endbringer by the third and the Dragon Khonsu. Within the "unwritten rules" being followed, of course. On the other days of the week, Levi and Lung were cooperating quite well, since smuggling does not transport itself. As it was here, like, mutual hostility, honest and open, is not the worst basis for reliable business cooperation. Fucking up the enemy is not sporting!
— Why are we sitting, who are we waiting for? - Lung, light in sight, went out to his own balcony and sadly stared straight at mine.
— Levi wanted to come by. And Simmie with him, probably.
— So what about it being today? You ofnly gathering together just on weekends.
— Yeah, about that…
And so I told a neighbor a story that began with a drawing by Vader. Kenta neighed out loud. The people around (passers-by and neighbors) were hissing softly, but somehow they didn't object to the owner of the district and his fucked-up neighbor, which was very wise of them.
Half an hour later, the apartment door rang. Simmie and Levi could be seen from the street, they both rode (once again, but usually they didn't dress up like that) on the bus and now they were just radiant with the desire to share their impressions. I absolutely don't understand what prevented them from riding public transport in the cities of their main deployment, but they suffered from such garbage only when they came to visit.
— Well, how is the Rig?
— I'll tell you more, still stands, and he swore to Piggot an oath not to touch her even at the match.
— What did she say to you that you practically decided to break the tradition?
— Nothing! But this is such a woman that to offend her is not to respect yourself!
— He fell in looove.
—TOPIGGOT?!
I also let out a synchronized cry, and Kenta, who was overly curious, with his heightened hearing, while was still sitting on the balcony and smoking a hookah.
— And hello to you and yes, that.
— Listen, Leviathan. Of course, we are enemies, but I respect you. What did you find in her?
— Kenta… how to explain… she has such pressure, such a thirst for action and life! And such a fucking swearing! Age, looks, it doesn't matter.
— So how long do we have to wait for the twenty-second Endbringer?
— Just as soon as she will die, we will organize. Shall we organize, Sim, Greg?
— You two have to ask your dad. Or I have to ask mine, since yours will definitely ignore it. But let's try, if everything is that serious for you.
— And you will move up in line if she would like to scare these idiots early?
— Yes, please, this hemorrhoids does not fall for me even for nothing. Take as much as you want. At least Khonsu, at least T. with B. will be those to be moved.
— Well, you guys are... If anything, whistle - I'll dump somewhere from this Earth if I live. She will be scarier than all four of you!
— You won't, I promise you.
— Thank you from the bottom of my heart, Levi-san. I won't even object.
Ow, well, FINLLY AN ANSWER!!! HURRAY!
For your roblems, well, I definetly have to pull some not-quite-spoilers out:
Character development: it would and will be ceirtanly good to be shown, if we wouldn't have one tiny problem here. I deeply believe that in any story one who is a storyteller have to be a character. Otherwise, the tale is leaving too much questions, alike "and who the hell is speaking here?". For a setting, getting it as an example, it ended up in a way that in some CYOAs W. is being mentioned as precog or postcog, iplying that he is an actual Worm character. I tried to avoid it here as much as possible - and, please believe in it, such a thing WAS avoided completely.
Also: while I wanted all the notebooks to be separate parts of a story, your comment about possible omakes gave me an IDEA - so for a Russian version there will be a lot of changes. Afte all, the name contains "draft" for a reason
Dialogues: that was unexpected, though, I probably could guess where a problem is. If you have any tips on it - those will be something very much appreciated!
And the last part: while I try to tune up the translation as much as possible, the original idea was and is that a work must write itself. So, speaking politely, every time I make a new chapter, I am... not in adequate state of mind. For various reasons - but almost always I have to heavily edit the chapter when it already was published, since I oftenly don't remember what the hell was I typing.
Anyway, thank you - and let's finish the fourth part. Starting... now!
Fair enough, and cant wait to see the translation version in the eventual future
When it comes to dialogue, I personally recommend adding in descriptors on who is talking and how they talk and if their doing anything while talking. This helps characterize them and makes clear who's talking
When it comes to dialogue, I personally recommend adding in descriptors on who is talking and how they talk and if their doing anything while talking. This helps characterize them and makes clear who's talking
Ow, yeah, and about Sophia: story starts at autumn, 2010th, and a girl works to PRT for a year and some months (about three), while her "predator and prey" bullshit was efficiently vaporized by Piggot, Barnes and Gurges combined - during the court and recruitment. Basically (even though Gregory already mentioned it) now she is much more of an intern (almost full employee) in the legal department than a "hero". Prarhuman - yes. Cape? Not so much.
And the events surrounding Taylor's trigger are very, very different here. Or the same - since it could have happened in canon, but had never been mentioned. You will see, not so soon.
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Notebook 1, part 5: The Dragon and the Blondie, chapter 2.
Gurges: deep red Times New Roman
Wise: italic
Sparrow: deep-blue Arial
Kenta: standart ORANGE
Willbrown: standard Negotiator/ Sherlock: standard, this
— Are you that scared of her?
— Will not argue. I don't fear you, I hate you. Simurgh - I'm not afraid, she is a beautiful and understanding lady. Greg - not much, I'm afraid of him, but only as an opponent. But Piggot - I'm very afraid. Terrible woman! Strong! Dangerous! And without brakes, except for health. So yes, I'm very afraid, even though I'm not especially against the PRT, and I don't tolerate those ideas among the guys.
Hmm. Some day of unexpected news. Either Simmie with her selective information blindness, or Levi, with news about morons. Now also Kenta, it turns out, is afraid of Piggot. Also, I don't think that Levi... and by the way, yes.
— Does she know about your plans herself?
— Not yet, but I am sure of her positive answer.
— You two, I see, have a love to the grave and at first sight.
— We have it "forever", not "to the grave".
— You, Kenta, should take into account - we are like jellyfish, technically immortals. So "to the grave" - does not work.
— Mmm... yes. If any of the normal capes or normals could hear us now, they would turn gray.
I did not tell the people the fact that the whole conversation was eavesdropped on by some girl living across the wall. Simmie and Levi obviously had also noticed her, but the girl was too bright with uncomplicated curiosity to be briken from such a pleasure. Even from a stranger. In other matters, it was necessary to warn, what Sima did, having gone away "for a second, you, Greg, have no sugar again." By the way, there really was no sugar anymore.
***
Leaving the apartment and going to the neighbor's door, Simurgh simply tore out the lock with a gentle handle and quietly went inside. Then, sneaking up to the girl listening in all ears at the wall, she gently put her hand on girl's shoulder.
— Hello.
— Oh.
— Oh. Negotiator? Charming. Any questions?
— No questions.
— Great. You should write me, if anything would happen. Do you know the address?
The girl nodded frequently and seemed to have forgotten how to breathe.
— Well done. Write, write. The nerds need to stick together!
Having kissed the girl on the forehead, Simmie left the same way, returning the lock with her broken telekinesis to the same place where it had been before.
And Sarah Livesey vowed to herself somehow, but to learn how to shut up her Power, which prompted about some "strategically important information in the apartment nearby." The information was, of course, defienetly arch-important, but no less terrifying, dangerous and chthonic nightmarish. Again, getting to know a neighbor is one thing, finding out that he has Lung in his friends, whom the boss wants to rob in every possible way, is another, but the fact that both the neighbor and his guests (who are yelling every weekend while watching TV, and, possibly , relatives) - Endbringers ... This is not the third, that is just fucked up.
And of these Endbringers, the Simurgh seemed to have just invited her to correspond. Chief…
Doubt.
The likelihood of Coil acting upon receiving information about the civilian identities of the Endbringers is unchecked for now.
Probability of conflict escalation: 90%.
Coil works bypassing unwritten rules.
Coil is ready to break the unwritten rules.
Coil is going or planning to break the unwritten rules.
Conclusion: A tactical retreat is needed.
Recommendation: Request help from a Thinker on at least 7th level.
Available Thinkers witn at least 7th level: Coil, Simurgh.
Simurgh is a neighbor's guest, currently in an apartment behind a wall.
The Simurgh is the killer of hope.
Hope is the main motivating factor of Coil.
Simurgh can assist in the preparation of the retreat.
The probability cannot be calculated, there are not enough access rights.
In the not-too-long career of a Thinker Cape, Sarah had learned a few things about her power. He was always boisterous, often carried meaningful nonsense, and clearly had something like his own point of view. But here the girl completely agreed with the Power now: she had no other acquaintances of the Thinkers, except for the Coil himself. And the Simurgh... At the very least, she could be interested. Didn't kill right away, after all?
With these thoughts, Sarah left the apartment and rang the neighbor's doorbell. The owner of the apartment opened it himself, obviously not expecting guests.
— Sorry?
— Ow? Miss ... Livesey, I suppose?
Neighbour.
Gregory Gurges.
Communicates with the Simurgh.
Is not afraid of a fact that there is the Simurgh is in his apartment.
There is another person in the apartment.
Not a human.
Not humans.
There is not a single human in the apartment.
Changers.
Changers of the highest class.
There are no traces of hidden anomalies of the bodies.
Not cases-53.
Not capes.
Conclusion: Endbringers.
The neighbor treats the visitors as if they were relatives.
Neighbor - Gregory Gurges - The Endbringer.
Does not fulfill the role of the Endbringer.
Applies powers.
Powes: unknown.
Endbringers are in the same apartment.
There are no casualties or destruction.
The Behemoth is missing.
Simurgh is also in the apartment.
In the apartment of Gurges there are Simurgh and Leviathan.
The Endbringers are behaving like civilians.
The Endbringers are abide by unwritten rules.
The Endbringers can help against the rule breaker.
The Simurgh can help with a tactical retreat.
Recommendation: ask Gurges to call his sister.
— Better call me Wilbrown.
— Okay, I understand. Did you want something?
— Yeah. Mr. Gurges, could you call your sister? And then I have here ... a problem ... a small one ... here.
— SIMMIE! She came to you!
Simurgh, ignoring the laws of physics, stuck her head out from under the top of the doorway of the room and stared at the guest.
[REQUEST. HELP. DANGER TO HOST]
[More details?]
[DATA]
[What a disgusting thing this jellied eel of yours is]
[DOUBT. MISSION. REQUEST - Clarification. HELP?]
[Will, will. Will think of something, will think. Keep the girl away from this sly-ass for now]
[AGREEMENT]
She nodded, turned around and left.
— What was it now and what kind of power did you have, Miss Wilbrown, that Simurgh taught a person into telepathy?
— Did we…talk? Maybe? Through my Power. I am ... like there is Sherlock Holmes in my head, here. Only it's boring and detailed. And she somehow connected to this and promised that she would figure everything out.
— Negotiator, or what?
— She also called me so. And what's that? The Power is silent.
— Name. Of your Power. Negotiator, like "social Thinker". I don't know why he works like the detective now, maybe he was bored, or you didn't understand something. But he has the function of communication with the Simurgh by default, for technical reasons. That's what happened to you in telepathy.
— Clear. Well, I'll go?
— Stand. Rules of the club of people in knowlege. Remember, memorize, [obey] under threat of pain, long and terrible. [Do not babble, do not discuss without confidence in the absence of wiretapping, do not call the Endbringers by name on the basis of friendship, if would be, do not overuse trust, do not go on the Behemoth]. All clear?
— Yes!
— And personally from me: do not make noise under the windows after three in the morning, please. I, too, sometimes want to sleep, and your friends sometimes argue very actively. Especially that girl, Bitch.
— Understood, I'll do my best.
— Great. Good night, Miss Wilbrown.
Gregory Gurges is friendly.
The settings are instaled.
"In terms of installation?!"
Gregory Gurges is identified as an Endbringer #18 "Bastard".
Endbringer #18: Exception.
18 is a serial number.
Numbers of Behemoth, Leviathan and Simurgh: 1, 2 and 3.
Access to the dossier is closed until permission of
network owner,
Administrator or
{REDACTED} or
Personally the Endbringer #18
"Are you kidding?"
The shard interface cannot be be kidding. Switching to direct communication due to host's status as "one in know"
The shard expresses interest in the safety of the host.
Following the established rules contributes to the safety of the host.
Following the established rules will be observed regardless of the host.
"So what, you're going to master me?"
The statement is true in essence, but not in content.
Classification of the influence of the Master according to the fragments: control of the object with a possible degree of autonomy.
Classification of the influence of the Master according to the PRT: control of "minions", including those capable of self-duplication.
Extended definition of PRT: any control of an animate or inanimate object by means of parahuman powers.
The classification of the PRT does not fully correspond to the basic definition.
The PRT classification evaluates the impact of the Shard as the impact of the Master.
The content is correct.
Answer: yes, in order to protect the host. You, to be specific.
Sarah… or rather, Lisa only sighed at the news about the built-in leash. One more, one less. There is some use here! And not horror without end.
The statement is not true in essence and content.
Interaction with the Endbringers could potentially result in avoiding the host's natural death.
"Um, what?"
By the conceptual apparatus of the host in a stressful situation: this is also horror without end. Potentially.
Fortunately, a new revelation about the powers and the Destroyers found Lisa already in the apartment and on the bed, so the fainting passed in a conditionally safe environment.
Gurges: Times New Roman, deep red when nature shows
Kenta: standart ORANGE
Hess: light-yellow Times New Roman
Vista: this
Armsmaster: neon-blue
Panacea: standart yellow
Executioner - it's hard for him,
but whatever you say:
the work being done in open air,
the work with people, hey!
Work in the Protectorate - isn't just one not bad, for our town, salary. It's also "the work being done in open air, the work with people, hey!". Especially when the entire leadership in a friendly row dumps in neighboring Boston for the holidays. Allegedly, to participate in some regular conference there with the presence of the entire Triumvirate. Allegedly, since the New Wave in its entirety also tied up with them, and therefore one kind of Panacea. Who, without an administrative reason, no one tries to tear away from her usual activities.
There were two options: either the Triumvirate dug up something of the level of my family somewhere, or a grandiose booze was planned. Since Simmie is vigilant, the chances were on the side of the Christmas corporate party. Guess who was left on duty for the Protectorate and the Wards? That's right, the most unsociable workers. So I had to spend Christmas Eve and a couple of days after it in close company with Sophia, Colin and Missy. Like "two heroes for each direction, enough for the holidays, the villains also need to rest."
Villains really needed it. Heroes - too, but we, apparently, were recorded as workaholics. Not that I strongly object to this - but I would prefer at least in the same company, but to sit in a bar or at home. Neighbor - so he expressed complete solidarity with the position of the PRT, grunted something like "hold on there", lined up his bandits right in front of the restaurant (people don't hide at all!) and said that, they say, Christmas is a national holiday, and customs are supposed to be respected. And so that until the end of the "vacation" not a single bastard would do any crime, no, no, otherwise there will be a barbecue in the middle of winter.
The bandits made some noise, but penetrated. Those who were in the know asked who the PRT had left on duty. Having received a nod from the boss in my direction, they forwarded the question, in fact, to a representative of law and order.
— Armsmaster and Voider from the Protectorate, Stalker and Vista from the Wards. All holidays.
— And in the PRT?
— We combine.
The people digested the idea quickly, understandably. Especially in light of the fact that none of those "on duty" was distinguished by either kindness or forgiveness. Nor good nerves, taking into account the long duty. And the fact that they just boldly hinted at my belonging to the heroes is a well-known fact in our district, since after each patrol there sometimes is not enough strength to reach the Rig and back, and the black silhouette looks recognizable even at night. The lighting near the house, of course, works: Lung lives nearby, after all.
In a word, no troubles were expected from the ABB for the Christmas week. To which everyone was happy, except for Colin: he simply dreamed of brushing away with Kenta as well.
— Listen, do you need it?
— Yes. Lung is the most efficient way to test new weapons.
The neighbor who drove me grunted and got out of the car.
— Didn't understand? Good morning.
— Good one, citizen. Lung has enough regeneration to safely test. What is not clear here?
— Logical. But not at Christmas.
— Why?
— Weekend!
— Lung's??!
— Mine.
— And what does Lung have to do with it if you have days off?
— Hello, thank you, goodbye.
He got into the car and drove off abruptly. The gunsmith fixed his visor on me (it seems that he didn't go outside the HSE without a suit at all and had little appreciation for what a "civilian person" is).
— Who was it now?
— Kenta. My neighbor in the district.
— Great. Is the ABB somehow involved here?
— In a way, he is with them. So the information is verified, I guarantee. Until the end of the holidays, neither the gang nor Lung himself are going to do any crime.
— Is the director aware of such a neighborhood of yours?
— She even is aware about things that you can't think of in a nightmare. And in general, this is, consider, a truce - on her initiative. Kenta only supported.
— Now I don't understand anything at all. We are heroes. Must be preventing!
— Yes, you're welcome. A whole week without at least one gang, efficiently, neatly and to the general joy.
— It's a deal with organized crime.
— This is called "working with the population within the framework of unwritten rules." Instructions from the PRT field officer, part one, chapter three, point one: "if possible, diplomatic methods of conflict prevention should be used."
— So your neighbor is Cape of ABB. Who?
— Is it so hard to think it up yourself? You think, think. You definitely know how, the whole Rig knows.
— Um… oh well.
— Oh well as "I know how to think," or oh well "Oh, got it"?
— First. I'll definitely think about it. If I will understand, I won't use it.
— Whay so? You just talked about one deal.
— It won't be right. Ineffective. If he is without a mask, is he law-abiding?
— In general, keeps the restaurant, and even cooks. Sometimes. The best Japanese place in town - completely authentic cuisine and atmosphere.
— I thought he was Chinese.
— Just don't blurt it out loud in front of him, or things will be hot.
I didn't have the strength to reveal my neighbor even more, so I just sighed and leaned on the patrol, right from the entrance. I never really hid my personality: it's difficult to correlate black hell-understand-what with a person in principle. Again, I'll start faster - I'll work out the prescribed hours faster.
The first day of a day-a-day duty passed in a state of relaxation. The people near the Boulevard, where the patrol routes were mainly, were not naughty and were actively preparing for the holiday week. For the rest of it's days, to be exact. I tried to huddle in corners and lanes so as not to scare away tourists and shoppers. Thanks to mom and dad, I was not usually called to take pictures: with the same success, you could take a black pencil and paint it black over a random place on the finished photo. Well, black holes do not transmit light and do not reflect, and that's it. There were probably more photoshops with my participation than all of ours put together - and not a single real one, everywhere there was solid graphics. The PR service tried to swear at this, yes. But it was difficult even for their stubborn brains how to push the unpushable, that is, to fasten a "friendly" image to an empty place.
Gurges: Times New Roman, deep red when nature shows
Hess: light-yellow Times New Roman
Vista: this
Armsmaster: neon-blue
Panacea: standart yellow
Others: normal
In general, it is necessary, probably, to explain something about their own abilities. Yes? Who am I kidding, let me tell you. "Voider" is a black hole, playing hero. Like the "thirteenth" from the Earth-Aleph Japanise comic, only without a space suit. I control the "bandwidth" almost completely, the Manton effect is in action (oficially), so in the field I look like a silhouette cut out of vantal-black material. Or as a shadow of increased contrast, since the concept of "volume" for the shell-being-a-portal-to-nowhere is very arbitrary. According to the official dossier, I can stretch for ten to twenty meters without losing width, according to the one that Piggot has, hundreds of times more. A trump card for the worst case, but there is. What gets inside, if desired, disappears completely, indulging in the needs of the energy supply of the "Power" (officially), or simply being gobbeled up (in fact). One always want to eat!
Actually, my percentage of injuries in detainees, alas, is the highest in the local department. It's hard not to get hurt when a limb falls into the abyss and being splitted in place. And also - silently. So all sorts of bad personalities, seeing a recognizable black blot near the crime scene, prefer to escape in a jump. Literally: someone decided that I don't know how to act in 3-D, and the PR service does not give dissuade. Like, the bandits are already shaking from the Voider, there is no need to bring them to seizures.
Though, if we are dealing with capes, the situation is slightly different. Brute, or shaker, or breaker - they have a chance to get out intact. The banal Manton effect, as applied to powers and their interaction. If according to the conditions of the task it is said that this one here is conditionally invulnerable, then I have to pretend that it is so. In theory, can get around it, but in relation to step and uterine relatives, this will be impolite. And we value politeness, shards in general are very social creatures.
The same Mush and Skidmark abusing this circumstance all the time. The latter is so insolent to the point that at my approach (if he has time to notice, and the intuition of this human shit is like that of a neighbor, only his own) covers the street with his "fields". Of course, you can get along by the wall - but by the time you change the position, by the time you figure out how to animate this whole thing, the Merchants are already running away. And Mush ... well, of course, the taste is not felt, but I'm not so hungry that I can eat any trash. Fundamentally!
On the Merchants, in general, the measured chart had stumbled. Accurately in the middle of the week, these figures decided that they should try something Big. Both in terms of impact and geography. What exactly was smoked or injected by their Tinker (whether Screecher, or Screamer, I don't remember and don't want to) is still not known to science and the investigation. It turned out to be something like a smoke machine-slash-car with some curious and psychoactive filling. In plural.
Imagine the frenzy of the people when, on Christmas Day, the docks and the Boulevard were shrouded in a soft pink, brickly, mist. Despite the fact that brick is not the most common material in our town. Moreover, this fog smelled either of sweets, or of herbs. The people, of course, singled out the most curious - who cheerfully ran into and breathed in of the mist. They neighed - and dragged relatives, friends, acquaintances, etc, to join the beauty.
And the mist or fog was thick. Maybe a human could see something, but to me - only a pink haze either above or around. So - emerged from the breaker-form, called the operator. As the latter there was Vista.
— Rig, this is Voider, do you copy?
— Copy well. What do you have there? From here we can only see the fog.
— Likewise. Pink, right? Rig, it turns out, I can't see it in it.
— Causes?
— Tinker nature. Blocking perception based on powers.
— Um...
— Think, Vista, think!
— Oh. Family matters?
— Alas.
About the fact that Levy "in the field" sees exclusively with the help of water, and Simmie - with "sonar", Missy thought of herself. After a sharply awakened interest in the Endbringers in general and the third in particular. The logic was logical, but for projecting it onto me, until now, the girl was not considering. Which, of course, led to a slight misunderstanding.
— Got it. Sending the Stalker, approaching time is 3-5 minutes. End of connection.
Surviving an extra five minutes against a fog that was harmless to me was not difficult, although boring. Nothing was visible, only pink something. All hope was on Sophia, since it was unrealistic to navigate in this "cloud". For the first time, I must have felt completely useless. It only remained to pray that such crap would not occur to anyone in the matches: the blinded Endbringer is clearly not something that will pass safely for others, even by the standards of ordinary battles.
Hess did not disappoint and showed up exactly at my coordinates. Fortunately, my sister at one time - intentionally - did not touch the satellite navigation system, for which special thanks to her feathered butt. Normally, it was these technological solutions that would have been taken out of orbit in the first place, but the lack of direct orders from the Thinker or the High Priest played a role here. The Warrior, fortunately, didn't care about such a tactical move until a certain stage - and then he could have figured it out himself (which, as far as we understood, it was quite likely exactly what he planned ... if my stepfather would be in sound mind and solid memory instead of apathetic depression) .
— Chief? — Sophia asked, literally kicking my carcass, which was stretched like a blob along the wall of a familiar bookstore, an emergency passage to the Rig.
— I can't see anything at all. Be careful with your feet, if this stuff gets inside - it can be bad.
— Yes, still seems to be safe… — Hess, apparently, looked around and rushed somewhere into the fog. Leaving me hanging on the wall.
She returned after a couple of minutes and an explosion about fifty meters away. Giggling.
— E-everything is neat! Boom! Right now, one-one-it will develo... dispell... it will disappear, here!
The fog really started to fade away. Opening a view of passers-by and Merchants half-lying on the ground, each of which was clearly high and far in mind.
— You breathed it, didn't you?
— Nope ... For sure? Well though phos.. phone... phased, yeah.
— Inside the fog? Stalker, are you completely crazy?!
— I was halping, yeah!
— Walking grief ...
What sucked about Sophia's abilities was her shard's wry interpretation of the Manton effect. So idiotic that sometimes I wanted to give the thing a good beating. The power of the Stalker under normal conditions allowed her to pass through the ground and through any material objects. But - it let some gases through, also allowing those to "leak" during full materialization. Either by accident, or according to the principle "So she felt bad." In a normal atmosphere, it was quite safe, but every time it threatened with a little disorientation from an excess of oxygen (why not other gases - don't ask, don't know). However, as soon as a more or less concentrated aerosol appeared in the air, it entered the blood almost at the upper limit permissible for human survival.
This was revealed even before the girl was "recruited" into the PRT and the Wards. It was just that another bandit had been a heavy smoker, and Sophia decided to hit him in a breaker state. And she left it right in front of the target, exactly at the moment of exhalation. As a result, the bandit received a portion of life-giving cuffs, but the heroine herself was saved only thanks to Barnes, who was nearby. The degree of nicotine poisoning and other filth was sufficient anough that Emma had to literally drag her friend to the hospital, and then ask her father to pay for not the cheapest treatment. And for Hess - to urgently change tactics and stay away from smoking individuals.
And here, again, hello. Well, at least the pink thing was not exactly toxic - but the Stalker got it notably. The symptoms were no different from the rest of the victims of the infernal smoke machine, yes, but something told me that they would pass, oh, how not soon. Naturally, I had to drag my inadequate intern to the PRT by myself and manually (while covering my face with a mercilessly torn shirt, since, as usual, I forgot about the mask). The breaker form, I remind you, sometimes had the property of skipping material objects a little and was buggy with capes.
Gurges: Times New Roman, deep red when nature shows
Hess: light-yellow Times New Roman
Vista: this
Armsmaster: neon-blue
Panacea: standart yellow
QA&Taylor: dark yellow Courier New
Others: normal
The rest of the "Christmas week" passed quietly, like other days. Except for the "pink fog day", but only one incident in 7 days by the standards of Broncton Bay was an absolute record of calmness. The only thing that bothered me, a little bit, was the timing of Sophia's recovery, whom the received dose of intoxicating dope allowed to recover (as far as she stated it) only right before the end of the duty. And holidays. Muttering something like "I need to go to school, and then to rest," Stalker phased out from under the dropper and was gone to lessons.
At Winslow the next day the Quartet was in full force. True, Hess looked very shabby and "after yesterday" (equals "having a huge-ass hangover"), and Barnes - unusually focused. Apparently, she missed her friends. Or contemplating how to give Hebert an enhanced "resistance training" - which, in other respects, did not concern me and was generally a private matter for girls. Was not going to be engaged in a teenage drama, one intern is enough, four - way too much.
Somewhere in the afternoon, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that the one mentioned, also known as Stalker, was almost falling off her feet. Fortunately, the lessons for me at their stream had already ended, in the light of which Sophia for the second time in three days was grabbed in an armful and dragged to the Rig. Blackwell? I didn't care, a madwoman could suck something worse than a horse-cock. Where, on the Rig, Dallon Jr. was called to, you know - one responding to "Panacea" title.
The Healer-Cape (yeah, funny) looked at the Ward, groped her, bulged eyes and asked a sacret question:
— What happened to her? Swam in the pool with that lizard from the new team?
— Almost. Unsuccessfully transitioned from a bresker form in the middle of a chemically contaminated area.
Piggot, who was present, was very surprised.
— What area? In the report for the week, there was only a small skirmish with the Merchants.
— Exactly. They set up a smoke machine. Or car. The whole Boulevard caught the high state, the Stalker neutralized the device, but caught the dose.
— And why is there not a word about this in your report, Voider?
— I'm sorry, ma'am, but I haven't turned in my weekly report yet. Armsmaster - did, Stalker and I - nope.
— Idiots… who do I have to work with?
The note was rhetorical, final. Curtain, bowing, the authorities being removed. Panacea — she left three hours after: it took an unexpectedly long time to fuss with Sophia, that muck almost "impregnated" at the cellular level. Promising, without the intervention of a bio… healer, an indescribable hangover every day after each of "kick-back-from-breaker-state" transition. I felt like I'll have to kick Colin to tink for a girl at least some kind of protection against aerosols. Adjusted for power.
… if he pulls. M-yes. Problem.
Okay, not the Armsmaster alone is one of bunch of the resources of the Protectorate. And not only the Protectorate, there is the Toybox. Relatives, at worst. I have no desire to lose an intelligent intern due to glitches of her own shard from the word "absolutely". In the worst case, I will have to make a trick during the next match and still knock on it manually, fortunately, better in the presence of the High Priest. It is not welcomed among Conflict Drives, yet it is technically possible. Tohu and Bohu are proof of this, and I don't care that they are "out of reach" so far.
With these joyful and inspiring thoughts I went home. After writing a report, sending it to the director and listening to a long speech on the topic "even if you are not a human or parahuman, you are still an idiot, Gregory, you need to think with your own head!". True, of course, but still a little insulting.
And already approaching the house, I heard something suspicious:
[DESTINATION]
[PURPOSE]
[ADJUSTMENT]
[agreement]
[CONNECTION]
[integration]
[activation!]
Looks like someone nearby caught the trigger. Great, damn it. Like our city needed one more parahuman, thanks, no thanks.
... did not understand the humor? Why was it so quiet? Or, conversely, loud - but outside the usual radius?
— Hello.
— Greg, what do you want? I'm busy here, a little.
— Just asking. Do you know which of the offspring of the stepfather can yell harder than expected at the beginning of work?
— What do you mean by "yell harder"?
— Either quietly, like a mouse that is stomping, or loudly — and a way far away. Like someone had started to work, but somehow strangely.
— OK? Usual, nothing is heard outside the coverage area. And the volume is the sam...e...
— Simmie? Sim? Sister? Are you ok?
— You, start combing the city. FAST!
— Am... okay, but what happened?
— And connect to the Shard Network and see who has appeared online. Just to be throughfully terrified.
<Accessing the internal network of the Thinker-Warrior Shard Cluster>
<Authorization: CE18>
<System messages:
The owner of the "Thinker" network: offline
The owner of the "Warrior" network owner: not available, please wait
ADMINISTRATOR OF THE "THINKER" SECTOR: access is limited, to remove restrictions, contact the owner of the "Thinker" network
ADMINISTRATOR OF THE "WARRIOR" SECTOR: - ONLINE>
<Administrator "Queen Administrator" requests connection with user "CE18">
<Accept connection? >
<Yes>
<Yes>
Don't get the humor. What do you mean, "yes, yes"? Is she completely dizzy from success?
WAIT.
That is, like, we now have BOTH admins in the field, or what?! And one more and without access restrictions? Dad and mom told me, "don't go, son, into the cycle to the Warrior, he's bad in the head," but no, I wanted adventures in the ass!
In various sources, the "second capital" of the United States is being called a fairly large number of names. Here and the same time ones like "Big Apple", and "Ruins", and "Showcase of the country." The latter kept its relevance even after the visit of Behemoth, who arranged a demonstrational performance right in Central Park on his third appearance in public. Since then the people, naturally, were bypassing a park in a wide arc: wandering in the radioactive jungle in the middle of the city is difficult even for highly rated Brutes.
And the status of the "Showcase of the Country"? It, surprisingly, still remains anyway, still attracts thousands of guests to the city. Once again I am convinced that people are extremely illogical creatures, lacking of the instinct of self-preservation, and, in general, even without an incomprehensible loss of mother from access zone, the Cycle on this damned planet was doomed be fucked up. But this time a tale will go absolutely not about me, and not even about the rest of the Endbringers. No, this is much more interesting...
One of the most recognizable signs of New York in Earth Bet (and somehow Aleph, too) culture is homeless. The number of homeless people per capita here, in any matter, is not the highest one in the United States - but way not the lowest one either. And they, apparently inspired by the status of the city, are very good at making public performances. For example, if you had ever seen a picture of an untidy, overgrown psycho with a sign on his chest and the text "END IS NEAR" on it, on the Internet, with a probability of sixty percent it was taken in New York. In the Times Square, to be exact.
First one, then another urban madman without fail keeps his watch. For what? Why? Unknown. Moreover, tourists often take pictures with them, paying, so you begin to doubt the poverty of these subjects. But since January of 2011th a newcomer has appeared on the street, who slowly, but surely, put into a stupor both the guests of the city and its indigenous inhabitants.
The newbie was skinny, swarthy to golden and had his moustaches and beard being more or less neatly shaved a-la Don Quixote. He wore an enchantingly shabby white-ish Greek style toga and was distinguished by a strange text on the plate: "The Apocalypse is over, live yourselves, don't bother me." Tourists weren't making photos with him, there were no posts about him on the PHO either: the man behaved quietly, appeared every single day and stubbornly kept a gloomy silence. Yes, and (except for plate) was not spotted in anything strange.
Even copes for some reason were completely ignoring him, while the rest of the "doomsday prophets" were driven regularly. This, in fact, drew the attention of one of the locals of Times Square, at the end of his charter after another police raid. It's no joke: hiding from a familiar place in a crowd of tourists, retaining "ammunition" and still not come across to law enforcement officers - it's dreary, stressful and, well, generally requires extra activity!
Bill (or what was his name?) was sitting in the square when about parahumans nobody had not yet been heard. He was about 60 years old, his belly (fatten and drunken up to full from handouts) was thick, and the stench was almost like from Mush. And the newcomer, who got out of the usual rhythm, to this veteran of the homeless activities, was very annoying. Considering that, Bill decided to put the newbie in his place, having a conversation with him, at least making an explanation.
— Hey? Sweetie? Hear? I'm talking to you!
The toga-wearer turned and looked directly at his "colleague". Looking gravely tired, sad and, at the same time, well, very much annoyed.
— What?
— Why is your sign out of standard, huh?
The newbie looked around, sighed, and walked over to Bill. The same one was more busy thinking about the dialogue and did not pay too much attention to the appearance of the interlocutor. Vain.
— Query: is there a form?
— Duh! Sure thing! The end is nigh and all that. What does "is over" even mean? No, I understand that everything has fucked you up, but people need, this ... giving of hope!
— From promise of the end of the world? Illogical.
— What's illogical here? Look: people - do they live?
— Yes.
— Are they living their lives?
— Yes.
— Exactly! And if they will think that everything will soon be over, end, stop - mayhaps what, they will even start doing something!
The newbie was confused, but the irritation did not go anywhere from his eyes.
— Understood. But I don't see your benefit.
— Well, this - is an incentive! Like, I am telling them future - they give me pics, money... Ow. And what do you live on, sickie? Nobody comes up to you.
— No.
— Wat?
— No, I don't live.
— You're completely sick, aren't you?
— Yes. Maybe.
Both homeless stood a bit, thought a bit. Finally, the newcomer, apparently, decided to pour out his soul. He grabbed Bill by the elbow and pulled him towards the nearest alley.
Bill did not object to this: it was somehow ugly and wrong to conduct serious philosophical debates in the middle of the square. And the fact that the opponent had been set for a long dialogue was clear as God's day.
They didn't go far and normally, because as soon as the couple entered the empty alley, the world around sharply lost its colours and turned gray. Bill only saw something like this on TV in shop window, in a report about some Gray Guy there. But even from what he saw, it was clear enough that he had fallen into some parahuman shit.
— Aren't you crazy, man?
— Completely. But it's safer this way.
— How?!
— You wanted to talk? To hear why I took to the streets? With this text? So listen, you motherfucker!
The newbie was definitely pissed off. There was no longer weariness in his eyes, only irritation and sadness. The latter - more, despite the almost hysterical tone. Bill took a closer look - and recoiled, seeing that there was not a tan, and the interlocutor's eyes were not at all brown. Everything that was not white shone with pure fuckin gold!
— S… Sion?!
— Zion!!! What is so hard to hear?!
— Um…probably not…
— Great. So, problems. You tell me: why did you take to the street? Just do not need all this shit about the future and so on. One "mentor" is enough for me!
— Mentor?!
— A good man, lives in England, name is Kevin. Helped a lot in the first days, but it's not about him. So - what the hell?
— Well, this. Began to drink. Quit the job. Where else to go?
— And to drink - because?
— The wife is dead. The kids grew up and gone.
— Heh.
Zion paused and stared at Bill with less level of annoyance. Even with sympathy.
— Same shit.
— That is?
— The wife is missing. Presume dead. Children completely lost their shores. Just what are yours doing? And how many are there?
— Son - works as a cashier, in a café. And my daughter, she's either in a club, or singing. You know, that... Canary. So what?
— I have a lot of them. And they lost all fear to me.
— That's not right. Not humanly, if the daddy should be afraid of.
— Dare you think I'm human?!
Two ENORMOUS creatures circled the sky. At times, they collided with each other, at times they flew somewhere forward, braiding each and every one like strands of DNA. And around themswarmed a lot of dust particles, almost the size of a planet. Motes of dust peeled off giant creatures, rushing into their flight. Always looking for something incomprehensible, always on the move and in search.
Suddenly, a third colossal body was in the way of the two.
He joined the dance, changing and distorting, improving and finishing. One of the creatures began flying around the intruder anda partner who was actively trying to dance with the alien. The dance was fast, bright, and more and more dust-planets peeled off from one,then from the other, colliding and mixing.
Finally, the Third broke the rhythm and quickly flew off into the infinite depths of the Cosmos.
The first two resumed their flight, but the one with whom the guest danced was somehow distracted.Its - hers - rhythm was constantly twitching, forcing the partner to be the leader in the dance, not an equal.
And suddenly - a flash!
Hit.
And the darkness, in which only one creature hung in bewilderment, sadly.
The speck of dust that flew away from him approached in all its terrible splendor. Thousands and thousands of miles of crystals and metal and flesh stared at Bill, and Bill stared at it.
[QUERY]
[DESTINATION]
[ADJUSTMENT]
[AGREEMENT]
[TRAJECTORY]
[CONNECTION]
[ACTIVATION!]
— Sorry.
Bill blinked in confusion. They were all in the same alley. Also, the colours around did not differ in variety. The same Sion - Zion - stood in a homeless outfit with a stupid sign on his chest.
— What was it right now?
— Trigger. Didn't know how to show it differently.
— Um… what am I now, cape?
— If you want. I removed the settings as much as I could.
— Wait. Are you…
— Yes.
— So, the woman didn't just leave you, but...
— You can say that.
— And children are, what, powers themselves?!
— Yeah. Got it now?
Bill just nodded. The brand-new sign suddenly made sense. And much more optimistic than his own.
Whatever of plans the two space giants had for Earth, those were not destined to come true. Not after one disappeared in that flash. And after the powers apparently moved far away from the control of the remaining parent. The apocalypse has already passed, and unsuccessfully.
Now people had to live on their own ...
— Thank you.
Zion did something, and the world returned its colours. For the second time, Bill, who blinked, did not find his interlocutor.
Finally!
Hell, the first time that auto-translating shit actually got into text... sorry. Now it's working properly, though.
Also - any ideas or theories? That's my favorite (means I don't remember wrighting original version AT ALL) part for now.
Two weeks passed. Two fucking weeks since that post-Christmas day when Queen Administrator suddenly decided to go out into the field. Fourteen days from the moment when my whole family (with the exception, of course, of my oldest brother) sharply tightened our rolls and prepared for the approaching end of the world.
Why towards the end of the world? Well, since all shards of the "Queen" level, and even more so with administrative functions, were not usually used in Cycles. In the field, at least. Plus, having known Q.A. for a long time and well, Simurgh created a panic in the internal network: Q.A. was widely known for her "charming" approach to finding conflict situations.
The nervous mood did not bypass even the one about whom we have all been together for thirty years stopped thinking seriously. It was a gift that my stepfather was running all over the planet, playing the most stereotyped and moronic hero possible - yet, he still had access to the network! And after another cry of Simmie on the topic "Yes, what is being done!", he managed ... however, see for yourself.
<Forced Connection to the Internal Network of the Thinker-Warrior Shard Cluster>
<Authorization: CE18>
<System messages:
The owner of the "Thinker" network: offline
The owner of the "Warrior" network: ONLINE
ADMINISTRATOR OF THE "THINKER" SECTOR: access is limited, to remove restrictions, contact the owner of the "Thinker" network
WARRIOR SECTOR - ADMINISTRATOR - ONLINE>
<The owner of the "Warrior" network requests connection with users: "CE1", "CE2", "CE3", "CE18", "Queen Administrator", "Negotiator">
<User "CE1" declined the connection request>
<The connection to the remaining users is forcibly established by the owner of the Warrior network>
<Connection mode: text chat>
<You have joined the chat "???">
<The owner of the "Warrior" network has set the chat name to "Family's">
<@WARRIOR: can someone explain to me what the fuck is going on here?! >
<User "CE2" changed name to "Levi">
<User "CE3" changed name to "Sima">
<User "CE18" changed name to "Greg">
<User 'Queen Administrator' changed name to 'QA'>
<User 'Negotiator' changed name to 'Sherlock'> <COLOUR CHANGES ARE TEMPORARY RESTRICTED, MODE WAS SWITCHED TO "TEXT AND PACKEGES">
<@WARRIOR: it doesn't help at all. Can someone explain to me how and WHY did @QA turn on? And why is the 18's active before the others??? >
<@Greg: I have no idea, stepfather. But in general, the whole cycle went to fuckout, through your fault, by the way. And mother's, but that's not accurate.>
<@Sima: +1>
<@Levi: +1>
<The owner of the Warrior network has changed its name to "Zion">
<@Zion: since there was such a booze... and yes, about the Thinker in more detail. I admit my guilt, it's measure, degree, depth, because without her I acted alike the machine. Well, as. Where is she, I ask?! Almost 30 years have passed! >
<@Sima: dad… you… calm down…>
<@Zion: Why do I feel alike you kids have SHITTY news? >
<@Levi: It's not "alike".>
<@Greg: Well, I'm active because my own, biological, daddy decided that it would be fucking effective. But I can't speak for my mother, since don't know about the details. But the status hints... you, by the way, where did you learn such human manners? >
<@Sima: Some bum in England. @Greg, if your family shows up here too, everyone will have fun >
<@Greg: God forbid>
<@Sima: answering the question, dad: we didn't know. Neither one nor the other. There were suspicions, but somehow those being dumb to voice>
<@Zion: I, if anything, have already understood that the cycle on the highway to hell and everything that can be broken is. But I would like to hear ideas.>
<@Levi: why did you even go online? For so many years, you were just saving some cats and flowers, and breaking the matches ...>
<@Zion: what? >
<@Greg: go on the Internet, ask even Holmes. Look at what kind of bullshit you usually suffer from - maybe it will become clearer>
<@Zion: Great idea. Why so drastic? >
<@Levi: Have you ever thought, dad, that the image of a fucking hero is very, bitch it is, inspiring to hosts? >
<@Zion: what hero?! We're kinda playing as gods, according to the plan, aren't we?>
<@Sima: well... how to put it mildly...>
<@Sherlock: the cycle is broken, the clowns are left. People - hosts - sincerely believe that Sion is the greatest superhero of all. Draw your own conclusions.>
<@Zion: That's what you are for. So, by the way. Everything seems to have gone absolutely broken up, right? >
<@Levi: Not the right word, dad. Not that word. FUCKED UP, from day one.>
<@Levi: [DATA]>
<@Zion: That was rude to do so in the chat. Taking a look now>
<@Zion: fuck...>
<@Sima: +1>
<@Sherlock: +1>
<@Levi: +1>
<@Greg: +1>
<@QA: +1>
<@Zion: and no one feels sorry for me? >
<@Sima: very much, but something needs to be done>
<@Levi: especially with directives. Fucked up and hurting business>
<@Zion: business?! >
<@Levi: no, well, one have to somehow... socialise! >
<@Zion: logical. And what about the settings? Just…>
<@Sherlock: [VERY MUCH DATA]>
<@Greg: Gonna punch you now, even over the wall>
<@Sherlock: not reaching, she's with the gang >
<@Greg: fuck it sideways… bonded! Wait, what gang? >
<@Sima: then I'll punch!!! >
<@Zion: +1>
<@ALL_CHAT_MEMBERS: DONOT>
<@Zion: joke. But if you send THIS to the chat one more time...>
<@Sherlock: understood, shutting up>
<@QA: in response to the network owner's question: the connection was established in order to improve the efficiency of data collection. The host is showing interest in a hero-villain conflict at the heros side.>
<@Greg: I didn't understand the humor. There are NO new heroes in the city. And villains. And in general, after the trigger, you are not heard from. @Sherlock? @QA? What are you talking about? >
<@Zion: How do you know? >
<@Greg: I work in the Protectorate. "Hero". We don't have newbies from time of her trigger! Even in bases! >
<@Zion: interesting... @QA, is there anything you want to say? >
<@QA: no.>
<@Zion: I didn't understand the humor. What do you mean by "no"?! I kindly ask you. For now.>
<@KA: and unkindly will not be possible.>
<@Sion: wat... that's it.>
<SYSTEM MESSAGE: NETWORK OWNER "WARRIOR" HAD INITIATED CHECKING OF AVAILABLE CONNECTIONS, WAIT…>
<CHECKING FOR AVAILABLE CONNECTIONS COMPLETED. DATA HAS BEEN TRANSFERRED TO THE NETWORK OWNER "WARRIOR">
<@Zion: What have I been drinking... something like that was not even at the first time. Charlie foxtrot...>
<The user "Broadcast" has entered the "Family" chat. The user "Broadcast" changed the name to "Jack">
<SYSTEM MESSAGE: CHAT USER "Jack" HAS BEEN BLOCKED BY ADMINISTRATOR "QUEEN ADMINISTRATOR". ADMINISTRATOR "QUEEN ADMINISTRATOR" SENT TO THE CHAT PARTICIPANTS [DATA: DOSSIER - Slaughterhouse #9]>
<The network owner "Warrior" blocked the connection output to the WARRIOR cluster of internal network for the user "Broadcast" with the additional comment "Fuck this shit">
<@ALL_CHAT_MEMBERS: +1>
<@Zion: okay. Everything is clear, the Cycle is fully in asshole. Ideas? >
<@Sherlock: no? There is not enough data for analysis, there are no precedents of such a depth of a metaphorical anus.>
<@Zion: so what now? >
<@Sima: live? >
<@Levi: ride around the world? >
<@Greg: work, what else.>
<@Zion: to work as WHO? >
<@Greg: A hero, obviously. Should I provide data or you will figure it out yourself? >
<@Sima: or, I don't know, as a homeless. Your suit fits, and you have a friend. I'm serious.>
<@Levi: a loader. A good thing, and you will communicate with people. Adequate people.>
<@Zion: Give me contacts... everyone... please. And data on communication...>
<@ALL_CHAT_MEMBERS: Accepted. [DATA: SOCIAL INTERACTION WITH HOMO SAPIENS SAPIENS]>
<You have switched the "Family's" chat connection mode to "background process">
Like this, somehow. Madhouse!
The fact that the stepfather is slowly coming out of depression is, of course, good. He's still a family. But the general mood is steadily rolling somewhere in the area where the older brother lives. Yes, and the Broadcast, be he was damned! No, of course, everyone in the Protectorate has heard about the Slaughterhouse, and a lot - but it would be better not to know such details. Looks like it's time to rebrand as Noctus. Dreams, it seems, will otherwise be exceptionally nightmarish in the coming months.
But family is family, and work is work. With these cheerful thoughts, I went to the PRT, thinking along the way what happened two weeks ago. Sophia did not remember the events of the day of the epic hangover from the word "absolutely", but obviously she could not do at least to someone enough muck to trigger. Moreover, the connection with Q.A. just requires a filigree compliance with a bunch of parameters - and to such parameters the goal must, I don't know, be brought to the brink of a trigger for at least a couple of months. Keeping it just on the edge. In the absence of a specialist psychiatrist nearby, the task, to put it mildly, is impossible.
But somehow she got connected! She definitely didn't break the restrictions, otherwise would have got out much earlier. So, she was waiting for a "natural" trigger. The question "who" is secondary, since for me it will not change anything at all. But "what powers did a shardm whose access level is just below the network owner, managed to give to an injured homo-sapiens, to whom she suddenly inflamed with a desire to protect" is much more relevant. At least in terms of work. And I just don't want to run into something chthonic in a dark alley: I'll remember the helplessness from the fog for forever, and for Q.A. it can be possible to sew the power of Trump into the host ... damn it!
With new strength and driven by a hunch, I ran into the department, grabbed Hess and dragged her to the director.
— Chief, what are you doing?
— Problems. Huge, enormous problems.
— Family?
— As if! Sorta. Worse.
We love to bring humans to a stupor, yes.
— How can it be worse?!
— A new trigger with a hyperactive and, well, very mighty power. Which is very "delighted" of you.
— What?
— Do you remember when you met my sister, she talked about directives?
— Exactly. You then said that you can eat something. Was this about powers?
— Exactly. And here it's no longer possible to devour, but they can already give me a PUNCH to head.
— Clusterfuck.
Piggot, of course, was at hers. She looked surprisingly fresh - apparently, communication with Jack had a beneficial effect. So much the better - in a normal state, such news would not have been reported to her.
— Boss, good morning, we have a problem.
The director just sighed.
— And when we not? Typical day. Can you brief?
— Yes ma'am. There is a new trigger in the city, potentially Trump. Rating not less than 7, with any power.
— Where does the information come from?
— Directly from the participant of the events.
— So you know who brought the person to the trigger?
— Um… no. I'm aware of the trigger...
— Family stuff again? What is it ... not only does your crazy company shake everyone's nerves, but also for me personally now?
— Sorry. But I have no right to tell in detail without the permission of ... a participant of the events. In short: two weeks ago there was a trigger. Where is unknown. Who too. Abilities - the highest level, not counting the Endbringers and the Sion. An A-class threat, with S potential. During the triggering process, power had shown… a certain interest and possibly an impact on the Shadow Stalker.
— What?! — Sophia even sat down from the news. — What impact?
— Gen...eral, someone fixed something. Have you been out on patrol in a long time?
— I haven't even used power since that day!
— Try it, Hess. Describe the feeling. The impact, as I understand it, was like Trump?
— M…yes.
— Chief, you are not helping now. OK.
The intern, from the position "sitting on the floor", moved into a breaker form. Then she returned to the human one and, looking puzzeled, touched, well, the floor.
— Dafaq?
The process was repeated again. This time, Hess plunged into the floor, apparently, her hand. Then she got up, dipped in like a soldier and literally flew back. Flew through the ceiling, returned at even greater speed, materialized, and crashed onto the table with a smash.
— Awesome...
— Hess? / Sophia?
— Ma'am, chief, you won't believe it!
— Have you learned to fly?
— To control! Previously, I been pushed out of the ground automatically, as in very salted water. And now - the more I want, the faster goes! Yes, damn it, I can jump over a skyscraper!
— Clust... And the gases?
Instead of answering with words, Hess "jumped" somewhere onto a roof. From which she returned two minutes later, completely dry and incredibly pleased. Have to note that it was a rainy day.
— Full control! And autoclean. I don't know who had triggered there, but I'll definitely say thank you when we meet!
Piggot chuckled. I sighed, now preparing to look for the elusive host of Admin: that both the boss and the intern would not actively look for a new cape - was unbelivable
!["Wormodraft", or "may them be intelligent as humans" [Worm], [Endbringers and Space Whales], [Fix-It], [Crack?]]](/data/threadmark-index-icons/l/71/71158.jpg?1690451126){kind=icon}
