A Destroyer Leader's Story Hold (One-shot Collection)

[Sandy River DL]

First up, @mp3.1415player's dimension jumping Alt-Chris finally catches a break in a world where Taylor Hebert is neither a parahuman, linked to a demon, magical, nor otherwise either empowered or comic-bookish.

---

Ozone filled the air as Reality tore open above the beach, scooping out a hemispherical crater in the sand and disgorged a battered man into the new depression. Chris Jacobs let out a low, pained, groan before collapsing. "Fucking war tinkers, fucking biokinetic goddesses, and fucking murder-happy psycho robots!" he growled into the gritty surface he now lay on. "At least SHE wasn't goddamn Sauron this time..."

With some effort, the world-hopping tinker pushed himself up into a sitting position and began taking stock of his armor. Or what was left of it, considering the pounding he'd endured during his last few jumps. In all honesty it was yet another write-off. Hopefully this time he'd have time to actually replace it, or better yet, do so while being able to relax and recuperate. Or not need another set, if he was really lucky.

With that faint hope in his mind, Chris attempted to stand, only for the world to go fuzzy and send him back to the ground. Right, he hadn't had anything to eat or drink in... the past week? A hooded figure loomed over him as he blacked out.

OoOoO
​

Chris moaned as he regained consciousness. Opening his eyes, he found Armsmaster standing by the door of a PRT secure medical room.

"Time travel, or dimensional transfer, Mister Jacobs?" asked the armored tinker.

"Quite quick on the uptake here then," Chris replied. "And a bit of both, really. Dimensional transfer that's locked into a set timeframe. Usually land somewhere between July of 2010 and December of 2011. Speaking of, when am I now?"

Armsmaster nodded slightly "March 3rd, 2011. What purpose do you have for your travel?"

"Running, not traveling." Shuddering, Chris continued "March 2011, you said? SHE's probably Triggered already then. January 3rd's typically when that happens. Every heard of Skitter, Weaver, Khepri, Varga, Starfield, the Techno Queen, Annatar, or Mandolore?"

A hint of a frown on his face, the older hero returned "I do not know of any capes using those names. Are they a group pursuing you?"

Relaxing slightly, the younger shook his head "No, various iterations of the same person. A civilian tormented into Triggering by Shadow Stalker at Winslow. Trigger is normally the result of being trapped in a locker full of bio-waste for several hours."

Frown now fully expressed, the Protectorate leader spoke "We don't have any potential Trigger Events flagged for Winslow in January. Do you have any information that could help track this individual if she Triggered differently?"

"Her name's Taylor Hebert," Chris answered.

"What about my girlfriend?" came a voice from the suddenly open door. "Especially since Velocity cut our date short claiming there was an emergency." Panacea finished, gesturing at her somewhat dressy attire. She then blinked as the familiar-looking man in the bed fainted. The brunette glanced at Armsmaster and asked "What's up with him?"

"He claims to have been running from various parahuman versions of Miss Hebert in other realities. With his current physical and mental conditions, learning that he had not, in fact, escaped her was likely too much."

Amy sighed "Well, I'll poke him and tell him he's safe." A quick tap on the forehead had the brown-crowned man out of Morpheus's grasp.
"Armsmaster explained what you told him to me. Taylor's not parahuman, nor does she have the potential. So relax before you give yourself a heart attack that I'll need to fix."

Chris gave the healer flat look "About a third of the Taylors I've run into weren't. Magical girls were the tamest sort of that subset. Actual fucking Sauron and a multidimensional demon god, on the other hand..." The following shudder almost dislodged the IV in his arm.

The freckled girl rolled her eyes "You don't need to worry about any of that either. My girlfriend is a perfectly normal girl, albeit one who's in the Top Five best students in her grade at Arcadia. Though I could do without her habit of perching on whatever high places she manages to reach. I have to bribe Vicky in order to sneak up on her, which really takes the fun out of surprising one's girlfriend."

"If that's supposed to reassure me, it's not working," the world-hopper retorted.

"Hopefully this will, however," said Armsmaster, having at some point acquired a tablet, which he handed to the other tinker.

A few minutes and a health-up poke later saw Armsmaster and Amy leaving Alt-Chris with his Internet browsing. If they had known he'd accessed PHO, they would've stayed.

oOoOo
​

♦ Topic: Raven, New Vigilante
In: Boards ► United States ► Brockton Bay ► Capes
Bagrat (Original Poster) (Veteran Member) (The Guy in the Know)
Posted On Nov 18th 2010:
It's that time again, with yet another new cape appearing in Brockton Bay. This one doesn't seem to do things halfway, with their first known outing being to crash an E88 rally yesterday evening and engage Hookwolf in a running battle along 7th Street that culminated in the Neo-Nazi's stunningly brutal defeat. Raven then stayed long enough for the Protectorate to arrive before vanishing after giving their chosen moniker.

Provisional ratings on my part are as follows:
Mover 3 - inhuman agility and reflexes
Stranger 5 - ability to evade notice even when under direct surveillance
Tinker 3 - made extensive use of equipment to injure and disorientate, able to affect Hookwolf




(Showing page 1 of 659)




►Miss Miliita (Verified Cape)
Replied On Nov 18th 2010:
Raven is a tall, lanky, young woman, believed to be in her late teens. Costume is comprised of a black hooded long coat, gloves, cargo pants, and combat boots. While the full extent of her equipment is unknown, I personally observed two bracers with mounted weapons - a deploy-able blade approx. 23cm long, and a compact pseudo-crossbow. At this time her affiliation and goals are not known, so civilians are advised to keep their distance and report sightings and any non-heroic activity to the PRT.




End of Page. 1, 2, 3 ... 657, 658, 659

■
​

As alarms began wailing, Amy glanced at Armsmaster. "He found her PHO thread didn't he."
---------------------------------
AN: Worm/Assassin's Creed

 

[Sandy River DL]

Just a short little scene based on an entry from a random ideas list I'm doing on CaerAzkaban. Direct crosspost btw.

Spoiler: #108

Taylor is descended from Tamamo-no-Mae. She may or may not also be her reincarnation, and the ABB is not keen on finding out.

---

Brian walked into the Undersiders' lair and stopped dead. There was a small black fox perched on the back of the couch, exuding smug as it stared at Lisa. The blonde had her eyes locked with the vulpine's in a steely glare that was more suited to Brian himself than the Thinker.

"Do I want to know what's going on?" he asked warily.

Alec, who was lounging on the couch with a bowl of popcorn, answered "Yeah. 'Course you do. And as for what's going on, the fox followed her in and stole her peanut butter cookie."

"And why wouldn't I? She wasn't paying it due attention, and it was peanut butter. Better than tofu, that stuff."

All three teens stared at the fox. Who's smugness increased.

"What? Never heard a fox talk? Then again, I don't know of any native fox spirits and the only reason my family's here is because emigrating was deemed safer than sticking around Japan."

"Kitsune," stated Tattletale flatly.

"Thank you Captain Obvious," was the even smugger reply. "Don't worry, I'm not going to eat your livers or anything, not to my taste. Even if my ancestor was know to do so, she was more than a little nuts after her husband was murdered and the Celestial Bureaucracy tricked her."

Lisa fainted.

 

[Sandy River DL]

A/N: Since it came up on Caer Azkaban, Tay is not a cape.

---

April 24th​, 2009.

Metal scraped against wood as the action slid home in the freshly oiled stock. A soft click followed as the trigger assembly latched into place a second later. The newly completed M1903 Springfield shone dimly under the harsh lighting of Grand-Père's workshop as I inspected the newly completed firearm. Not the best weapon for what I had planned, let alone for a thirteen-year-old, but I didn't have the enough experience to fabricate a submachine gun or semi-auto actions. Yet.

Setting the battle rifle down on the workbench, I turned to Sophia with the first smile I'd worn since That Day. "Alright Soph, you ready to kick some Nazi ass?"

My sister, bearing her own grin, closed the bolt on her .45 carbine with a dull clunk. "Locked and loaded Tay. Those bastards won't know what hit them!" Her face falling slightly, the other girl then added "It won't bring Aunt Annette back, or even make Kaiser take notice, but," her expression hardened. "We can't let the fuckers get away with their shit anymore, now can we?" And with that, she pulled her gas mask down, securing it with a black M1 helmet that followed.

Letting out a sigh, I deftly shed my leather apron and donned my own combat gear. A gas mask and helmet, just like Sophia's, were joined by a bandoleer of .30-06 clips and grenades over a coal-black trench coat, a Beretta 9mm pistol, and a pair of M1905 bayonets. With these in place, I then picked up the Springfield, slung it over my shoulder, and made for the alley door.

"Time to hit the road Stalker. We've got Nazis to kill, a safehouse to raid, and a message to send!"

"Hell yeah Captain! It's about time this shithole of a city got some actual clean up."

***​

Contrary to popular belief, black is a poor choice for nighttime concealment. Dark reds, blues, or purples blend into the night far more effectively, but black is too dark. In spite of this, Sophia and I were wearing uniforms of the darkest black we could get our hands on for two reasons. One was that making black uniforms was less of time consuming than stitching together a patchwork of midnight fabrics. The other, however, was simple aesthetics. Black World War-era uniforms with gas masks were just really damn menacing, and fighting Nazis while dressed as historic stormtroopers was too appealing an opportunity.

Now when people think of gang infested cities, they normally envision the streets to be swarming with thugs and toughs after sundown. Of course, nowhere was actually that bad outside of quarantine zones and even when the Teeth called the Bay home it was often almost painfully quiet at night. Except for the occasional spat of gunfire, random explosion, or a rare instance of rampaging rage dragon.

Regardless, Brockton Bay's nightlife was generally quiet enough that any kid with powers could run around with minimal difficulty most of the time basically anywhere in the city. For two girls in full battle kit circa 1917 it was a simple matter to walk the seven blocks from Winslow Hill to the Empire storehouse Sophia had scouted in the outskirts of Old Brockton, even with the gas masks. Really, putting something like that only five minutes away from the Boardwalk? Not good planning there, but they haven't faced any real push-back since Marquis' fall. That would change tonight.

"Target in sight," whispered Sophia. "Brick two story with the ivy. Should be five skinheads protecting a stash of guns and cash."

Spotting the house in question, I nodded before pulling two of the grenades from my bandoleer. Yanking the pins, I then hurled the repurposed aerosol cans through the front window and grinned under my mask as a sickly green mist spilled out into the room. Moments later the door burst open as multiple coughing figures scrambled to escape the cloud of chlorine gas. Three men, all sporting blatant Empire tattoos, collapsed onto the sidewalk, gasping and wheezing as they struggled to clear their lungs of hydrochloric acid.

Stalker raised her carbine and fired. No sense letting them recover of course. Taking a deep breath, I unslung my rifle, slid a clip into place, and closed the bolt. The two remaining neo-Nazis were struggling to their feet and scrabbling for the pistols they'd stuffed into their pants as my sights settled on the livelier of the pair, a burly guy with a shaved head decorated with Norse runes. A finger twitch, and a .30-06 round painted the grass with the contents of his skull.

Wasn't I supposed to feel something? That wasn't any worse than swatting a fly. Eh, whatever. Can't hang around navel-gazing, there's a storehouse to raid.

Sophia and I strode past the trio of corpses – when had the last guy been shot? – and into the house, masks filtering out the noxious fumes. Both of us quickly safe'd our longarms, stowing them in favor of our hand guns. SMGs would be a must for future ops, whether I made them or we captured some here. Maybe shotguns too, but only in place of something else, as overloading ourselves with gear would be a bad idea. More fighters too, as two teens weren't exactly a force to make the Empire tremble. Getting someone who knew how to drive would be amazing, as transport meant we'd be able to get bigger hauls by hitting warehouse and whatnot. Oh, were there opportunities from growth…

The crack of gunfire yanked my head out of the clouds. Right, five tangoes Sophia said. That means two left inside. I brought my Beretta up and fired off several rounds at the top of the stairs, forcing the skinhead to retreat from the landing. Another gas grenade, this one thrown by Stalker, was deployed to cover our advance. Making those was probably my best idea, really. Highly visible and fast acting, but, as far as chemical weapons go, not particularly dangerous when used at the scale we were, making it reasonably safe for use around captive civilians. Sure, it was not exactly PR friendly, but neither was our choice of uniform or… Hey, when did I get covered in blood?

I blinked. There was that Empire goon, throat cut, and bright arterial blood dripping from one of my bayonets, which I had drawn at some point. Huh, must be better at this war thing than I though I'd be. Wiping the blade on my fallen opponent's sleeve, I stood – when had I ended up on the floor? – and began making my way down the hall towards where Soph was checking the bedrooms, pausing to collect my pistol a moment later as I almost tripped on the weapon. That was a bit concerning, but blackouts were a common result of intense adrenaline rushes, right?

 

[Sandy River DL]

I'm sure I'll post something here that isn't Worm-based eventually...

---

A dying world, wrought with decay and strife. A port city cut off from the sea and choked with rust. Four homes, each broken in their own ways. Four choices that together alter the weave of Fate.

*​

Unknown Location, Earth Yod, May 15, 2009

​

"Path to Modeling a Parahuman World, invalidated."

The woman who'd spoken froze, a faint tinge of fear raising in her chest. No Path had been invalidated before. Even the actions of the Endbringers, blind spots though they were, merely disrupted the steps and made for a more complex task. Something had changed. Something not even her agent could quickly work around had occurred in Brockton Bay and thrown the integrity of the experiment there into question.

A frown crossed the face of the woman, before she queried her power. "Path to Discovering the Source of the Disruption."

*​

Brockton Bay, Earth Bet, May 15, Twenty Minutes Earlier

​

The front door of a worn-looking house in the residential district of Brockton Bay's Docks slammed open, accompanied by the tail-end of a thunderous screaming match.

"You aren't the only one who lost her, you miserable excuse for a man, and in forgetting that, you've cost me my father too!" A tall and willowy girl stepped out, before turning for a final shot. "Maybe you'll actually fucking think when you no longer have a daughter either!" With that, she yanked the door shut behind her and ran off into the darkening city, backpack hanging off one shoulder and an unadorned book cradled in her arms.

Slipping into an alley next to a small store two blocks away, Taylor Hebert slumped against the wall with a dumpster between her and the street and stared at the book. It was a plain thing, bound in smooth brown leather without any markings, around the size of a typical novel. Yet bringing it down from the attic where her mother's things had been haphazardly stowed months earlier set off her father. The thirteen year-old didn't know why, as neither of her parents had ever mentioned the small tome in any way she could recall, even if it was written in the sharp runic script the older woman had taught her to read long ago.

Frowning, Taylor opened the book and studied the hand-written text within. Khuzdul slowly unraveled in her mind as she worked her way through translating the Tolkienian language Annette had used. Something about currents in the unseen and harnessing the songs of the world? Paging back to the very front, she found herself blinking back tears. On the back of the cover was a message for her.

Taylor.
If you are reading this book, then I'm gone. This is a collection of notes and translated Elder Lore written as I worked, not the guide I'd hoped to write for you so that your latent gift could be nurtured. Yes, Little Owl, there is a power in this world far older than parahumans. A power that could be called magic, if one were wont to do so. I call it the Ancient Craft myself.
Details as to how I came upon this knowledge, and why I never told you, are in one of my other journals if you wish to know, but that information isn't necessary for you to understand what I found. Hopefully you never see this, or only do so as part of digging deeper, but between capes, the Endbringers, and the base dangers of life, not leaving a fail-safe would be foolish.
Keep yourself safe, daughter mine, and find trustworthy friends to cover your back. I fear a great and terrible Light is stirring, and that Emma won't stand beside you for much longer.
Divining the future is no mean feat, nor is it more than a hazy glimpse of possibility, but seek out the Forsaken and stand firm against the Burning Tower. Do so, and you will have everything you need to slay gods at your fingertips.​

A crash of shattering glass tore Taylor's attention from the book. Voices jeering slurs and insults told her everything. E88, targeting the shop behind her. It was probably part of a push into unaligned territory to flank the ABB, as the Neo-Nazi gang's normal holdings were in Old Brockton and Southshore.

Bile and rage rose in the teen's throat. There were evil men, followers of the Madness that had driven her grandfather from Normandy and set alight all of Europe, practically right in front of her. And she was powerless to stop them from destroying a neighbor's livelihood for the 'crime' of being part of a millenniums maligned minority.

But that wasn't true, was it. The lost power her mother had been researching was there, wasn't it, as was the key to harnessing it. She just needed to find it amongst the pages...

Leafing through the tome, scanning for promising passages, Taylor prized apart the fictional tongue with adrenal haste. And as the tromp of heavy boots neared her position, inspiration struck and pieces of her mother's puzzle began to align.

"What do we have here," came a voice like a diesel truck from the far end of the dumpster. "A little dock rat out after dark? That isn't smart idea. Especially around places like this."

The girl lifted her eyes from the book, and froze. Hookwolf, one of the Empire's most aggressive and bloodthirsty capes, was mere feet from her. Unbidden, words flowed from page to mouth, and she called out in dwarf-speech "Taste fire, accursed dog!"

A tingle like a wave of static rushed over her before exploding outward in a burst of blue-white flame, catching the Nazi gangster full in the face. Not bothering to see how the man had fared, Taylor bolted past him and across the street. Staying anywhere near by would be quite stupid, after char-broiling an important Empire cape. Especially if he or one of the others were able to recognize the Semitic roots of the tongue she'd used. Figuring out if spoken incantations were needed was something she needed to do, sooner rather than later.

None of the gangs were in LNY, maybe that'd be a good place to hide out for the moment.

*
​

PRTENE HQ, Brockton Bay, Earth Bet, May 15

"I don't know what happened! One moment I was reassuring her that we wouldn't be intruding on her home life, the next she'd twisted space into a pretzel and vanished!"

*
​

Brockton Bay, Earth Bet, May 16

A wispy shadow collapsed into a teen-aged girl in an alleyway, panting in hyperventilation. She'd told her mother that That Man was no good, and did she listen? Well, she sure as hell wasn't going back home if the selfish bitch didn't care. With that thought resonating in her head, Sophia Hess activated her newfound power and ghosted into the predawn mist, headed towards the relative safety of the old Lordsport Navy Yard.

*
​

Brockton Bay, Earth Bet, May 23

"She's a Second Generation, it's only a matter of time before she Triggers and follows in her father's footsteps!"

Amy flinched at her adoptive mother's shouted statement. She doubted the self-righteous bitch realized she could be heard through the walls, especially given the drinking that'd happened earlier.

"Come on Mark! You know as well as I do who we took her from and what he did. The Empire too, Kaiser and Allfather made no secret of their familial connection! Her going villain is inevitable."

Villain wasn't genetic. Nurture had as much to do with who people were as Nature did. If not more, if feral children were anything to go by. But if Carol was going to be like that, maybe it'd be best to run away if she... when she Triggered. It'd hurt to leave Vicky behind, but that would probably be good too, given that the uncomfortable crush she had on the other girl wasn't fading...

---

If this goes anywhere, Tay, Amy, Sophia, and Missy will find themselves drifting into a team together and slowly accreting a group of misfits over time. Classed as a villainous gang by the PRT, they'd be trying to create a better life for themselves and those under their protection while also trying to learn about and deal with the threat that Annette had warned Taylor about.

 

[Sandy River DL]

Commander Morgan Shepard glared at the ghost-like hologram of the not-child that had just finished speaking. Everything she'd done, all her years of fighting, moral compromises, and sacrifices... for this? The choice between killing her allies to destroy the Reapers, becoming the Reapers, or committing suicide in the blind hope that the self-admitted Reaper overmind would magically turn everyone into cyborgs and stop its insanity?

"No."

The Reaper intelligence blinked. "What do you mean? These are your options for firing the Crucible. Or do you mean that you would rather not do so and take your chances in open warfare?"

Morgan's lips curled in a snarl as she replied. "No, I'm not playing your asinine game, Reaper. Instead, I'm ending this. Properly."

Then, lifting her omnitool up, she keyed the fleet broadcast channel. "This is Commander Shepard. The Crucible was a trap, and the Citadel is itself a Reaper control center. I need every last ship left to open fire on the station! Destroying it should disrupt their coordination enough for us to win, and if not... at least we've given those who come after us a good headstart..."

"You... you shouldn't have been able to consider that..." stated the false-child, an air of confusion in its voice. "Anybody who have been on the Citadel for more than a few minutes should be indoctrinated enough for that to be impossible."

As the first mass accelerator slugs and Thanix beams began impacting the ancient space station, the petite brunette bared her teeth in a savage smile towards her ultimate foe. "Really now. Shame my brain's been scrambled in so many ways indoctrination doesn't seem to work on me any more..."

With that, she began to laugh, long, and loud, until something important was struck and the last thing to pass through her mind as the blue-violet fireball of an eezo-fusion explosion consumed her was 'Tali, Liara, I'm sorry...'

---

A slow, rhythmic beeping and a searing headache was not shat she was expecting to greet her in the afterlife, if such a thing even truly exist. Morgan opened her eyes. The afterlife definitely shouldn't have looked like the medical bay of the original Normandy, or have a younger Doctor Chakwas and Captain Anderson rushing over to her. Or a sense of deja vu form the scene...

Then it hit her. This wasn't any sort of afterlife, not unless the afterlife was some sort of take two deal, which wasn't part of any theology she'd heard of. Not an impossibility though.

 

[Sandy River DL]

Decided to generate an image for Never Be Better, as the idea's beginning to take on shape and I might start writing up a proper story for later.

Spoiler: She's Better

Earthborn, Engineer, War Hero

 

[Sandy River DL]

This is a rewrite of Battlefield Brockton Bay, with an improved plot. And this Taylor may possibly be breaking more laws than any other, so definitely don't try any of what she's doing at home.

---

"Are you sure this is a good idea Taylor?"

I didn't look at Sophia. There wasn't really any point, not when I knew that I wouldn't see the worry on her face with the mask covering it. Wasn't any reason to look even if she wasn't in her full Shadow Stalker kit either, because her voice told me everything I needed to confirm what she was feeling. Exactly the same thing I was.

"Of course it isn't," I replied, steeling my voice the best I could. "Not like we have much of a choice though, Grand-père's workshop doesn't have the tools for what we need to make, and it's not like this is going to land us in any more trouble than we're going to be in regardless."

"Still, getting involved with the Soviets is… This isn't a good plan."

I couldn't help but snort at my childhood friend's statement. "No shit Soph. But we can hardly go to Colt or Winchester and ask for machine gun or assault rifle tooling, and I have neither the skill nor time to develop something myself. Waiting years isn't exactly a better option, it just makes us more likely to be found out before we're ready. Besides, by the time the Bullshitviks realize we aren't playing their game, they won't be in any more of a position to stop us than anyone else…"

A buzz in my ear cut off any further talk along that line. "Seems like our contact has made landfall. Remember Shadow, let me do the talking. Your usual demeanor could easily put us on the wrong foot with our overseas comrades, and we'll hardly make any more headway towards our greater goals without external support than the damn Empire has. Probably less, even."

"Yeah, yeah, I know that." I could practically hear her rolling her eyes there. "Brooding bodyguard duty for me, while you do your diplo-bullshit. Not like I want to talk to whatever spook they shipped over for this. Let's just get this done so we can get started on the real work. The Nazis are hardly going to off themselves when the going's good for them, and the Feds sure as hell aren't putting the boot down…"

Shaking my head, an amused smile hidden by my own mask, I replied "Patience dear Shadow, we'll still need some time to set up and begin production before we can make our move, and a couple months isn't going to make much difference to how long we've already waited. The groundwork is laid, and we can begin cleaning up the city. And once that's done…"

Again, a buzz interrupted me. It seemed that our foreign 'friend' moved fast, having managed to reach the inner perimeter already. Annoying in some ways, but the sooner this was done, the less likely it was for someone to take notice. The KGB, not being stupid, was probably thinking the same thing. The question was though, how interested in us were they? Having a low-level Mover making contact was one thing, but transferring the materials would be the same speed regardless of how quickly the meeting was begun, unless they'd sent either a cape able to bring everything as the contact, or had sent at least one other cape who could speed things up. Did we warrant that sort of commitment?

Probably not, we weren't exactly a large organization, nor were we well placed. If we got pre-made weapons and ammo instead of tooling and equipment, I wouldn't be very surprised. Disappointed, but not surprised. Hell, it wasn't unlikely we'd get knock-off versions of NATO weapons in order to obfuscate their involvement. It would admittedly make getting ammunition easier, but pre-made firearms of any sort would still be limiting in a way that left us little better off. It would hamper growth, and make us more vulnerable as we'd be reliant on shipments to expand our stocks. Of course, it'd also make us dependent on the Soviets, which is why it wouldn't be a surprise if we didn't get what I'd asked for.

It would, however, only do so in the short term. Developing my own weapons was, while not something that'd get us going, was still an option if we had any sort of stop-gap arsenal. Being able to reverse-engineer existing guns would certainly be of help there, even if that only went so far. Sooner or later, we'd have production, regardless. It was only a matter of building on what I'd already learned.

Then the warehouse door opened, and a nondescript man entered. Average height, average build, hair that might have been either blond or brown, nothing about him really stood out. Which was definitely why he was doing this sort of work. Not looking out of place was the best way to avoid attention after all, not skulking about like an action movie star. That was a lesson we'd figured out very early on.

"Forgelight?" he asked, speaking with an accent I couldn't place, but sounded Northern European to me. Perhaps Danish.

I stepped forward and extended a hand "That would be me."

He blinked, but otherwise showed no reaction that I could spot. "Well then, I believe we should get started, Comrade Forgelight. Your request for manufacturing equipment instead of weapons is rather unusual for groups in your position, as normally the desire is to establish proletariat control as rapidly as possible before having the new revolutionary state begin local production of hardware. Similarly, the specified armaments to provide tooling for are also not what we typically see asked after these days. The 7.62x39mm and associated firearms are quite functional, but no longer in general service for good reason and as such we generally offer more modern weapons. Though we do understand the request for the RPG-7 and KPV, even if the latter is less than ideal from a mobility standpoint. Your reasoning would be much appreciated by our comrades."

"We asked for tooling and related hardware because it's not exactly an easy job to ship weapons here, for what I hope are obvious reasons," I replied, turning my head to give first the Boat Graveyard, then the Rig, a look in the direction of. "Having the capacity to fabricate our own materiel would be rather advantageous given the situation. As for the choice of caliber… My grandfather was a gunsmith and taught me how to identify my requirements for a firearm based on my environment. In this case, a heavier round is the best suited for our operating conditions of urban combat with capes. Modern small caliber bullets, in my experience, haven't performed well against the local infestation."

Kaiser shrugging off fire from some punk with an AR-15 that one time was… telling.

The KGB man nodded at that. "A well considered plan you have there. Very well, there is then only one other question I have that I need to ask, and that is if you have the ability to source the materials needed to supply your own production. If you do not, we will provide you with arms and talk again about local manufacture at a later point."

Of course, I already had an answer to that. "We have no lack of such resources at this time, as we're already producing precision bolt-action rifles and supplying two Tinkers. The only reason we aren't already making assault rifles and machine guns is a lack of the necessary tooling and time to develop it. Brockton Bay might have a lot of distractions for the Feds, but they're going to start taking notice of us sooner, rather than later, and it's suspected that we'll be in open and direct conflict with government forces within eight months. If we can come into the open on our tems, our chances of success are much better than if we're discovered. A fact that I'm sure your organization is well aware of."

Much to my surprise, that got a smile and a nod. "Excellent, excellent. You clearly know what you're doing, which is impressive and comforting, and not just because of your youth. So many comrades in your position think only of Revolution as the violence of overthrowing the bourgeois but give little, if any, thought to the logistics of the task. All that remains to be seen is if you have workable politics, and only time will tell on that account. Now, if you have the payment ready, we shall make our exchange."

I raised a hand and gave a signal. Two dockworkers came over carrying a small chest, which was then placed on the floor in front of me and opened. "Ten kilograms of bullion, mixed gold and silver. Technical specifications for three devices reverse-engineered from tinkertech created by one of ours, specifically a high efficiency engine and two sensor systems. And, finally, my own formula and production notes for a triple base small arms propellant. You?"

The KGB man reached into a pocket and pulled out a pair of tiny model shipping containers, which he then set down some distance apart and stepped away from. A few seconds later, and they very abruptly were full-sized versions that opened up on their own.

"The one on your left is the tooling for producing AK-103s and RPKs, while the other contains what you need for the KPV and RPG-7," he said with a sweep of his arm. "Small scale of course, but you should have little issue with expanding from there if you need to. Be aware though that you will need to develop your own furniture, as that tooling was not included. This was done partly to allow the more critical tooling to be accommodated, but also so you could better meet your own requirements. Such as, for example, incorporating vertical foregrips onto the AKs, should you want that."

Walking over, he closed and lifted the chest with the payment before speaking again. "Out of curiosity, what have you chambered your precision rifles in? It doesn't particularly matter, but I'm interested."

".308 Winchester and .338 Lapua Magnum," I replied with a smirk. "Excellent stopping power and range, in addition to having the tooling to make them already. Might add in .30-06 too, but that's probably unnecessary and would needlessly complicate our logistics. Which, incidentally, is why we didn't request any general purpose machine gun tools. Why bother introducing yet another cartridge, or having to mess around with converting a gun from rimmed to rimless, when it's not that much more work to build a new one from elements of others? It opens up new options for us anyways, so why not? Especially as we don't have a pressing need for GPMGs right now."

I never did learn where Grand-père got the Lapua tools, but it was rather useful. Combined with Sophia's power, it should be capable of taking down the Nazi Bikini Twins and possibly Hookwolf. If for some reason that didn't work, well, that's what the KPVs and RPGs were for. And should that somehow not do the job… Sherryl's 110mm tank gun was her top priority for a reason, even above the other artillery projects. Overkill was the name of the game, should that be the case.

"Thank you for indulging me," the contact said with a smile, before casually picking up the chest like it weighed as much as a shoebox. "Unless you have anything else you'd like to request, like licenses and tools for vehicles, I believe we are done here. Be sure to stay in touch with us though, as we have plenty more to offer Red Shield. And not just weapons…"

With a cheery wave, he turned and walked out of the warehouse. Almost as soon as the door closed, people swarmed the two containers, hauling out cases of parts and ferrying them underground. Just how and why Brockton Bay had come to have a vast tunnel network, nobody knew, but boy was it useful for us. Well, technically we had a good idea, as a large portion of it was storm drains and old smuggling tunnels, but much of it was still a mystery. Like the hall we had been preparing for this shipment, which looked to be Viking period Norse of all things. If we had the archeologists to do a study, we might've been able to find out how it came to be, but that would have to come after. Because we had neither the time nor the archeologists.

A minute later, two clicks came through my earpiece. The all clear signal to indicate that our 'friend' from the KGB had departed. Good. For all that we, unfortunately, needed them right now, his sort wasn't what the Bay… what America needed. For all their talk about workers and the will of the people, the Soviets were no better than the Nazis. Fascism under a veneer of socialism, and that was no better than what we currently had. Lincoln had it right, government of the people, by the people, for the people was the only solution. A real pity the US had stopped progressing on that.

Watching my people scrambling to unload the containers, I couldn't help but smile. "And thus, the countdown begins. The Empire will fall, and so will the corporate lap dogs in Washington in time. Our Shield will become a Storm to wash away the old world and usher in a better age…"

 

[Sandy River DL]

Please don't try this at home...

---

The rifle in my hands didn't look much like an AK. It wasn't because of a fuck up, but a deliberate choice on my part. Kalashnikovs would give things away that we didn't want to reveal, and a sleek, if somewhat boxy, bullpup with almost no visible similarities beyond the magazine was as good a way as any we could manage. There was no hiding the use of a Soviet cartridge, but that was not itself particularly incriminating given that the brief thaw in the early '90s had seen a market for the 7.62x39mm materialize in the US before the Cold War set in again.

Thus, the C23A was the result of the past three months of work in modifying the AK-103 platform our meeting in November had given us access to. Compact rifle, select-fire, third caliber, first pattern. The nomenclature was more or less copied off H&K, but it was a good system and I had no regrets. Calling it a 'compact rifle' was Kurt's idea, as a way to conceal what we were working with when outsiders might overhear. 'Assault rifle' was suspicious, but a 'compact rifle' didn't raise those sorts of red flags, which had rapidly spiraled into us adopting new designations for everything before I'd made more than a handful of .308s bolt-action 'field rifles'.

Anyways. The new rifle I'd built with the Soviet-supplied tooling was a little over twenty-seven and a half inches long, with a rounded rectangular profile forward of the grip and practically covered in picatinny rails much like newer AR-pattern rifles were. Fitted atop the upper rail was a simple reflex sight for superior aiming over old-school iron sights like the original rifle featured, further reinforcing the visual distinction. Gray-scale polymer made up the majority of the weapon aside from the black steel top cover on the rear and the black foam pads on both the butt of the stock and the cheek-rest. And, just as intended, the only thing that could give away the origins was the dust cover/safety latch carried over from the AK for simplicity's sake. And that, like the cartridge, could very easily be taken as copying instead of it being a direct derivation.

Giving the C23A a final check, I then picked up a magazine and set it in place. Chambering a round, I took aim down the length of the underground range and took a shot. I was by no means the best shooter in Red Shield, not with this sort of gun, but I was good enough for testing purposes. Ten rounds into the first target, then I switched over to full auto and the remainder of the magazine was dumped into a second. Dropping the empty mag, I cycled the action before locking the safety into position and setting the rifle down. One of the range operators hit a switch to bring in the targets for examination. It was already clear that the singles were nowhere near what I'd achieved with the S02A, the .338, but it was enough. And it had run flawlessly, though a proper endurance test would still be needed to ensure it'd hold up.

While the others inspected and measured the holes in the first pair of targets, I moved over to another stall where a second rifle was waiting. It closely resembled the C23A, but had a longer barrel, an integrated bipod, a different magazine, and a full scope instead of the reflex sight. This was my answer to the Dragunov, the F11A designated marksman rifle, designed specifically to allow our skirmisher units to augment their firepower. Putting all twenty rounds into the target didn't take long, even with aimed shots to sub targets, leaving me with the third and final gun to proof. One that was almost completely my own design.

At the core of this was a cartridge I'd been working on for the past seven years as an assignment by my grandfather. While originally a .30 Carbine case necked down to carry a 5.6mm bullet, the current form was a telescoped caseless cartridge made of a special triple base propellant I'd developed specifically for it. And the gun to fire it, the D24A, had gone through almost as many changes in pursuit of creating the ultimate close-quarters weapon. I'd almost given up on it though and gone with a 9mm SMG, when the Dockworkers had managed to interdict a Gesellschaft shipment to the E88 that included a case of G11 rifles. Not that useful in and of themselves, but being able to study how the Germans had gotten the gun to work had been far more helpful. Only enough to complete my personal defense weapon though, not to sell me on making a knock-off of the rifle. The action on it was far too complex for my liking, and even if it hadn't been acquired almost a month after the meeting with the KGB rep, working with the actual tooling and plans for a weapon was far better than struggling to reverse-engineer it.

The fact that I hated the idea of such a small caliber bullet in close-range urban combat was also a major factor.

Picking up the four-and-a-half pound bullpup carbine, I slid the horizontally mounted magazine into its slot on the top of the weapon and took aim. It was no precision weapon, and optimizing the burn rate for an eight-inch barrel gave it more recoil than I'd like, but it was still controllable enough and incredibly compact. With the stock retracted, it was only fourteen inches long and the ability for it to be carried easily alongside a field or scout rifle was a major factor in it going from a childhood experiment to a battlefield weapon. About the only problem I had with it was that it was still too large and heavy to truly replace the pistol. Still, it did what I wanted and was able to be produced cheaply in large numbers, which meant that we could potentially use them as a mass issue weapon to arm fresh recruits joining up during Operation Normandy.

Naming the operation to topple the Empire after the site of the D-Day landings wasn't my first choice, but Crystal had pointed out that reusing Overlord would both be unsubtle and could give the wrong impression to people who didn't get the reference. Personally, I didn't see the issue, but I deferred to the Psychology Major on that point. Even if she'd only just started classes for it last September. New Wave had a lot more experience with PR than I did, and Sarah Pelham was pretty clearly running the show there, so trusting her daughter to have picked up at least some measure of the skill wasn't a stretch. Especially as she was already demonstrating having done so by more or less becoming our primary recruiter without meaning to in the times since she joined up.

Setting down the PDW, I turned to the rangemaster, a retired Marine by the name of Avery Johnson who'd been doing this job in various places for thirty years. He was grinning just the way he had when I'd presented him with the prototype F01A way back when the organization was first coming together.

"Taylor, your grandfather would be proud of you," he said, holding the target I'd sprayed with the C23A in full auto. "You may not have designed the action or bolt, but you still developed a new assault rifle. And got a better group out of it that I did my first time with Stoner's plastic toy! Still not entirely happy to be shooting Ivan's ammo, but we got what we got and at least it packs more of a punch than that five-five-six nonsense. Maybe someday you can make a new round for us, after we've secured the Union from the domestic enemies that've been making a mockery of the Constitution…"

Letting out a soft laugh, I replied "Maybe I will. 7.62x40mm with minimal taper sound good to you?"

"You're fucking with me, kiddo," he retorted with an amused twitch of the lips. "Just pay attention to the results of this war and learn from them, and you'll do fine. Don't much care beyond being able to rock and roll while a few good hits actually drop the other guy. You're the one who knows their way around designing bullets, so just do what you think will get the results us grunts want."

"Oh, no worries about that Sergeant Major. I might be running with my preferred cartridge already, but I'm not about to slack off on my other responsibilities because of it. As much as this mob voted for me to run the show, I'm still the girl who makes sure everyone's armed properly. Not meeting the requirements for the battle squads would be dereliction of both," I said, giving the dark skinned older man a semi-offended look. While even now I didn't really understand why in those early days the others had decided that a then barely fourteen-year-old was the best choice of leader, especially as there were more experienced options, I wasn't going to do anything less than my best.

"Don't you Sergeant Major me, brat. I'm retired and running a gunshop, standing on ceremony's absurd and it's not like we've actually put any damn ranks in the org chart yet. Anyway, how's that squad machine gun coming? Assault rifles are good and all, but the boys and girls on the front are going to be needing to get familiarized with the big guns. Those handle differently even when being an oversized version of the main service rifle like the Ruskies do. And I'm wondering just how that'd work with a bullpup."

I couldn't help but laugh a little. "It didn't, so changing the RPK into something not recognizable as one took a bit longer than the other guns. At this point, I'm just waiting on the magazine production to finish, as we had to come up with a new one to accommodate the differences. Not super happy with the results though, and might switch over to a belt-fed design later, depending on performance against the Empire. I know that the NATO SAWs are belt-fed guns, so capturing some of those wouldn't be a bad idea in light of that. Don't think that I'd go for making a rechambered version though, just copying the feed system. The design of the PKV is… lacking in my mind, and tearing apart a M249 might give me ideas to address that as well."

Avery gave an amused snort at that. "Tell you what kid, magazine fed machine guns are faster to reload, while a belt's generally more reliable. Which is better is more a matter of option, as there's upsides and downsides to both and people who are willing to accept the bad because they like the good. Having both isn't a bad plan really. So I say go ahead and do both. And make that better heavy machine gun, because that thing you had the Soviets send us is ug-ly."

"That it is," I couldn't help but giggle. The man's method of speech always did that when he got emphatic about things. "And I'll keep the bit about pros and cons for ammo feeding in mind. Two different light machine guns is a little annoying from a logistical standpoint, but I imagine the differences in how they operate mean that they get used in distinct ways and mission profiles. One being more like an assault rifle and the other like a heavier machine gun. Yes, I can see how both would be good to have. Still, not much I can do about that at the moment, as I don't have a good idea of what I'm doing with belt-fed guns beyond copying the PKV's belt and feed. Which would be… less than ideal."

Just then, the door opened and Chris came running out. With the prototype A33A, including a magazine.

"Just managed to get this finished Taylor," she called, before stumbling to a halt next to me. "All loaded up and ready for testing. It should feed smoothly, but I've got Wards duty soon and only had time to make sure it didn't blow itself apart from a bad spring configuration or something."

Having a Tinker who could work with smaller things than a motorcycle was nice, but her membership in the Wards was… a pain in the ass. Sure, it gave us an in on what was going on with the PRT and Protectorate, but it also severely limited her ability to contribute to the cause. And it was even worse for her, being Kid Win was hard enough without the extra pressure of hiding what she was up to when off duty and outside of school. I couldn't even begin to understand how it'd feel to have to hide who you were at all times like she had to. It was… well, it alone was enough to make me want to rid the country of the fascists who forced her to hide, and it was just one of many reasons.

Accepting the light machine gun from the other girl, I watched her hurry off, wondering if Crystal was making progress on her cousins, as Amy would definitely be able to help Chris with her problem, and give her something to do that isn't normal healing for once. Parahuman powers were weird, and the sheer repetition of constantly healing injuries and illness had to be wearing on her. Maybe we could get her doing some other stuff with her power too, like modifying plants or something. Reading between the lines of public information and what Crystal said, the girl was as much a Tinker as she was a Striker, and there was a reason Tinkers didn't just do one thing from what Chris and Sherrel had told me about their experiences.

Shaking my head, I turned my attention back to Avery. "So, do you want to give it a shot this time, or shall I continue on myself?"

The retired sergeant chuckled and took the proffered rifle. "Yeah, probably about time I show you brats just how it's done. Can't let you get it into your heads that you're better than I am just because you're younger. Tch, you have it easy, you know. Back when I was starting out in the Corps, we didn't have assault rifles or squad automatic weapons, we had sticks and, if we were lucky, a rock."

Before he could continue, I snorted and said "Are you going to shoot, or regale us with tales about how you had to fight off tyrannosaurs in blizzards to go to school too?"

That got a full laugh out of him before he walked over to another shooting booth that was clear. Chambering a round and flipping the safety off, he squeezed the trigger. Frowning, he cycled the action again, only for the bolt to lock up halfway. The magazine was then ejected with a grumble and the action cycled a third time, releasing a bent cartridge as it did so. "Well, that's a problem. I've seen failures to feed, but this takes the cake!"

Letting out a groan, I took the magazine and began examining it. Where the problem was didn't take long to see. While the follower was not visible due to the near-full quantity of ammunition, it was clearly seated wrong. The uppermost cartridge was tilted past the feed lip, with its base unable to properly engage with the bolt face for loading, which was clearly responsible for the failure to feed and mangling of the round. How it ended up doing that would require dismantling the magazine to determine, but so would fixing it. With any luck it was the loading machine not being compatible with the seventy-five round capacity rather than being a design flaw in the magazine itself, as I hadn't done all that much to it to adjust it for the new gun. I did not want to have to redesign the thing from the ground up, and that was what I'd likely have to do if it were the design and not the machine. Chris had said that the loader was fairly simple to make, so her having to modify it or build a second one would likely be less of a pain than having to develop my own drum mag.

Sighing, I policed the crushed cartridge before turning back to the Marine. "I think we're needing to postpone the test until I've got this worked out. Hopefully it was just damaged by improper loading, rather than the magazine design. Either way though, I think we won't be seeing how well the A33A works today. And I think I'll start doing some research to see if I can come up with a belt-feed mechanism for the B pattern without having a SAW to dissect. That will at least potentially give us an alternative if I can't get the current gun working quickly enough."

"Good plan," Avery said before handing me the weapon back. "Though I think you might want to change up the furniture a bit. Too many sharp angles for my liking, and it looks like an oversized version of those so-called tactical AR-15s the tryhards like buying. It just doesn't feel like a proper weapon to me."

"Mm, you have a point," I hummed, looking over the squad support weapon. It probably didn't need three full length rails and a half-length one for the bipod. "I think I was overfocusing on making it not look like an AK and increasing flexibility, without considering utility. Cutting down on the picatinny and smoothing out the barrel shroud should improve it, as would giving it a quick-change barrel. Which would shorten the shroud down and probably result in what looks like an AK and a M249 had a baby."

With that said, I turned and headed towards my workshop.

 

[Sandy River DL]

Warfront now has its own thread here. This is due to having a third chapter almost finished.