Sandworm [Worm OC- Sands of Time theme]

Crouching low on the van's roof, you cling to the Dagger of Time as the wind rips past, your cheap shoes slipping on the smooth metal. Gallant stands tall between you and Glory Girl, his magnetic boots locked in place as she drags the van through the howling sky.

In the distance, approaching fast, PHQ's forcefield dome shimmers like a soap-bubble on the ocean. The former oil-rig's lightbridge reaches the north ferry station to suck up lines of vehicles - fresh troops to prepare prison cells for your arrival.

Grue and Dad are in the van below, collateral caught in Coil's trap. If you can't escape, no one can.

But how?

Glory Girl is invulnerable, in her forcefield, and in her righteousness. Nothing can stop her - not strong winds, low clouds, or steel towers. Unstoppable, untouchable, not a strand of silver hair out of place as she enforces the law.

She's the picture-perfect teenage hero; your judge, jury, and executioner.

The dagger's cracked glass hilt digs into your palm. You look away, searching for another answer.

Turbulence yanks at the handcuffed remains of your severed arm - a gory fetter earned from misjudging a hero. Gallant stares at it, LEDs in his helmet slowly shifting blue to green. Trust the PR department to stick mood lights on a guy who sees souls.

Maybe that's the answer. Gallant's empathic powers force him to see the truth in people. If you convince him you're not the villain Coil framed you as, then maybe - just maybe - Glory Girl will let you go.

Empathy is your last hope.

You shout against the wind, "Please, listen!"

"No," Glory Girl says. Her grip tightens on the steel struts of the van's rollcage, making it groan in pain.

"But I'm with the Protectorate! Victoria, you were there when I signed up! I'm a hero!"

"Yeah, to steal powers, obviously." Glory Girl sneers. "Shut up before my fingers slip."

Gallant's visor glows teal. "Vicky, let's hear him out. There's a lot of guilt in his aura, and we're both resistant to Masters."

Glory Girl's voice could cut glass. "Careful. He stole from Panacea. He'll steal yours, too."

Gallant nods, then recites, "Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to remain silent, or to waive that right, anytime you choose. We, uh, can't get a lawyer up here, but one can be provided later, at no cost, in a secure location. Do you understand these terms? Are you willing to speak without an attorney present?"

It stings, the way Gallant treats you as one of 'them' instead of 'us'. You're not friends this time.

"Yes. Listen." You shift, kneeling, nearly begging. "I have fought people, like Heartbreaker and the E88, but I traveled back in time to prevent what's coming. Heroes like Armsmaster and Battery will die if you don't let me-"

A tortured squeal of steel drowns you out as Glory Girl's strangles the van's struts. "How dare you pretend attacking my sister is for the greater good!"

Of course, it comes back to her family. There's no avoiding it.

You take a deep breath. "I didn't hurt Amy. I gave her a choice."

"You took advantage of her!" Glory Girl twists steel as if wringing a towel. "Manipulated her-"

"No, Victoria. The cracks were showing long before she broke. Amy told me her powers saved you, but then she became a slave to saving everyone. I offered hope."

The wind howls between you, and for a moment, Glory Girl looks away. A crack in her invulnerability. Maybe you can get through?

You press on. "If things have changed, then I'm sorry. But Amy isn't like you. She didn't want to be Panacea."

The van trembles in Glory Girl's grip. She frowns... and says nothing, lips pressed tight. The wind calms a little as her flight slows.

Gallant's words are not meant for you, but they float on the wind. "He's not lying, Vicky. That guilt? It's real... And so is yours."

Victoria hisses, "Whose side are you on?" Gallant shrugs an awkward apology.

"Wait, you knew?" you ask, a nasty parallel coming into sharp focus. "You saw her falling apart, and you just… let it happen? But you're family…"

Steel screams in Glory Girl's hands as her fists clench. The strained metal struts buckle under the pressure, bending sharply down.

The roof tilts vertical, leaving you to dangle by the dagger over what the locals call the Boat Graveyard - a massive spike pit of broken masts and rust-red waves crashing against PHQ's forcefield.

Glory Girl's eyes widen as she catches another strut to steady the van. Guilt and anger flicker across her face as she grabs for something to steady herself.

"See what happens when you twist things too much?" she says, voice wavering.

The bravado doesn't land. She's shaken. You're getting to her.

You get your footing back in a crouch, gripping the dagger tight. "You're only here because I did what you couldn't. Has anyone sanctioned this arrest, or are you a vigilante as well as a hypocrite?"

"It's a citizen's arrest, jerkface!" Glory Girl closes her eyes, just for a second, before they fly open, rock solid. "I'm working within the law."

"Victoria, listen to me. The law is corrupt. There are moles in the PRT-"

"It doesn't matter, no one is above the law."

"Then what do you call this?" You gesture wide - to the van, to the sky, and to the city below - your severed arm slapping wetly against the metal.

Glory Girl cringes. Like Amy, her hero mask is on the inside, and the cracks are showing. When she finally speaks, her words are low and heavy, each one growing stronger, "I trust the law. When I can't, I do what's right. And that means locking you up before you hurt someone else."

Gallant reaches for her, but stuck in magnetic boots, he can only twist awkwardly. He turns back to you with a glow building in his fist.

"Calm down," Gallant says. "Surrender peacefully. The best way this ends is before a jury."

So much for empathy. Too much ugliness resonates between you. They won't listen. Not to words.

You shift into a sprinter's stance, three points braced on the van's roof. "What if the law is corrupt?"

"Then fix it," Glory Girl snaps. "From the inside. Work with it. Believe in it."

"How can I?" You retract the dagger's blade, freeing it from the roof without visibly moving. "People in power twist laws however they want. There's no honor even among capes. I was outed today in front of my civilian father. Did you know he's here, in the van? Do you even care?"

Gallant twists around to look at Glory Girl. Neither has an answer.

You continue, "I thought not. You're here for honor; I hurt your family, so now you'll hurt mine. Laws are conceits used to justify your power." Your grip on the dagger tightens, the tension humming from hand to hand, head to toe. "The power to monopolize violence."

"Laws keep us human. The real conceit? Is thinking you can talk your way out of this. But I'll say it in your words: If laws monopolize violence, then hell yeah, I am the law."

You charge, dagger out. If violence is proof of law, you'll hold it at her neck.

Gallant fires - his blast grazing your shoulder. Warm endorphins floods your veins, soft and inviting. Just relax, the feeling whispers. Let go. But deep within, a genuine betrayal cuts through the false calm like acid.

You grit your teeth, grab Gallant, and leap over him, dagger pointed.

Glory Girl is strong, not fast. The dagger touches her forcefield - it crackles, sparks. Then it shatters, and time's living blade lunges for her throat.

Pull back - too late. Slip on cold metal, squeaking to a stop on the van's windscreen. Then look at what you've done.

Victoria clutches at her neck; golden sands gushing between her fingers. Unstoppable, untouchable - untrue. Glory Girl's power is a bluff. Her righteous might has all the strength of a soap-bubble. That wound will grow until it rips her to the grain.

You should have known. Time is violence. Time murders all.

A pit opens in your stomach. You didn't want this.

Victoria - with one hand and without her forcefield - holds the van up for a tenth of a second.

Then it falls - along with you, Dad, Grue, and Gallant too - towards the trap of gnashing, crashing, rusting wrecks the locals call the Boat Graveyard.

You use the Dagger of Time. Everything stops. Time hangs, frozen, reluctant. The Dahaka stirs behind your eyes, almost asking: Why should I?

But time does rewind, obeying a pact unsigned and unspoken.

The van rises - along with you, Dad, Grue, and Gallant too - into Glory Girl's grip as her neck reknits before the Sands of Time can devour her.

You slide back on the roof to where and when the argument began. Time resumes.

"Laws keep us human," Glory Girl begins.

But Gallant interrupts, shielding his eyes. "What the hell? What was that?"

Ten seconds of regret compressed in a bullet and shot at empathy's eye. But unlike Gallant, your emotion blasts only hurt yourself.

You sigh, letting go of the dagger's hilt. "You know what? I don't want to fight. Let's try your way." You kneel, both hands empty. "I surrender. Just - please - don't make me hate myself more than I already do."

Below, Grue splashes into the red waves, an ink drop spreading to stain the sea.

He will escape, but you and Dad?

You'll try to believe laws are stronger than soap-bubbles.

---

"Can villains actually do that?" Victoria asks.

"I guess," Gallant answers, then he radios the incoming capture.

PHQ's forcefield thins, turning permeable. Passing through feels like diving into a plasma ball, a slick and tingly ionosphere making your ears pop. The air inside smells of ozone and old lightning. You move to smooth your hair down, but stop at Victoria's glare.

Fine. Hands stay up.

The van - the Undersiders poor, tortured get-away van - bounces once on the helipad and collapses into scrap. A tire rolls off, disappearing behind swarms of black-masked troops.

You stand to greet them.

"Drop the weapon!"

You pause. What weapon? Oh, the dagger, you picked it up by habit. You tuck the handle in your belt.

"On the ground! Drop the weapon on the ground!"

The demand makes no sense. While you stand their, blinking in confusion, Victoria hauls Gallant off the wreckage, out of the line of fire.

The troopers fall into formation - a half-wagon wheel, spokes poking inwards. Shotguns and spray-cannons aim at your chest. They keep shouting orders, but their voices overlap and blur together into nonsense.

They clearly want something, but whatever it is lies just outside your ability to conceptualize. It's like losing your keys; you can look right at them, but still fail to recognise them. There's a blocker in your brain.

Maybe they're on edge because you're on higher ground?

Hands still raised - shoulders aching from holding position too long - you slowly walk forwards. Each step measured to be non-threatening. Down from the roof, onto the hood, then onto the cement platform below.

The troopers shuffle back, maintaining formation. They keep their distance, weapons tracking your every move, fingers itching on triggers. The yelling grows louder, more volatile, less coherent.

What are they afraid of? You've surrendered. You're cooperating.

Their names stenciled white on their black Kevlar jackets. Some you knew in a past life - Starsky, Hutchinson, and Han - guys who taught you to shoot, now on the other side of a gun. How the worm turns.

You sigh, and try diplomacy. "Hi guys-"

The spray-cannons explode. Han shot first.

Superhuman reactions let you appreciate how confoam bends physics. Thick gray clouds grow thicker as they expand, inverting the mass/density ratio. Quite the honor, really. Confoam supplies must be limited now that Dragon is unpowered.

Foam engulfs you. Feels like being wrapped in elastic, like being a fly in a spiderweb. Don't fight it; you know confoam. The harder you fight it, the harder it fights back.

So just relax. This is procedure.

Then you feel the swabs.

A chemical warmth spreads over your hand, the one resting on the Dagger of Time. A dissolving agent selectively freeing the area. You realize what's happening.

"No." You try to speak, but foam seals your mouth shut, muffles your voice.

"No, no, no..." You try to turn, but you can't. Confoam turns to solid stone when you try.

The touch of cold, hard metal. A crowbar wiggling to get in your grip.

The first finger is pried loose.

"Don't take it!" you scream through teeth that chew rocks. "I need it!"

They don't care.

The second finger is pried free.

The dagger blade shoots out, full length. You twist at the wrist, desperately trying to chip away the solid foam with the dagger's tip, not caring if a trooper gets scratched.

The troopers curse. But they don't stop.

The third finger is pried free. A bone snaps and immediately heals.

You strain with all your might, but they have more troopers than you have fingers, more than enough to hold each one back.

You reverse time. One by one, your fingers wrap around the hilt, where they belong.

Time resumes. One by one, they pry your fingers loose.

And then horror shatters the core of your being. The dagger is gone. All your hope and pride is gone.

"I will kill you!" you spit, flailing, much as you can with one free hand.

Fresh confoam sprays over it, sealing you in a rubber tomb.

"Give it back!"

Foam turns warm, reflecting your muscle burn. You know confoam, but Dragon's power was sacrificed. Maybe this batch is weak. Maybe you can break it, and get to the dagger.

Blood rushes to your head, veins bulging as push your body to its limit. Foam tastes like blood as you bite in, cutting your tongue and loosening teeth.

"I kill everything!" Blood froths around your mouth. "You hear me? I'll kill you! I need it! Give it back!"

They don't hear you, or if they do, they've heard it all before. The PRT troops verify you're secure and load you on a pallet truck.

They drop you in the cells while you scream, foam at the mouth, and thrash futilely in an attempt get the dagger that owns you.

You thrash for hours. Eventually, the foam decays into dust.

---

"TV, next channel."

One of the walls changes to show a soccer game. You watch for a moment, then resume pacing. Your detainee-issue canvas slip-ons barely make a sound on the padded floor.

A restless energy courses through you. You've tried watching sports on the wall sized screen - no external controls, voice commands only. You even traded your old clothes for orange prison duds from the dumbwaiter.

You're trying to play ball. To cool off in the cooler.

Still, you pace from one padded wall to the other.

"TV, next channel."

A cooking show flicks on. Anxiety simmering under your skin, your hand drifts to your waist, where the dagger should be. Worse than a missing limb, it's a hole evil thoughts rush to fill.

What-ifs, who-coulds, and when-wills ferment in an endless vat, boiling over in restless steps. You punch the wall and turn.

"TV, next channel."

The screen changes to show a man seated behind a desk, facing the camera. Older, with close cropped coarse hair, and thin as a skeleton in a silk tie. His head looks disproportionately large, with gold framed glasses making his eyes even bigger - a pair of great black orbs rolling as they track you.

You stop pacing. "Who are you?"

"Don't you know my face?" His smile is cold. "No matter, we both have plenty of time to get acquainted. Speaking of which..." He leans forward, fingers steepled. "Time travel. That's a rare bird."

"Do I know you?"

"We have spoken before. More than once, I suspect."

"Coil."

His face changes - not in feature, but in demeanor. Sagging wrinkles draw tight, a grin stretching ear to ear. A kid caught burning down the cookie factory, so he can eat the last one still warm in the ruin.

"Yes," Coil hisses. "We can speak freely; the line is secure. And I have so many questions to ask you, my pet."

---

Sit Rep

• Soft bad end. Choose how to get out of this, if at all.
• You're locked up in the PHQ oil rig, a TV screen your only contact with the world.
• Eventually, the PRT will stop panicking about the bird cage escapees and lock you in whatever replaces it. Or someone will just shoot you. If you're very lucky, they could forget you're in a cell and you'll starve to death. What fun!
• Remaining powers (the ones you don't need the dagger to use):
• Sort the Grains = +2 Brute/Mover dice. You're stronger and faster than you should be, and resist harm slightly.
• Warrior Within = druj nasu can pilot your body, giving the illusion of omnicompetance. Target number for rolls is 4.
• Total: In combat, you roll 3 dice, target 4 (or 3d6t4). You are Superhuman, equal to a team of trained and equipped normal humans.

Choices

"If laws monopolize violence, then hell yeah, I am the law."

You've met Victoria in all her glory, appealed to Gallant's empathy, and been caught by Coil's cold manipulation. One is the law, the other serves it, and the third is above it.

Where on that spectrum are you? Of what worth is law?

[][law] Laws keep us human.
- Without law, what are we?
- Beasts we are, least beasts we become.

[][law] Laws are second to morals.
- People first.
- People suck.

[][law] Laws are worthless.
- No honer even among capes.
- True freedom is anarchy.

[][law] Write in.
- This is a secret test of character vote. What do you want Prince to learn?



"No matter, we both have plenty of time to get acquainted. Speaking of which..."

How are you getting out of this mess?

[][end] Work for Coil
- He'll talk to figure out his own motivations in the last timeline.
- You and Dad get new jobs at a place called Fortress Security.
- Coil will restrict access to the dagger. But maybe you'll see an opportunity for more?
- Otherwise you stick your fingers in your ears and sing "la, la, la." Waste Coil's time and he just won't appear.

[][end] Wait for an Endbringer
- [] Simurgh, the hope killer
- [] Leviathan, the city killer
- You'll join the fight under the Endbringer Truce.
- You'll get a nifty explosive collar.
- You'll get the dagger back.
- A chance to prove your heroism? Or a chance to run?

[][end] Serve Time
- Talk to Dr Jessica Yamada to unlock the Shiv of Time
- Make new friends in the repurposed Parahuman Asylum.

[][end] End Game.
- Rage quit.
- Mom is alive, Dad will be released, it's not the worst ending.
- A new Dark Prince rises from the ashes of sacrifice.

[][end] Fight for freedom.
- The path of slaughter is always open.
- PHQ usually has a skeleton staff of troops. With luck, at night, you can get free.



Edit: typo in the choices, nothing important. Tiny sentence structure change to opening paragraph. Changed it back.
"And the horror" > "And then horror"
Oops, formatted the votes wrong.