I guess it could be worse.
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A Roll of the Dice (Worm SI)
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Chapter 1
I've recently been catching up with Brockton's Celestial Forge and it inspired me to write something with a semi-similar setup. However I'm much too stupid to convincingly write Tinker techno-babble so this is what I came up with.
Rules: Every month (in story), I click random page on the Superpower Wiki to generate a new power (with each new ability added to a general pool for the SI to use). No take backs. I have to roll with it. The powers can be subject to creative interpretation in order to make things more interesting and/or make sense in context of the setting.
Warning: I have zero idea where I'm taking this. It's more of an experiment in hopes of having fun and working on my writing.
Rules: Every month (in story), I click random page on the Superpower Wiki to generate a new power (with each new ability added to a general pool for the SI to use). No take backs. I have to roll with it. The powers can be subject to creative interpretation in order to make things more interesting and/or make sense in context of the setting.
Warning: I have zero idea where I'm taking this. It's more of an experiment in hopes of having fun and working on my writing.
In a mostly bare concrete room stood a young man in splash goggles, safety gloves, a heavy vinyl apron and half-mask respirator - his short brown hair the only thing standing out beneath the patchwork uniform of safety equipment. The fluorescent lighting overhead spread its artificial glow throughout the room, casting the man's shadow behind him into a stretched parody of human shape.
The man stared intently down at the boiling flask in front of him, eyes tracking the slowly simmering liquid with bated breath. Gloved hands clenched, opening and closing in time with taut nerves. A sharp sizzling heralded the final reaction of the hours-long process. From the center outward the pale blue solution quickly changed hues to an eye catching pink - gaseous fumes of a similar color rose in lazy swirls from the flask. The young man began to shake in excitement, thrusting his arms up into the air.
Yet a change seemed to suddenly come over him, his body language shifting - almost unnaturally - from a bubbling manic energy to a calm placidity. With a practiced air he turned off the bunsen burner and strode over to a plexiglass cage on the other side of the room. Wasting no time he unlatched the door and removed the sole tenant - a small grey mouse.
Running a gloved finger tenderly over the furred creature's head, he made his way back to the now fully pink liquid and lifted the mouse near the opening of the flask. A wide grin broke out behind the respirator when - after a single curious sniff - his small subject promptly rolled over on its side. A series of tests later to make sure the mouse was indeed asleep - not dead or injured - and the grin crept even wider.
'Such a simple thing', the young man thought, eying the stoppered solution with a tired yet content eye. 'But sometimes it's the simplest things that change everything'.
An Hour Later:
I plop down on my couch with a small grin still on my face. Arms behind my head I gaze up at the ceiling without really seeing it, more focused on my own thoughts. 'My very first creation. And to think I was embarrassed when I first got the power'.
A chuckle escapes my lips at the memory and I let out a contented sigh. To be fair to my past self, the name doesn't exactly inspire fear in the wicked nor adoration of the masses. I mean, Fragrance Weaponry? I think I was well in my rights to be disappointed - it sounds like something from a bad anime. Although disappointed may be underselling things a bit.
I tilt my head to the side and spy a series of cracks near the bottom of the living room wall. I learned long ago that punching walls is more likely to deliver sprained wrists and hairline fractures than any sort of emotional release. A good kick or three with a steel toed boot on the other hand? It didn't exactly solve anything, but I think it helped more than hurt at the time. Hard to really say when it all seems so silly looking back at it. The alcohol certainly didn't help.
I close my eyes, pushing a small stream of energy into my head and reach for the memory in question. The scene jumps into my mind's eye, clearer then it was a just few seconds ago, but still spotty and frayed at the edges. As I thought. There's nothing to be done when the source memory is all but fragged under the influence of shitty corner-store whiskey. With a huff I let the energy go - the memory becoming increasingly nebulous until it slips away.
I purse my lips in thought - honestly, things were stacked against Fragrance Weaponry from the start. The ability had to stand against its predecessor after all and however you look at it, Telepathic Intelligence easily wins out in first impressions. It just has the aesthetic flair and gravitas that Fragrance Weaponry sorely lacks.
But I guess that's just how it goes. Whatever method decides on each new power is out of my hands and I simply have to man up and accept that. It's like I told myself the next day, all power is good power - there's only bad wielders. So it may not be ideal, it may not be what I want, but soon enough the dice will roll again. And like Fragrance Weaponry, I may find that first impressions are just that.
And speaking of new powers - I close my eyes and delve inward…
0:2:34:16
0:2:34:15
0:2:34:14
A little more than two and a half hours and I'll have power number three. Three months here and three super powers to show for it. I won't pretend it was smooth sailing at the beginning, not even close, but I like to think of it as down payment for my abilities. After all, if I had to suffer through the traumatic mire of dimensional displacement, I better have gotten super powers out of it. It was only fair.
My stomach rumbles - interrupting my musings - but the thought of making food right now is overbearing. I'm not exactly physically tired, but the mental stress involved in my recent tinkering has all but sapped my mental energy. My stomach rumbles again - this time with a dull ache to accompany it.
Pizza? Pizza.
A quick call to Joe's and I find myself once again with nothing but my thoughts to keep me company until the delivery man arrives. I try tossing a tennis ball in the air, but I misjudge my third throw and it ends up on the other side of the room. I watch it roll away and ineffectually reach towards it.
'I really hope I get something fun this time.'
As great as my first two powers are - thinker and tinker abilities are a match made in heaven - I just need something to really scratch that super power itch in the back of my Id. Lasers would be nice. Or flight. Maybe super strength? Really anything that wasn't too many deviations away from a "classic" ability.
'I'm sure it'll be fine.'
2 Hours and 28 Minutes Later:
I press my face into the nearest pillow and scream. And when I run out of breath I scream some more.
At least I'm dealing with my disappointment without immediately resorting to alcohol and violence, so… baby steps. I'm sure my walls will thank me later
Pacing back and forth across my living room, pizza still sitting heavily in my gut, I mentally reach for Telepathic Intelligence. My hope is that a little brain boost will cut my emotional response off at the knees - that an injection of cold logic will help me look past the obvious and drag the positives of my new power to light. And that's all I really want. Some insight. A hint that I'm missing something.
And I try. I truly do. I push the ability harder and harder - funneling more of the mental energy into my head with a frantic and desperate hope. Combing over disparate avenues of information. Forging new and increasingly complicated connections. Dissecting long held assumptions and dragging foundational schema to light. Pushing myself to the edge of a throbbing thinker headache before I cut the flow and resign it to a lost cause.
Maybe in time I'll come to appreciate my third and newest power.
But I mean… really?
Absolute Ugliness?
Someone has to be fucking with me here.
Power 1: Telepathic Intelligence (Thinker)
Power 2: Fragrance Weaponry (Tinker)
Power 3: Absolute Ugliness (Breaker/Shaker)
Power 2: Fragrance Weaponry (Tinker)
Power 3: Absolute Ugliness (Breaker/Shaker)
I mean... It's a strong power...? Not a power that you really want to have... But it's among other things essentially a way to give yourself blinds pot to powers and scrying. Even ZIZ will be to revolted by your appearance to plan with you, Shards destroy data that you exist so they don't have to remember your ugly face, and people will need to roll will and fort saves just to look in your direction, never mind aim at you... At the cost of everyone hating you.
But yeah. Strong power, but not one you want to have.
But yeah. Strong power, but not one you want to have.
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In case it didn't come through from the list at the end - it's a breaker based ability. So he's not permanently ugly as sin. As I mentioned at the top - I allow myself some creative interpretation to keep things interesting and I applied that to Absolute Ugliness. I'll get more into the details next chapter, but like any breaker ability it's a binary on/off type of thing.
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I got that. But it is still an ability to be able to make all spying shards and powers look away. That is strong, even if everything hates you and think you are disgusting.
And you have the ability to be uglier than sin, this is the highest level of supernatural ugly, there are many other of weaker powers that still causes San damage
And you have the ability to be uglier than sin, this is the highest level of supernatural ugly, there are many other of weaker powers that still causes San damage
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If you read the page, it's super eldritch. Corrupting demons and nurgle are the examples and it's listed as the 'highest' form of ugliness, nuff said.
Anyway could be a interesting story if it couldn't be turned off. Like a Doctor Doom that has a actual reason to have a full body armor and mask not just a gigantic ego. Then he does the reveal and Jack Slash drops dead with a smile.
'You want my identity? Have it... oh oh oh'.
Anyway could be a interesting story if it couldn't be turned off. Like a Doctor Doom that has a actual reason to have a full body armor and mask not just a gigantic ego. Then he does the reveal and Jack Slash drops dead with a smile.
'You want my identity? Have it... oh oh oh'.
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Chapter 2
I mutter a low string of curses as my boot slips on something dark, wet and vile. It doesn't smell like shit, but who knows with this city - it was probably something worse. Brockton Bay was a hole - no doubt about it - but it was slowly becoming my hole.
…
Maybe not the best choice of words, but I stand by the sentiment. In a world gone sideways in the most violent of ways, a hole was a blessing. Because what was a hole, but a place to hide. Safety. A refuge from the monsters that go bump in the night. I don't think I need to elaborate on what kind of monsters this city holds.
So, in a weird way, I felt safe here.
I briefly reflect on that thought as I cross to the other side of the street in order to avoid a group of strung out junkies. I didn't actually say that city was safe, just that it made me feel that way. If emotions were supposed to be logical they wouldn't be called emotions, now would they?
It wasn't something I had really sat down and picked apart, but I think the general brokenness of the city - for lack of a better word - made me feel better about my own situation. In a more put-together and functioning metropolis I would have felt criminally out of place. Especially in my first few weeks here. Brockton Bay may not be welcoming in the traditional sense, but it accepted the lost and lonely a little more readily than most.
And I think lost and lonely were fairly apt adjectives for my lot in life.
I kick a pebble in front of me and watch it skip down the sidewalk in erratic jumps - the sound largely lost among the discordant symphony of the Docks at night. A shrill car alarm droning a few streets over competes with the loud thump of music from a nearby warehouse - the deep bass practically thrumming in my bones. Both were complimented by a domestic screaming match spilling out onto the street.
Not a great look for this part of town, but it served its purpose. For one, it helped to mark my departure from the nicer part of the Docks - the area close enough to Downtown that it was more or less respectable. Second, and more importantly, it let me fade into the background.
Someone walking around the Boardwalk or Captain's Hill at 2 o'clock in the morning practically radiated nefarious purpose. Here? I was merely one of many. And I needed that anonymity - for my mental wellbeing if nothing else. A power or three didn't magically make me an experienced criminal. And I really hadn't done myself any favors in the nerves department.
A few minutes of Telepathic Intelligence earlier in the night had proven to be a mistake - whatever conviction I had been able to gather was ruthlessly squashed as I couldn't help but think over the myriad ways tonight could go wrong. Who knew that being smarter made you less confident? I shake my head in exasperation.
'Learn something new everyday'.
With a deep breath I stop at the corner under a nearly dead street lamp. The faded bulb above gives off just the right amount of light to really make the shadows pop. My hands reflexively go to my pockets despite everything being there the last thirty or so times I checked. Likely unnecessary, but better safe than sorry. Leaning against the rusted and slightly warped poll, I flair Telepathic Intelligence and sweep my eyes around the area - nothing stands out or registers as especially noteworthy so I let the mental energy drain away.
Sticking to the deeper shadows I drop my backpack and root out my half-mask respirator. I slip it on and flip up my hoodie, leaving only my eyes uncovered. The ball bearings I sewed into the lining should keep it from moving too much - at least I hope so. Last are some ratty faux-leather gloves I found cheap in a thrift shop - I doubt it will be an issue, but I don't want to make a habit of leaving fingerprints around Merchant stash houses. If there's one thing both my tinker and thinker powers have taught me - it's never make assumptions when it comes to powers. Especially those two categories. Who knows what bullshit a Protectorate member could think or tinker up? Best not to take any chances.
Hodgepodge costume assembled, I gently trace the mental switches that connect to my powers - their presence helping to ground me and chase away the very worst of my nerves. A glance to make sure my backpack is well hidden and I start off to my destination. If James wasn't talking out of his ass yesterday then the stash house shouldn't be too far. He didn't give a specific address, but I'm fairly certain I was able to piece the general area together from his manic, coke-fueled ramblings.
I should be getting close any minute now so I keep Telepathic Intelligence on a low simmer. Enough to keep me sharp and give me an extra edge - like putting on glasses for the first time and having the world shift into clarity. I'm not sure how potent Telepathic Intelligence is compared to other thinker abilities, but I don't believe it's bargain bin by any means. That being said, neither is it the 4D chess level I assume top tier thinkers operate at. I'm still experimenting with and learning the ins and outs of the power, but I think it works best as a support type of ability. A source of potential. From what I've pieced together, intelligence is largely defined by two things - the ability to take in information and the ability to wield it. Ramp those two facets up to 11 and the possibilities are endless.
I finally spot my target down the street - it sits fairly isolated from the surrounding buildings on a plot land decorated with trash and rusted metal. The stash house is an old building that was clearly abandoned decades ago and repurposed within the last year or so. The porch sags under its own weight and the paint is more often peeling off than not. The interior is likely better put together than the exterior, if only somewhat.
Keeping well away from the building, I make a slow circle of the property. I don't spy any look-outs or guards, but I'm not exactly surprised - the Merchants are like water, they always go for the path of least resistance. I should know, I've been dealing their weed for over two months.
I still don't feel bad about it - it's not like I had a lot of options when I first arrived. And the fact that I didn't get high off my own product practically threw the door open for me. It shouldn't have surprised me as much as it did... but it did. Within a week I went from selling grams to high schoolers to easily flipping half an ounce a day. It may not seem like a lot, but it placed me firmly into the middle of the Merchant's pushers - at least when it came to their softer drugs. It was the perfect position to make a decent amount without getting too tangled up in the upper echelons of the gang. It also gave me just enough access to facilitate my current operation.
I silently circle the building - making sure to keep an eye on the surrounding streets - and note all the open or broken windows. As is befitting both the area and the tenants there should be enough to get the job done. The second level might be an issue. I only spot a single open window on the west side of the house and upper floors are usually less open than their ground counterparts. Best assume I'll be facing at least a few conscious Merchants.
But there are enough means of delivery on the ground floor that I feel confident going in. Stopping behind a rusted car on cinderblocks, I palm a few of my knockout grenades and begin to push more energy into my head. I only have twelve of the little orbs and I would rather not waste them with poor aim.
People like to think of athletics as a purely physical feat - that hitting a baseball or shooting a basketball are in a separate category from more intellectual pursuits. But really, it's the brain that does most of the work - the muscles just carry out orders after all the hard work has already been done.
It was a lesson I learned the same day I arrived here. Movement, kinesthetics, really everything a body does conscious or otherwise is a product of the brain. A little over three months ago I wouldn't have placed money on what I was about to do. I put all but one of the ping pong sized balls back into my pocket and take aim. Fortunately, I'm not the same person I was back then.
The ball of weaponized fragrance goes sailing through an open window on the ground floor and I'm already moving to my next target. I don't actively think about what I'm doing and risk my conscious mind getting in the way of things. Instead I sink into the energy and trust that all the necessary calculations are being handled in the background - arm angle, shoulder torsion, finger position and so on. I focus on moving from target to target and watch my precious little orbs make their way into the building. By the third throw I hear sounds of movement and muffled voices. By the fourth, both have raised in pitch and intensity as the occupants realize that something decidedly wrong is occurring. By the fifth I begin to hear the delightful thump of bodies hitting the floor. As I send a seventh through the open window on the second floor the house has fallen into a stark silence.
I take a deep breath and jog towards the front door before I can start rationalizing my way out of doing so - the sharp smell of plastic from my respirator clashes with the murky tones of seaside mold and decay. I'm through the entrance way and just into the living room when I see four bodies strewn in various states of forced sleep. Two on the floor, one leaning against an end table covered in pizza and weed and the last sprawled at the end of the stairs - a small puddle of blood marking where he must have fallen.
I step through the room - a faint pink haze still wafting around the area - and methodically pat down each person. The repetition helps to keep me focused and pointedly not thinking about the expanding crimson puddle. Besides a small amount of cash from the woman laying against the table, the only prize is a small matte-black gun. I think it's a pistol, but that's the extent of my knowledge - I should probably brush up on that. I make sure the safety is on and decide to bring it with me - if only to deny any Merchant the weapon. I do crush the two phones I find under the heel of my boot. It's just good practice.
Gun in one hand and knockout grenade in the other, I strain my ears for any signs of movement as I slowly make my way throughout the first floor. Unfortunately the building is old and poorly maintained enough to have a nearly constantly settling foundation. The whole place creaks, groans and rattles in a way that might cover up more subtle noises. I could have gotten lucky and those four were the extent of the building's occupants, but I somehow doubt it.
The kitchen is clear and incredibly disgusting so I quickly move on. The bathroom is somehow worse and I cherish the fact that I'm currently wearing a respirator. Within a few minutes I've checked each room, closet and nook of the first floor - to my dismay there was no cache of money or drugs and I'll have to continue on with my search. Before I do so, I sneak a peak out the living room window - The surrounding neighborhood shows no sign of response to my entry. Good.
I toss a knockout grenade up the stairwell - angled so that it ricochets off of a wall and bounces down the left side of the hallway. I repeat the action to send one down the right. Three left. It might have been overkill, but I really don't care. The ingredients for these babies are all readily available from pharmacies and grocery stores - it's why they were the first thing I decided to create. I can always whip up some more.
I count down from twenty as the familiar pink smoke spreads out with a soft hiss. I fail to hear the thump of bodies hitting the floor - which I'm honestly not sure is a good thing or not. Whatever the result, I can't let this drag out too long. Each step up the stairs creaks and groans - my heart speeding up in response. I know logically that the sound isn't giving away my presence - that shipped has already long sailed - but I can't help but try and step as softly as I can.
The next few minutes seem to drag on and on - each individual moment feeding me cascades of information as I ramp up Telepathic Intelligence in response to my nerves. My world both shrinks and expands in a paradoxical way that words fail to properly explain. I can feel the beginning of a thinker headache rear its head, but I'm not willing to dial the ability back - it would leave me feeling exposed and vulnerable.
When I finally enter the second to last room on the floor and find a small safe tucked under a wooden desk, the relief is indescribable. I give a perfunctory check but as I thought, it's much too heavy to move. Worse, it's electronic. I've gotten quite proficient at picking mechanical locks in my time here - electronic, not so much. It's an oversight that I'll have to correct.
However I am not without a path forward - it's just something I would have rather avoided. The results are often... intense to put it lightly. I did a few hours of experimentation in the boat graveyard - enough to get a rough idea of what Absolute Ugliness is and how it works. As seems to be the general rule, I'm sure there is a lot of of depth I'm probably missing, but when it comes to the basic facts? I more or less have handle on it.
I inch right up against the safe - practically hunched over it - and flip the switch for my third power.
I don't physically change - it's nothing so simple. I don't grow warts, a hair lip or anything of the sort. It's something more nebulous, less easily defined. It's more of a change to the fundamental idea of who I am. As if I were merging into the Platonic ideal of ugliness. A pure expression of the the very idea - as opposed to a mere example of it.
It's not a change I can actually recognize, at least in a concrete way. I'm guessing it's a built-in feature to protect my fragile little mind from hurting itself. I only get a vague understanding that yes, the power is currently on. The creeping wave of corrosive, bubbling destruction that spreads out from me does the trick as well. Pretty difficult to miss all things told.
If Absolute Ugliness were my only trick, I would be very hesitant in using it to crack the safe. At my current skill, it would be a bit like using a sledgehammer to crack open an egg. With Telepathic Intelligence running at the same time? My odds were decidedly better.
I could tell that I was going to pay for this later, but I flooded my mind with enough energy to extrapolate the rate at which I was eating through the safe. The metal began to smoke and pop, bubbling with a sickly tone which soon turned to a gurgling screech - as if the metal were screaming in agony. I watch the progress with an unblinking intensity, taking in the almost unnatural destruction. Then, before I even recognize what I'm doing, Absolute Ugliness was flipped back off.
Even though I knew what would happen, it was still odd seeing everything just stop on a dime. No more bubbling, smoking or hissing. Just the ruinous results of what couldn't have been more than five seconds.
A small smirk graces my face as the front of the safe practically flakes away under my touch - stacks of sweet, sweet money revealed within.
Then the thoroughly distressing noise of wood breaking sounds-out from under me and I'm falling.
…
Maybe not the best choice of words, but I stand by the sentiment. In a world gone sideways in the most violent of ways, a hole was a blessing. Because what was a hole, but a place to hide. Safety. A refuge from the monsters that go bump in the night. I don't think I need to elaborate on what kind of monsters this city holds.
So, in a weird way, I felt safe here.
I briefly reflect on that thought as I cross to the other side of the street in order to avoid a group of strung out junkies. I didn't actually say that city was safe, just that it made me feel that way. If emotions were supposed to be logical they wouldn't be called emotions, now would they?
It wasn't something I had really sat down and picked apart, but I think the general brokenness of the city - for lack of a better word - made me feel better about my own situation. In a more put-together and functioning metropolis I would have felt criminally out of place. Especially in my first few weeks here. Brockton Bay may not be welcoming in the traditional sense, but it accepted the lost and lonely a little more readily than most.
And I think lost and lonely were fairly apt adjectives for my lot in life.
I kick a pebble in front of me and watch it skip down the sidewalk in erratic jumps - the sound largely lost among the discordant symphony of the Docks at night. A shrill car alarm droning a few streets over competes with the loud thump of music from a nearby warehouse - the deep bass practically thrumming in my bones. Both were complimented by a domestic screaming match spilling out onto the street.
Not a great look for this part of town, but it served its purpose. For one, it helped to mark my departure from the nicer part of the Docks - the area close enough to Downtown that it was more or less respectable. Second, and more importantly, it let me fade into the background.
Someone walking around the Boardwalk or Captain's Hill at 2 o'clock in the morning practically radiated nefarious purpose. Here? I was merely one of many. And I needed that anonymity - for my mental wellbeing if nothing else. A power or three didn't magically make me an experienced criminal. And I really hadn't done myself any favors in the nerves department.
A few minutes of Telepathic Intelligence earlier in the night had proven to be a mistake - whatever conviction I had been able to gather was ruthlessly squashed as I couldn't help but think over the myriad ways tonight could go wrong. Who knew that being smarter made you less confident? I shake my head in exasperation.
'Learn something new everyday'.
With a deep breath I stop at the corner under a nearly dead street lamp. The faded bulb above gives off just the right amount of light to really make the shadows pop. My hands reflexively go to my pockets despite everything being there the last thirty or so times I checked. Likely unnecessary, but better safe than sorry. Leaning against the rusted and slightly warped poll, I flair Telepathic Intelligence and sweep my eyes around the area - nothing stands out or registers as especially noteworthy so I let the mental energy drain away.
Sticking to the deeper shadows I drop my backpack and root out my half-mask respirator. I slip it on and flip up my hoodie, leaving only my eyes uncovered. The ball bearings I sewed into the lining should keep it from moving too much - at least I hope so. Last are some ratty faux-leather gloves I found cheap in a thrift shop - I doubt it will be an issue, but I don't want to make a habit of leaving fingerprints around Merchant stash houses. If there's one thing both my tinker and thinker powers have taught me - it's never make assumptions when it comes to powers. Especially those two categories. Who knows what bullshit a Protectorate member could think or tinker up? Best not to take any chances.
Hodgepodge costume assembled, I gently trace the mental switches that connect to my powers - their presence helping to ground me and chase away the very worst of my nerves. A glance to make sure my backpack is well hidden and I start off to my destination. If James wasn't talking out of his ass yesterday then the stash house shouldn't be too far. He didn't give a specific address, but I'm fairly certain I was able to piece the general area together from his manic, coke-fueled ramblings.
I should be getting close any minute now so I keep Telepathic Intelligence on a low simmer. Enough to keep me sharp and give me an extra edge - like putting on glasses for the first time and having the world shift into clarity. I'm not sure how potent Telepathic Intelligence is compared to other thinker abilities, but I don't believe it's bargain bin by any means. That being said, neither is it the 4D chess level I assume top tier thinkers operate at. I'm still experimenting with and learning the ins and outs of the power, but I think it works best as a support type of ability. A source of potential. From what I've pieced together, intelligence is largely defined by two things - the ability to take in information and the ability to wield it. Ramp those two facets up to 11 and the possibilities are endless.
I finally spot my target down the street - it sits fairly isolated from the surrounding buildings on a plot land decorated with trash and rusted metal. The stash house is an old building that was clearly abandoned decades ago and repurposed within the last year or so. The porch sags under its own weight and the paint is more often peeling off than not. The interior is likely better put together than the exterior, if only somewhat.
Keeping well away from the building, I make a slow circle of the property. I don't spy any look-outs or guards, but I'm not exactly surprised - the Merchants are like water, they always go for the path of least resistance. I should know, I've been dealing their weed for over two months.
I still don't feel bad about it - it's not like I had a lot of options when I first arrived. And the fact that I didn't get high off my own product practically threw the door open for me. It shouldn't have surprised me as much as it did... but it did. Within a week I went from selling grams to high schoolers to easily flipping half an ounce a day. It may not seem like a lot, but it placed me firmly into the middle of the Merchant's pushers - at least when it came to their softer drugs. It was the perfect position to make a decent amount without getting too tangled up in the upper echelons of the gang. It also gave me just enough access to facilitate my current operation.
I silently circle the building - making sure to keep an eye on the surrounding streets - and note all the open or broken windows. As is befitting both the area and the tenants there should be enough to get the job done. The second level might be an issue. I only spot a single open window on the west side of the house and upper floors are usually less open than their ground counterparts. Best assume I'll be facing at least a few conscious Merchants.
But there are enough means of delivery on the ground floor that I feel confident going in. Stopping behind a rusted car on cinderblocks, I palm a few of my knockout grenades and begin to push more energy into my head. I only have twelve of the little orbs and I would rather not waste them with poor aim.
People like to think of athletics as a purely physical feat - that hitting a baseball or shooting a basketball are in a separate category from more intellectual pursuits. But really, it's the brain that does most of the work - the muscles just carry out orders after all the hard work has already been done.
It was a lesson I learned the same day I arrived here. Movement, kinesthetics, really everything a body does conscious or otherwise is a product of the brain. A little over three months ago I wouldn't have placed money on what I was about to do. I put all but one of the ping pong sized balls back into my pocket and take aim. Fortunately, I'm not the same person I was back then.
The ball of weaponized fragrance goes sailing through an open window on the ground floor and I'm already moving to my next target. I don't actively think about what I'm doing and risk my conscious mind getting in the way of things. Instead I sink into the energy and trust that all the necessary calculations are being handled in the background - arm angle, shoulder torsion, finger position and so on. I focus on moving from target to target and watch my precious little orbs make their way into the building. By the third throw I hear sounds of movement and muffled voices. By the fourth, both have raised in pitch and intensity as the occupants realize that something decidedly wrong is occurring. By the fifth I begin to hear the delightful thump of bodies hitting the floor. As I send a seventh through the open window on the second floor the house has fallen into a stark silence.
I take a deep breath and jog towards the front door before I can start rationalizing my way out of doing so - the sharp smell of plastic from my respirator clashes with the murky tones of seaside mold and decay. I'm through the entrance way and just into the living room when I see four bodies strewn in various states of forced sleep. Two on the floor, one leaning against an end table covered in pizza and weed and the last sprawled at the end of the stairs - a small puddle of blood marking where he must have fallen.
I step through the room - a faint pink haze still wafting around the area - and methodically pat down each person. The repetition helps to keep me focused and pointedly not thinking about the expanding crimson puddle. Besides a small amount of cash from the woman laying against the table, the only prize is a small matte-black gun. I think it's a pistol, but that's the extent of my knowledge - I should probably brush up on that. I make sure the safety is on and decide to bring it with me - if only to deny any Merchant the weapon. I do crush the two phones I find under the heel of my boot. It's just good practice.
Gun in one hand and knockout grenade in the other, I strain my ears for any signs of movement as I slowly make my way throughout the first floor. Unfortunately the building is old and poorly maintained enough to have a nearly constantly settling foundation. The whole place creaks, groans and rattles in a way that might cover up more subtle noises. I could have gotten lucky and those four were the extent of the building's occupants, but I somehow doubt it.
The kitchen is clear and incredibly disgusting so I quickly move on. The bathroom is somehow worse and I cherish the fact that I'm currently wearing a respirator. Within a few minutes I've checked each room, closet and nook of the first floor - to my dismay there was no cache of money or drugs and I'll have to continue on with my search. Before I do so, I sneak a peak out the living room window - The surrounding neighborhood shows no sign of response to my entry. Good.
I toss a knockout grenade up the stairwell - angled so that it ricochets off of a wall and bounces down the left side of the hallway. I repeat the action to send one down the right. Three left. It might have been overkill, but I really don't care. The ingredients for these babies are all readily available from pharmacies and grocery stores - it's why they were the first thing I decided to create. I can always whip up some more.
I count down from twenty as the familiar pink smoke spreads out with a soft hiss. I fail to hear the thump of bodies hitting the floor - which I'm honestly not sure is a good thing or not. Whatever the result, I can't let this drag out too long. Each step up the stairs creaks and groans - my heart speeding up in response. I know logically that the sound isn't giving away my presence - that shipped has already long sailed - but I can't help but try and step as softly as I can.
The next few minutes seem to drag on and on - each individual moment feeding me cascades of information as I ramp up Telepathic Intelligence in response to my nerves. My world both shrinks and expands in a paradoxical way that words fail to properly explain. I can feel the beginning of a thinker headache rear its head, but I'm not willing to dial the ability back - it would leave me feeling exposed and vulnerable.
When I finally enter the second to last room on the floor and find a small safe tucked under a wooden desk, the relief is indescribable. I give a perfunctory check but as I thought, it's much too heavy to move. Worse, it's electronic. I've gotten quite proficient at picking mechanical locks in my time here - electronic, not so much. It's an oversight that I'll have to correct.
However I am not without a path forward - it's just something I would have rather avoided. The results are often... intense to put it lightly. I did a few hours of experimentation in the boat graveyard - enough to get a rough idea of what Absolute Ugliness is and how it works. As seems to be the general rule, I'm sure there is a lot of of depth I'm probably missing, but when it comes to the basic facts? I more or less have handle on it.
I inch right up against the safe - practically hunched over it - and flip the switch for my third power.
I don't physically change - it's nothing so simple. I don't grow warts, a hair lip or anything of the sort. It's something more nebulous, less easily defined. It's more of a change to the fundamental idea of who I am. As if I were merging into the Platonic ideal of ugliness. A pure expression of the the very idea - as opposed to a mere example of it.
It's not a change I can actually recognize, at least in a concrete way. I'm guessing it's a built-in feature to protect my fragile little mind from hurting itself. I only get a vague understanding that yes, the power is currently on. The creeping wave of corrosive, bubbling destruction that spreads out from me does the trick as well. Pretty difficult to miss all things told.
If Absolute Ugliness were my only trick, I would be very hesitant in using it to crack the safe. At my current skill, it would be a bit like using a sledgehammer to crack open an egg. With Telepathic Intelligence running at the same time? My odds were decidedly better.
I could tell that I was going to pay for this later, but I flooded my mind with enough energy to extrapolate the rate at which I was eating through the safe. The metal began to smoke and pop, bubbling with a sickly tone which soon turned to a gurgling screech - as if the metal were screaming in agony. I watch the progress with an unblinking intensity, taking in the almost unnatural destruction. Then, before I even recognize what I'm doing, Absolute Ugliness was flipped back off.
Even though I knew what would happen, it was still odd seeing everything just stop on a dime. No more bubbling, smoking or hissing. Just the ruinous results of what couldn't have been more than five seconds.
A small smirk graces my face as the front of the safe practically flakes away under my touch - stacks of sweet, sweet money revealed within.
Then the thoroughly distressing noise of wood breaking sounds-out from under me and I'm falling.
Power 1: Telepathic Intelligence (Thinker)
Power 2: Fragrance Weaponry (Tinker)
Power 3: Absolute Ugliness (Breaker/Shaker)
Power 2: Fragrance Weaponry (Tinker)
Power 3: Absolute Ugliness (Breaker/Shaker)
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I have to say - I really love the moderator approval system. Especially when (after it finally gets approved after hours of waiting) it immediately reverts back when I make a single edit.
Here's to even more waiting!
ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ
Here's to even more waiting!
ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ
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- Location
- Earth, Sol System
I was intrigued with the first chapter but now I am interested in this. I think you are doing pretty good and the character is very believable, they are a person and thus imperfect as you've shown.
Yeah. Nurgle level ugly is Powerful. I wounder if you could in theory use the byproduct of the perceived smell in you tinker power... That would be a serious destructive synergy
It's definitely a possibility, but one that would have to be explored far into the future. The SI has neither the equipment, materials nor expertise to even begin figuring how to go about accomplishing such a task. And that's assuming any olfactory byproduct is actually physical, and not more of a metaphysical idea.
- Location
- Vietnam
- Pronouns
- He
Shit, MC is bless by RNGesus. God roll right from the start.
He is so ugly Scion suicides to escape this horrible reality
He is so ugly Scion suicides to escape this horrible reality
Kazuto Morimoto
Order and Chaos: Master-in-training #5603
- Location
- Somewhere in the vastness of Time and Space
So it's conceptual ugliness? Would it affect any of his powers, though I am assuming that he has some sort of protection from the power itself but does it protect his abilities?
Chapter 3
First came sound - a faraway ringing that slowly inched closer.
Next was light - feeling like heated knives in the space behind my eyes.
Last was a vague sense of self - something was very wrong.
My eyes crack open to a confusing mess that my brain simply refuses to make sense of - as if reality were covered in a film of oil that denied all attempts to grasp it. I reflexively switch on Telepathic Intelligence and scream as twin vices squeeze my head into a boiling maelstrom of pain. I claw at the ground and kick out in animalistic desperation. Any understanding is wiped away under the riptide of scouring pain. The sound of my hoarse shrieking seems to slowly drift away as nothingness blessedly enfolds me.
I wake up to the sound of voices - voices that are much too close for my liking. I can barely move, my body sluggishly responding to my frantic commands to do something in light of the nearing threat. It was like my brain was only sending out static. I manage to roll to my side, setting off a throbbing beat in my head and make my way to my knees. Scattered pieces of plaster and wood fall off me and it takes precious seconds to connect that oddity to my last real memory.
'Fuck'.
It's at that thought that the aforementioned voices finally come into view. I barely sight a pair of dirty jeans stepping through the front door when I panic. Absolute Ugliness is unthinkingly flipped on and once again the house echoes with screams - this time not my own.
Up until this point I had yet to test my third power on humans. In fact, I had yet to test it on any kind of life at all. Metal and wood? I could confidently say that I had an idea how they reacted in the presence of my ability. The boat graveyard had no end of scrap to play around with. Living, breathing humans on the other hand? I don't think I quite thought through the implications. I should have been able to extrapolate one to the other - I think I just didn't want to.
An older man in dreadlocks howls as he ineffectually tries to claw his own eyes out - weeping streaks of broken flesh trail down his face from his attempts. A skinny kid with a shaved head and earrings is on the ground twitching and drooling with a wide-eyed look on his face. A brunette dressed in black violently vomits onto the ground between ugly sobs, her head cradled between shaking arms. The last arrival just stares at me - transfixed - for a handful of seconds before he starts to make a noise between a giggle and scream. Just as suddenly his eyes roll back in his head and he collapses bonelessly.
I can only stare in disbelief. My head is too light - as if it were stuffed with cotton - and the scene unfolding before me makes me feel like I'll float away any second now. It's so horrifyingly visceral that it just doesn't seem real. It's... humans shouldn't act this way. It plucks a cord deep inside of me that squeezes my soul in uncomfortable ways.
A piece of ceiling dangling above finally rips free and falls to my left in a spray of dust - startling me out of my shock. I take a ragged breath and end up hacking out a string of deep, rattling coughs before I think to turn off Absolute Ugliness.
Like the safe, the damage is already done. The sound of screaming trailing off to a tortured whimper has me shaking. I did this - me.
'I... I need to go'.
I nearly slip as I get up, but manage to get a hand out before I can fall back down. I use the handhold to push myself the rest of the way up and start to stumble towards the front door. I get halfway to the exit when I realize I would have to walk over the four downed Merchants to do so. The four most recently downed Merchants - I idly correct myself - there's also the four still knocked out from earlier. In my hesitation I look down. The brunette is still dry-heaving when she isn't crying in miserable sobs. I can't even look at the man with dreadlocks.
I'm out the back door less than a minute later. My shuffling gait transitions to an awkward jog until I trip over something on the lawn - I have no idea what - and go sprawling. Honestly, it doesn't even feel like I'm operating my own body at this point.
I grab the gun and bundles of cash - when did I pick those up - and finally pass the property line. I force myself to keep up the pace, but each breath feels like it barely takes in any oxygen. I hate this. I hate this.
I keep twitching and turning at each and every sound around me - the movement pushing my head to new heights of misery. When I turn a corner and nearly run into the group of junkies from earlier I go from a jog to a sprint. Shouts of confusion and joking derision follow me in my manic race to just get away, get away, get away.
The clouds have cleared and a nearly full moon sends its light down on the city as I finally stop near the beginning of Downtown. Warehouses, abandoned factories and derelict housing are well behind me. I drag myself to a nearby alleyway between a coffee shop and real estate office and collapse behind a dumpster. My respirator is ripped off with shaking, sweaty hands and the sound of my ragged breathing seems like it should wake up the whole street. I have to brace myself against the dumpster and wall when the world begins to tilt and slide. It takes too long for everything to stop spinning in a gut churning manner.
I don't even realize I've forgotten my backpack until I go to put my respirator away - I very nearly break down crying. It's one more thing I don't want to deal with. I just want to go home.
The shadows shift as some vehicle drives by the alley and my prizes are briefly illuminated before being cast back into darkness. I tuck the gun in my waistband - too tired to give a shit if the action is unsafe or not. The money is stuffed into whatever pocket is nearest and the respirator I decide to carry after a half-hearted attempt to stuff it in with the cash.
Now that most of the adrenaline has worn off I can really start feeling all the bruises, cuts and scrapes I've gathered tonight. I wouldn't be surprised if my ankle is sprained to all hell - it certainly feels like it is. It's hot and getting stiffer by the moment. I think I zone out for a while just staring down at the ground - snapping back to focus when another car drives by.
I think I may need to go to the hospital - something about not going to sleep with head injuries? Home and then the hospital. Can't show up with a gun and bands of obvious drug money. Or can you? Technically I'm a Merchant - that's in character, right?
The joke falls flat when the image of a man trying to dig his eyes out flashes through my mind.
I lean against the alley wall for a moment before setting back out with a noticeable limp. I can already tell this is going to be a long night.
Next was light - feeling like heated knives in the space behind my eyes.
Last was a vague sense of self - something was very wrong.
My eyes crack open to a confusing mess that my brain simply refuses to make sense of - as if reality were covered in a film of oil that denied all attempts to grasp it. I reflexively switch on Telepathic Intelligence and scream as twin vices squeeze my head into a boiling maelstrom of pain. I claw at the ground and kick out in animalistic desperation. Any understanding is wiped away under the riptide of scouring pain. The sound of my hoarse shrieking seems to slowly drift away as nothingness blessedly enfolds me.
I wake up to the sound of voices - voices that are much too close for my liking. I can barely move, my body sluggishly responding to my frantic commands to do something in light of the nearing threat. It was like my brain was only sending out static. I manage to roll to my side, setting off a throbbing beat in my head and make my way to my knees. Scattered pieces of plaster and wood fall off me and it takes precious seconds to connect that oddity to my last real memory.
'Fuck'.
It's at that thought that the aforementioned voices finally come into view. I barely sight a pair of dirty jeans stepping through the front door when I panic. Absolute Ugliness is unthinkingly flipped on and once again the house echoes with screams - this time not my own.
Up until this point I had yet to test my third power on humans. In fact, I had yet to test it on any kind of life at all. Metal and wood? I could confidently say that I had an idea how they reacted in the presence of my ability. The boat graveyard had no end of scrap to play around with. Living, breathing humans on the other hand? I don't think I quite thought through the implications. I should have been able to extrapolate one to the other - I think I just didn't want to.
An older man in dreadlocks howls as he ineffectually tries to claw his own eyes out - weeping streaks of broken flesh trail down his face from his attempts. A skinny kid with a shaved head and earrings is on the ground twitching and drooling with a wide-eyed look on his face. A brunette dressed in black violently vomits onto the ground between ugly sobs, her head cradled between shaking arms. The last arrival just stares at me - transfixed - for a handful of seconds before he starts to make a noise between a giggle and scream. Just as suddenly his eyes roll back in his head and he collapses bonelessly.
I can only stare in disbelief. My head is too light - as if it were stuffed with cotton - and the scene unfolding before me makes me feel like I'll float away any second now. It's so horrifyingly visceral that it just doesn't seem real. It's... humans shouldn't act this way. It plucks a cord deep inside of me that squeezes my soul in uncomfortable ways.
A piece of ceiling dangling above finally rips free and falls to my left in a spray of dust - startling me out of my shock. I take a ragged breath and end up hacking out a string of deep, rattling coughs before I think to turn off Absolute Ugliness.
Like the safe, the damage is already done. The sound of screaming trailing off to a tortured whimper has me shaking. I did this - me.
'I... I need to go'.
I nearly slip as I get up, but manage to get a hand out before I can fall back down. I use the handhold to push myself the rest of the way up and start to stumble towards the front door. I get halfway to the exit when I realize I would have to walk over the four downed Merchants to do so. The four most recently downed Merchants - I idly correct myself - there's also the four still knocked out from earlier. In my hesitation I look down. The brunette is still dry-heaving when she isn't crying in miserable sobs. I can't even look at the man with dreadlocks.
I'm out the back door less than a minute later. My shuffling gait transitions to an awkward jog until I trip over something on the lawn - I have no idea what - and go sprawling. Honestly, it doesn't even feel like I'm operating my own body at this point.
I grab the gun and bundles of cash - when did I pick those up - and finally pass the property line. I force myself to keep up the pace, but each breath feels like it barely takes in any oxygen. I hate this. I hate this.
I keep twitching and turning at each and every sound around me - the movement pushing my head to new heights of misery. When I turn a corner and nearly run into the group of junkies from earlier I go from a jog to a sprint. Shouts of confusion and joking derision follow me in my manic race to just get away, get away, get away.
The clouds have cleared and a nearly full moon sends its light down on the city as I finally stop near the beginning of Downtown. Warehouses, abandoned factories and derelict housing are well behind me. I drag myself to a nearby alleyway between a coffee shop and real estate office and collapse behind a dumpster. My respirator is ripped off with shaking, sweaty hands and the sound of my ragged breathing seems like it should wake up the whole street. I have to brace myself against the dumpster and wall when the world begins to tilt and slide. It takes too long for everything to stop spinning in a gut churning manner.
I don't even realize I've forgotten my backpack until I go to put my respirator away - I very nearly break down crying. It's one more thing I don't want to deal with. I just want to go home.
The shadows shift as some vehicle drives by the alley and my prizes are briefly illuminated before being cast back into darkness. I tuck the gun in my waistband - too tired to give a shit if the action is unsafe or not. The money is stuffed into whatever pocket is nearest and the respirator I decide to carry after a half-hearted attempt to stuff it in with the cash.
Now that most of the adrenaline has worn off I can really start feeling all the bruises, cuts and scrapes I've gathered tonight. I wouldn't be surprised if my ankle is sprained to all hell - it certainly feels like it is. It's hot and getting stiffer by the moment. I think I zone out for a while just staring down at the ground - snapping back to focus when another car drives by.
I think I may need to go to the hospital - something about not going to sleep with head injuries? Home and then the hospital. Can't show up with a gun and bands of obvious drug money. Or can you? Technically I'm a Merchant - that's in character, right?
The joke falls flat when the image of a man trying to dig his eyes out flashes through my mind.
I lean against the alley wall for a moment before setting back out with a noticeable limp. I can already tell this is going to be a long night.
Power 1: Telepathic Intelligence (Thinker)
Power 2: Fragrance Weaponry (Tinker)
Power 3: Absolute Ugliness (Breaker/Shaker)
Power 2: Fragrance Weaponry (Tinker)
Power 3: Absolute Ugliness (Breaker/Shaker)
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... Yeah. That is Absolute Ugliness, the ability to look like nurgles slightly cleaner but uglier twin.
The San damage is real.
The San damage is real.
- Location
- edinbrugh
What would happen if he looked in a mirror with Absolute Ugliness on? His face, clothes and body aren't melting when he turns it on, so does he have some form of self-immunity? Would a mirror like Medusa work with him? I know it was looking into her eyes that turned people into stone not her face, but still.
All the SI's powers are filtered through Worm - which is to say that he does in fact have an agent/passenger. And like the vast majority of parahumans, his power(s) are structured to not explicitly fuck him over. That's not to say they don't have their weaknesses and issues, but he won't get a fire power only to end up in the burn ward. The same logic applies to Absolute Ugliness.
- Location
- edinbrugh
That's kind of disappointing. The shard/passenger aspect always made powers less exciting for me.
Magpy
Very Curious
- Location
- Australia, but actually USA (or is it?)
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Now that is an interesting way to start a story, definitely watching this. It's a good thing Absolute Ugliness has an off switch, otherwise he would probably get a kill order at the very least. One more thing; I'm a bit confused about what his first power was, is it Fragrance Weaponry or Telepathic Intelligence?