OK, I've bitched about the Clarity thing, but, it's a huge update with a lot worth mentioning.
Gromweld said:
"Wait… what do you mean by 'Satisfactory'? It's Glenn."
Who, startling the boys with a sudden suppression of her power, voices her confusion before you can explain.
"Who the fuck is Glenn?"
Recovering quickly from his surprise, Clockblocker mutters something about Strangers before giving an absent wave of the hand towards you while turning to face the newest Ward in the group.
"He's the guy who's gonna tell you to wear a pink dress with yellow daisies on it as your costume, because it'll help sell more figures. And he's the head of PR, so he actually has the power to make it stick. I dunno how you got Piggy to sign off on your name, because he also would have slapped you with something like... 'Sally Surprise' or 'Peek-A-Boo'."
While her expression is hidden beneath her generic grey helmet, Who's cringe in response to Clockblocker's hypotheticals leads you to believe that the young Stranger may be getting second thoughts about her Ward tenure. Taking two quick steps towards her, you step into her field of vision to remind her of your presence and then turning your head slightly to meet her own inquisitive glance. After holding the stare for three seconds, you shake your head silently before turning back to Clockblocker.
"Understanding of greater goals. Head of PRT public relations by merit."
Hah! Gotta love Taylor being the only one to properly appreciate Glenn's hard work.
"Dr. Gauss, Planetary, and Rejuvenator foil bank robbery in Milwaukee!"
"Rime and Los Angeles Wards capture Blackout Gang after heated fight in downtown LA!"
"Cardinal, Insight, and Phoenix defeat Sinister Six, capture Incendiary!"
"Sinister Six" is an obvious reference. Are the others? I recall "Planetary" being a comic and Rime being a canonical Worm heroine, but...
"Shit, how the fuck do you two know all this stuff already? Didn't you just join up?"
Faces hidden by their generic-grey costumes, Uzu and Tatsu visibly deflate. Their response - from which twin, you aren't certain - is only barely loud enough to be heard over the muffled ambient city noise.
"... nothing else."
As the two teleporters sink back into their restraints and keep their gazes locked on the van's floor, even Who picks up on the sudden shift in the passenger compartment's atmosphere. Vista gives Who a sharp poke in the ribs in retaliation and to try to head the young Stranger off before she makes the situation worse… which has the opposite effect.
"Ah! Jeez, what the fuck? How the fuck was I supposed to know what their damage was?"
...OK, now I wish we'd heard what they said.
"Radiation, imperfections cleansed by absorption. Decontamination unnecessary."
Useful magical robot powers are useful.
"Technomorphic Integration Engine, other charms: conceptual in function."
Her eyes shifting from the flurry of your omnitools to your own face, Dragon's head tilts slightly while her voice no longer hides her curiosity.
"Charms?"
Pausing your work, you raise your dissembled left hand up from your rapidly-progressing work as an example.
"Installed mechanical augmentations."
Dragon is silent for a few moments, so you bring your left hand back down to resume work weaving the steel strands for Foundation's bulky armor pads into the grey material that - you realize belatedly - is what is now used for the generic PRT 'back up' costumes. Finally, Dragon's avatar furrows her brow and eyes you with concern.
"Installed, Taylor?"
"Affirmative."
"Did you install them?"
Blinking, you stall your work to consider the question - and your memories - with your various consciousnesses.
"Uncertain. Probability: low."
Through your 360-degree vision, you are able to note a very slight shift in Dragon's avatar's posture - almost as if she is hunching her shoulders briefly. The avatar's face and tone of voice betray no change, however, so you are unable to determine what emotion this would signify; perhaps it was merely one of the random flickers that sometimes comes when she momentarily diverts her attention elsewhere.
"You've remembered more about your trigger event, then? Was someone else involved?"
Dragon has thus far shown great concern for your well-being - far more than you would expect from such a busy heroine. While at first you associated this with her curiosity regarding your Tinker abilities, taking the time to calculate the time she has spent in idle discussion with you as of late reveals that nearly every conversation thus far has eventually led to a question regarding your origin.
Renowned as the world's greatest Tinker, since her debut on the public stage over fifteen years ago Dragon's reputation as a hero is sometimes considered even more spotless than the Triumvirate's. Not once has there been a case of lives lost in collateral damage during her fights, and her sole wardenship of the Baumann Parahuman Containment Center has possibly saved more lives than even Eidolon since its creation. The PRT trusts Dragon publicly and implicitly, but can you?
Such a hypothesis requires careful, measured study.
"Affirmative. Alchemical form constructed by third party, consciousness transferred. Further details uncertain."
Dragon's avatar opens its mouth to reply, but remains open in an 'o' shape for a moment before she slowly closes her mouth again and adopts a pained, sympathetic expression. She remains silent for nearly half an hour, simply watching you work as your hands blur from one pile of material to the next, rapidly sewing, welding, and shaping identical copies of the old costumes in your Elsewhere storage. You occasionally catch flickers of her avatar as it shifts between some undecipherable emotions, but only after you finish your third costume - Miss Liberty's verdigris-and-copper gown - does she speak up again, her expression shifting to a soft smile that reaches her eyes.
Not for the first time, I am surprised by how freely Clarity!Taylor hands out this kind of information.
Dragon, of course, is someone extremely trustworthy, and one of the most purely
good characters in the setting... but she cannot be exalted. Le sigh.
At eleven motes of essence, smoke begins to pour forth from your form and a discordant chorus of tortured souls echos through the room. A momentary flash of silent panic graces Dragon's digitized avatar before the computer shuts off completely; an unfortunate demonstration of your anima's fear-inducing effect, but with the mote expenditure calculated now you anticipate fewer accidental displays in the future.
Eesh. And we didn't even give Dragon an apology.
Much to your confusion, your anima is nearly completely dissipated by the time you step out of the black-marble shower, dispite the entire process only taking ten minutes. All of your minds agree that this is highly improbable and should not be considered too deeply for the time being, as you have more important matters to consider at the moment than the paradoxical mechanics of your Alchemical exaltation.
Frightening conjecture: The Queen Administrator is feeding on our Anima.
Formerly known by the name of 'Juggernaut', the eight-foot tall Brute was known in the early nineties as one of New York's most feared vigilantes. During his second incarceration four years ago, the olive-skinned Italian bruiser reportedly underwent a metamorphosis when the inmates were given an opportunity to cook their own meals - finding solace in channelling his aggression into kneading dough rather than criminals' faces.
A bakery run by the Juggernaut. Sure, why not.
You are fairly certain that Doughboy smiled at your suggestion, as his display of teeth was typical of a satisfied grin.
Between this and the latest chapter over in Conquest Quest, it looks like being Exalted causes Taylor's cluelessness to skyrocket with amusing results.
"We managed to convince Weaver to play something…"
You shake your head, still uncertain of the lukewarm reception to your performance.
"The Celebrated Chop Waltz by Euphemia Allen. Classic demonstration piece. Execution mechanically precise."
Your explanation only serves to spread the laughter, once Kid Win wonders aloud the piece's more common name.
"You played Chopsticks?"
Who waves him off mid-laugh, but takes a deep breath to calm herself before finishing the thought.
"No, no… she really did execute it."
I guess high Dexterity cannot completely mitigate non-existent Performance.
"The cause?"
Glenn Chambers' measuring gaze wavers briefly as his eyebrows raise a fraction of an inch, which is then quickly broken when he rolls his eyes and snorts through his nose in dissatisfaction.
"As if I'd waste my time with anything else."
Turning, the head of the PRT PR department casually gestures to the multi-billion-dollar fashion designers flanking him.
"Donna, Kathy, Inigo, Peter, Paul: meet Weaver. We've only got two hours, so let's not waste it."
To their credit, the designers don't even blink at the abrupt introduction - Peter Kensington and Donatella Versace even smile at Glenn's comment - and briskly follow behind Glenn as he turns and strides towards the nearest elevator.
Nodding to yourself in resolution, you free your minds of any extraneous thoughts and ready them for your most challenging endeavor yet:
A fashion shoot.
Glenn, you magnificent bastard.
"Why do you make so much work for me, Weaver? I've even had to hire an assistant just for you - a first for a Ward."
You blink, unable to detect if his statement is sarcasm or genuine exasperation.
I'm going with sarcasm. Glenn is a man who'll go a long way to make sure the job's done right, and he knows we're one of his most important "subjects" at the moment.
"We're pretty sure she's a cape, but we've never been able to prove it. Designed Eidolon's first costume, so we can't really get rid of her, anyway."
Recalling Miss Militia's warning, you keep your voice low enough for only Glenn to hear.
"No Corona Gemma. Blind."
...Huh.
"Is this a problem I should expect to see with… more than just you?"
Well, either the man's even more brilliant than I thought, or the higher-ups at the PRT have told him some big secrets and hope he can find out more.
Well, we ARE Behemoth's highest-priority target since ever. To the very least, the PRT (and Cauldron) should find us interesting.
As you consider a suitable response to the query, one of your minds calls forth a radical idea: Glenn a member of your Alchemical assembly. While his talents in the field of public relations would provide an unquestionable advantage in the struggle to sway the world's population into accepting - if not directly aiding with - Autochthon's arrival, you wonder if Glenn himself would believe in the cause.
Glenn would be incredibly useful as an Alchemical, yes. But I dunno if he would go for it. (Granted, very few people are guaranteed to "go for it".)
You can, however, lay the groundwork for this future discussion.
"More: PRT approval?"
Glenn grows still, even holding his breath for a least a minute before slowly exhaling through his nose.
"How… many more?"
While you are uncertain as to the number of Alchemical exalted that might reside within Autochthon himself, you opt to keep things simple for the preliminary discussions.
"Five."
Through your peripheral vision you can see him rolling his tongue over his teeth in his closed mouth while he folds his arms across his chest and taps his fingers on his wide biceps. He continues to move through various fidgeting motions over the next five minutes, eventually ending with a much harsher snort through his nose.
"If it's enough to force them to show their hands, then it might be what we've been looking for. But if they get you…?"
You shake your head.
"No more."
Again, being pretty free with information there.
But that might be just what we need. Cauldron probably won't be
scared by the prospect of five bullshit robots, but they'll see the use in fighting back the Endbringers.
Glenn runs through a few more fidgets before eventually shrugging his large shoulders loosely.
"Approval's above my pay-grade, Weaver."
You narrow your eyes, which has the side-effect of spooking one of the remaining workers as he gets the idea that you're glaring at him, specifically. You absently cycle through your visual augments and note that the young blonde has a vitamin D deficiency and is severely sleep-deprived, while your five other consciousnesses consider Glenn's apparent rebuff of your request.
While true that he would not be the final say in gaining the PRT's official (or unofficial) approval for exalting five more people, you calculate reasonable odds that Glenn has the ear of the PRT Board of Directors - perhaps even of Lead Director Costa-Brown herself. Why, then, is he down-playing his abilities?
His previous recognition of your potential worth in the Endbringer War leads you to believe that this dismissal isn't due to a lack of interest in helping you, so the next most logical explanation is… a need to rephrase your request.
"Support."
Nodding to himself, Glenn pushes his sunglasses back up from where they have slipped ever-so-slightly down his wide nose.
"Getting better. Prove more than a flash in the pan, then we'll see."
"Affirmative."
You're on, PR Man.
"Request for clarification: Daniel Hebert broke Endbringer truce, but no kill order instated. Why?"
After slowly retracting his outstretched arms and folding them against his chest again, Legend's exposed lower face deepens into a melancholy frown.
"Would you have rather Eidolon and I made that public? We figured out that he was just trying to use us to strike at you, and we both heard what he said… but he's still your father, isn't he?"
Again you nod, but you rephrase the question in hopes of better communicating your confusion.
"For what goal?"
Despite his occasional dip and rise in altitude, you are able to detect a slight twinge in the Protectorate leader's shoulders that would indicate a supressed reaction of… embarassment? Discomfort? The lower half of Legend's face remains in its melancholy frown, and his sympathetic baritone answers your question with only the barest hesitation, but you suspect a larger picture behind the statement.
"We heard about how he was kidnapped - likely by Coil - so we didn't feel it would be right to decide his fate before learning about everything that had happened to him. We've also seen promising Wards with parents on the wrong side of the law… fall apart after a misunderstanding makes things seem worse than they really are."
Analyzing his words, you are unable to find a fault in his reasoning, but his earlier suppressed reaction still leads you to believe that there is more to the decision to save your father from a Kill Order. This is further confirmed by your suit's lie detection algorithms broadcasting two words across your heads-up display.
Partial Truth.
Combining this revelation with Glenn's earlier comments, as well as with Director Piggot's cryptic comments regarding your identity, a more concrete image begins to form: the PRT is aware - or at least suspects enough to act on the belief - that you are a construct. A construct that may preface further like yourself. Thus, in operating under the directive to increase the forces arrayed against the Endbringers, the PRT is hoping to secure any additional constructs for the war effort.
While you are confident in this interpretation, you also realize that vocalizing it here-and-now could lead to disastrous consequences if your calculations are incorrect. Still, there should be a way to appease Legend's (possible) concerns without giving away your true intentions…
When in doubt, you have ultimately found that the truth has the highest probability of success.
"Humanity survival primary motivation. Endbringers primary threat to continued Humanity survival, prosperity. PRT, Protectorate, Wards primary forces against Endbringers. Loyalty assured."
All your minds are in agreement: obviously stunning a member of the Triumvirate speechless is a noteworthy occasion. They are not, however, in agreement regarding whether this is an accomplishment or a failure. As Legend's first action after shaking his head once is not an immediate volley of high-powered energy beams, you begin to calculate a greater probability of the event being a positive one.
To his credit, Legend recomposes himself less than five seconds later, but you noted at least two mid-voiced questions in that span that never made it past his tongue. His smile slowly growing from wistful to sincere, Legend nods in apparent understanding.
"Glenn put a note in your file that you were on-board with the PRT's true goal, but I'm glad to hear you say it anyway. We didn't mean to seem manipulative like that, though; I mean what I said about hoping to avoid anything that couldn't be taken back."
Whew. That would have gone a whole lot worse. I was teensy bit afraid that, with Taylor in Clarity mode, Legend might have interpreted her question as
wanting the Truce-breaking Cenotaph to get a kill order. Glad we're not going there.
Floating less than ten feet from your armored form, only now are your conscious minds truly struck by the sheer, genuine presence exuded from the Leader of the Protectorate. Exalting Legend would likely immediately ensure the support of the civilian population of Earth, and his extraordinary power set would likely only further improve through exaltation, but looking at him now…
… BRING THESE BROKEN MINDS TO THE CRADLE …
Legend… is not broken.
Legend, along with the rest of the Triumvirate, is one of the brightest beacons of Hope, Justice, and Order in this world. You will undoubtedly need his help in the coming struggle, but wishing such suffering that would break a man of his caliber would go against the very core of your being.
Huh.
I dunno. Are we really restricted to broken people? No Chevalier, no Miss Militia? That's... disappointing.
"Understood. Thank you."
Casually floating closer to your own hovering form, Legend places a reassuring hand on your right shoulder before nodding to you with a smile still on his lips.
"I've got an ear if you ever need it - two, in fact. Don't be a stranger, Weaver."
Legend remains awesome.
... wait, no, no, you do not see any signs of the Endbringer. Though, your swarm does see the a young couple gone white in life-redefining terror, having just closed their taxi's door several feet away from your previous position. Their catatonic expressions - as well as the horrified reactions of the hundreds of other civilians within line of sight of the storefront - may either be due to your scream that continues to echo through the crowded street, or the towering Design Weaver stretching high into the sky above your prone Alchemical form.
With your swarm revealing the chaos inside the pizza parlor - the costumed Brockton Bay and New York Wards diving away from the entrance in supernatural terror - you calculate that your presence will be only detrimental to the mental well-being of your companions and compatriots.
You allow your armor to fully extrude from the partial activation your panicked mind had attempted. Still shaking from the obvious relapse of your post-traumatic stress disorder, you eventually rely on your anti-gravity thrusters to propel you off the sidewalk and into the air. Trailing acrid, choking smoke and webs of blue-and-black lightning, you soar up into the darkening night sky where you will no longer cause anyone further harm.
Oh fuck it.
After waiting in the cloudcover for nearly an hour - long enough for your anima to settle to minimal levels - you proceed directly to the PRT tower and enter via the cape- and helicopter-accessible rooftop gateway. The armed guards just inside the doors startle at your entrance, but when the identification scan completes without any issues they nod you through without further issue.
Before you enter, however, you ask for directions to the containment labs. A quick set of verbalized instructions, an elevator trip, and two more identification scans eventually leads you through the immaculate white halls of the PRT tower to the heavily-guarded containment labs.
Or, more specifically, to the large wooden crate that only recently arrived in the containment labs.
Carefully opening the crate despite the stream of ticks from your armor's geiger counter, you slowly work your way through absorbing the complete contents of the crate. After doing so, you absorb the crate as well, and then your own armor for good measure - ignoring Dragon's pleas for an explanation was draining what little mental energy you had left.
As you sit cross-legged on the floor of the containment lab, waiting for your Elsewhere pocket to scrub the radiation from its new contents, you practice your breathing exercises to calm your still-frayed nerves and soothe the twitching of your eight spider-leg-like antennae.
You are in control.
You must remain in control.
You will always be in control.
Fuck you too, Queen Administrator.
