Prince Charon
Just zis guy, you know?
Huh. That's an interesting thought.RazorSmile said:
An Imago of Rust and Crimson (Worm crossover)
- Thread starter EarthScorpion
- Start date
I know that but ES is using red-yellow-blue as primaries so I assume he is using RYB color model instead of RGB. In that model you do got black by mixing all the primaries. Using RGB model when you have red-yellow-blue primaries doesn't quite work. Yellow is mix of Blue-Green and White will be Yellow+Blue (since yellow already mix of two primaries) not Red+Yellow+Blue (not sure how this would turn out in RGB. Just white, red, or paler shade of red?) - or at least confusable between the two mix.illhousen said:
TheLastOne
Person of impeccable tastes (for destruction)
It doesn't need to be perfectly self-consistent. It will be standardized by people, after all.
Revlid
blob of bugs
- Location
- England
If I'm right about how her power works, I think Alexandria would be covered by this.EarthScorpion said:
Her powers are a perfect memory, not aging, invulnerability, super-strength and flight.
The powers of a given parahuman stem from their shard, which has a single, cohesive role, like a single part of a vast interdimensional alien lifeship. This role is given a specific context by the parahuman in question upon triggering, and neutered by the shard to avoid any potential to harm the parahuman or the shard's originating entity. Taylor's shard had the role of "Administrator" and was contextualized into "administrate insects". Jack's shard had the role of "Communicator" and was contextualized into "communicate violence".
A shard that has accumulated sufficient experience in its role "buds", producing another shard with the same role which attaches itself to another parahuman, receiving a distinct context from them. Shards with the same role ("related" or otherwise) can therefore produce very different powers - a shard with the role of "Shield" might produce Rime, who can create force-barriers, or August Prince, who cannot be deliberately harmed.
Cauldron's serum stunts the neutering to varying degrees, as the shard from which the powers stem is "dead" - this often results in powers that can cause harm to their users, or outright physical alterations, but precludes a budding or second trigger. A second trigger, by contrast, consumes the experience that would otherwise have been used to bud in order to release the neutering or expand the context, most often returning the role closer to its base context of "shards".
The theme that ties Alexandria's most distinct powers together is "resisting time" - it's possible her shard shares a role with Clockblocker's. She doesn't age, her body can't be harmed, and her memory doesn't degrade. My guess is that she's a timelocked bundle of organs, able to think because her brain was left mostly unlocked by the neutering process (a less diluted dose would have left her a living coffin), and able to move because every single distinct part of her body is actually being puppeteered by unconscious target:self telekinesis. This is how she can fly, and it's why she's got "super-strength" - she's just hitting you with an arm that is literally incapable of yielding and requires no bracing or leverage.
The Sandman
So Zetta Slowpoke
- Location
- Wherever I am, which isn't where I'm not
On the issue of Scion, I do think that there's a place for him in the story, actually. The problem with him isn't that he exists, it's that he's canonically going to snap and start killing everything. The second part can be changed without really affecting the first part.
In terms of NWOD stuff, I'd say he and Eden would be Abyssal intruders, more or less, or possibly something from beyond the Abyss. Presumably there's some point to the greater entities showing up, scattering bits of themselves around the local universe, and creating pseudopods full of sensory ganglia that happen to look and function roughly like the primary local sapient species, but any attempt to figure out their ultimate purpose would be so much guesswork as to the motivations of incredibly alien life-forms.
Background weirdness, more or less. More than enough to create all sorts of conspiracies and shadow organizations who know some or most (not all, because nobody can know that) of the truth and are acting upon their perception of it without having to be a "the world ends in two years" scenario.
...also, as a practical matter, completely removing Scion means that the world should be much farther along towards Endbringer-induced collapse than in canon. Without him, even the victories presumably look more like Lung vs. Leviathan in canon (somebody who wasn't Scion managed to drive off the Endbringer, but not before it more-or-less accomplished what it set out to do).
Then there's the question of whether there's still somebody selling canned powers. Removing Cauldron completely would also be an enormous change, given just how many capes they created (both directly and indirectly), although it's entirely possible there's somebody else doing roughly the same thing without the whole "stopping the alien god through questionably effective and certainly amoral means" mission statement. Even if harvesting bits from a lobotomized god (whose human-shaped avatar probably keeps trying to rebuild itself, and must thus be regularly pruned) would bring up even more Evangelion comparisons.
I wonder whether people are quite so ignorant as to where powers come from, how they're acquired, and what they actually are as they were in canon. I mean, obviously the general public won't have more than a vague notion at best, but with the much greater integration of parahumans into existing political, military and economic structures I'd have to imagine that there's been far more concerted effort put into researching those details.
In terms of NWOD stuff, I'd say he and Eden would be Abyssal intruders, more or less, or possibly something from beyond the Abyss. Presumably there's some point to the greater entities showing up, scattering bits of themselves around the local universe, and creating pseudopods full of sensory ganglia that happen to look and function roughly like the primary local sapient species, but any attempt to figure out their ultimate purpose would be so much guesswork as to the motivations of incredibly alien life-forms.
Background weirdness, more or less. More than enough to create all sorts of conspiracies and shadow organizations who know some or most (not all, because nobody can know that) of the truth and are acting upon their perception of it without having to be a "the world ends in two years" scenario.
...also, as a practical matter, completely removing Scion means that the world should be much farther along towards Endbringer-induced collapse than in canon. Without him, even the victories presumably look more like Lung vs. Leviathan in canon (somebody who wasn't Scion managed to drive off the Endbringer, but not before it more-or-less accomplished what it set out to do).
Then there's the question of whether there's still somebody selling canned powers. Removing Cauldron completely would also be an enormous change, given just how many capes they created (both directly and indirectly), although it's entirely possible there's somebody else doing roughly the same thing without the whole "stopping the alien god through questionably effective and certainly amoral means" mission statement. Even if harvesting bits from a lobotomized god (whose human-shaped avatar probably keeps trying to rebuild itself, and must thus be regularly pruned) would bring up even more Evangelion comparisons.
I wonder whether people are quite so ignorant as to where powers come from, how they're acquired, and what they actually are as they were in canon. I mean, obviously the general public won't have more than a vague notion at best, but with the much greater integration of parahumans into existing political, military and economic structures I'd have to imagine that there's been far more concerted effort put into researching those details.
earthboy
(verified ape)
- Location
- NYC
- Pronouns
- He/Him
But she also flies and has super-strength, which are the opposite of resting timelessly inert. You've put together a decent justification for 3/5 of her power set, but it kind of falls apart when push comes to super-powered flying shove, and that's before we add hypothetical powers like "tk control: own body".Revlid said:
I'm almost tempted to say that you're building an explanation based on her super-power name rather than her actual power set, but if I recall correctly the Library of Alexandria was not known for the power of flight. However, it has been brought to my attention that some records of that time have been lost, so perhaps you're right on target there.
Or the Endbringers might be scaled back a smidgen, if the plot demands or if ES wills it to be so.TheSandman said:
Not necessarily. The Endbringers' goal is to put on a good show, not to actually win. They're taking dives as a matter of course. It's fairly simple for them to adjust to weaker opposition.TheSandman said:
Did I say anything at all?Renu said:
2.07
An Imago of Rust and Crimson
Chapter 2.07
There was a moth on my window when I finally twitched the curtains open. The motion disturbed it, and it fluttered away under a grey sky. It was a miserable-looking morning, but at least I was feeling pretty good. I hadn't had any nightmares. The sleeping pills were doing their job.
Wait. I blearily stared out the window, confused as to why everything was so blurred, before realization hit and I pinched my brow, massaging my eyes. I was getting too used to having perfect vision in the Other Place. And I wasn't exhausted, which meant I probably couldn't use Cry Baby. That was sort of annoying. The ability to make someone tired and fed up had probably saved my life yesterday. Because I'd had that thing on hand, I'd managed to drive off the guard without him seeing me. Hopefully, I'd just been a fleeing figure. I could have been anyone. I don't know what would have happened – or what I could have done – if I hadn't had it around.
Wow. A great night's sleep, and I'd already decided that me not feeling shit was a potential problem? At least I could blame this one on my fucked up power.
I'd need to come up with any other things I could force on other people to protect myself. Or see if I could make Cry Baby without needing to be tired. Thinking about what had happened yesterday, I checked my thigh. It was decorated by a nice big bruise where I'd collided with the trash can when running away. It was a fetching shade of red-purple, but least it wasn't somewhere obvious.
Limping slightly, I went to shower and get ready for the day.
There was ice in the milk carton. It rattled around when I swirled it. I squatted down by the fridge, and noticed that the inside was encrusted with frost. Even the vegetables had a thin layer of ice over them. I sighed wearily, brushing a lock of still-wet hair away from my face.
"Dad," I called out, "the fridge is too cold! It's all frosted up and there's ice in the milk!" I frowned, and nudged some of the icy lettuce aside. There was also quite a bit of beer in the fridge. More than there would have been normally. And two empty… what are those things called? The plastic sixpack loop things for beer cans? The ones that kill fish when they get dumped in the ocean? There were two of them.
I pushed the lettuce back into place and pretended I hadn't seen them.
"Yeah, it needs defrosting," he called back. "I've been meaning to, but it's been too cold outside."
You mean you haven't got around to it, I thought. I turned the temperature up slightly, and shook my head. I poured myself a bowl of cereal then fished out the lump of ice which fell out of the carton. I took a seat opposite to Dad, and started to eat.
"Taylor?" he asked, sitting at the table. He had his hands folded in front of him.
"Mmmphmph?" I said, with my mouthful, and swallowed. "What is it?"
"So, Taylor," he began. That wasn't a good sign. In my experience, few good things started with 'So, Taylor'. "There's something I meant to say to you yesterday, but… well, I got the phone call. We have a meeting at school tomorrow. We need to talk about how you're going to return to school, and they also want to get you to hand in the work you're meant to have done."
I was right. That really wasn't a good sign. "I have done the work," I said quickly. "Not much else to do in the hospital."
"And that's good," he said, "but we do need to talk about how you're going back."
My shoulders slumped. "I know," I said in a tiny voice.
"Now, one of the things they suggested was that you change classes," he said. "You know, so you're not around the people who are being a problem anymore."
"What, you mean like Emma?" I said bitterly. "That's going to help so much. They'll just have to get me in the corridors and at lunchtime. I'm sure that'll be so much of a problem for them. I just hope Winslow hasn't prepared them for the academic challenge of finding me."
"Oh, I've talked with them plenty," he said darkly, hands baling into fists. "They're going to listen to any future complaints. If they don't… well, they will. Trust me on this."
"What did you do, Dad?" I asked nervously.
"I know people," he said. Okay, that didn't help my concern at all. That sounded like the prelude to an admission that he actually ran the Brockton Bay branch of the Russian Mafia or something.
"Dad…" I said.
"I talked to some people on the union grapevine who linked me up with a friendly lawyer, and she gave me some advice," he added. "Helped advise me how to present my demands to them, and how to use the kind of language which made it clear I'd been talking to a lawyer. They don't want an expensive court case or the bad publicity – and she pointed out that 'My daughter tried to kill herself while locked in a locker filled with…' uh, those things."
"Used tampons," I said, with fake helpfulness.
He looked decidedly awkward. "Yes, that. The press would be all over that. She… uh, that is, the lawyer… well, she was shocked enough that…" he took a deep breath. "Well, the point is, if the school doesn't do everything they can to help, she said that we'd probably win any case. They knew that too."
"Well, why aren't you suing, then?" I asked, my voice cracking.
"Taylor," Dad said, trying to look for words. "This already happened. We settled , and that's why the hospital got paid for along with any extra care you need in the longer term, and why we got a bit extra on top of that. And another part of it is that they have to show that they're taking action to stop anything like that happening again. If they don't, they're breaching the terms of the settlement."
"Good," I said.
"The point is," he said, "when you go back, if they try anything again – anything at all – then tell the school. And tell me."
I stared at him in frustration. How could I explain that I couldn't tell? That it would just make things worse if I did? That telling never helped and… I took a breath.
Was that me thinking that, or was that Madam Secret? The thought came on so suddenly I might have almost doubted that it was my own. But that wasn't it. It was me, but it was the memory of how I felt when I had Madam Secret beaten down and chained talking.
It had felt good.
It had felt like how things had been before Mum had died.
"I'll try," I said quietly.
"Taylor. Please, promise me, you'll do more than try. Do it. Or else…" and whatever he was about to say was broken by the phone ringing. He left me sitting in silence while he got that.
"Danny Hebert speaking… oh Janice. What is…. oh shit. Shit, is he… oh." I heard a sharp inhalation. "I'll be right there," he said. "Hold on." He put down the phone. "Tim's taken a turn for the worse," he said, lips thin. "That was his wife. I'm heading to the hospital and… are you going to be…"
I thought fast. "I'll come with you," I said. I think that surprised him. He expected more protest. "But… uh, I really don't want to hang around the hospital all the time. I've seen more than enough of hospitals the past few months. I'll just go out to the Boardwalk. It's pretty close, right?"
He looked uncomfortable. "I'd prefer you close by," he said. "I really shouldn't be dragging you all over the place, when you're still not 100% yourself."
"It's not your fault what happened," I said. "But think about it, Dad! The Boardwalk and the area around it are safe. There's all that security. I'll be close, and I can come back if you call me. And there are things I need to get," I pointed out. "Like lip balm. My lips were cracking from just spending a bit of time outside yesterday. And warmer gloves, because I'm really feeling the cold in my hands."
He sighed, but acquiesced. I barely had enough time to grab a coat and what money I had in savings before we were off racing to the hospital. I had to remind Dad to keep below the speed limit several times, and that wasn't like him, because he was usually obsessively careful about his driving. I shivered at the sight of the building I'd spent time recovering in, and the memory of drug-hazed and nightmare-filled nights.
Dad handed me a bundle of dollar bills distractedly as we got out of the car. "I'll expect some change from that," he said. "Get lunch. And call me if you need help or feel…"
"Yes, yes," I said. I leaned in and gave him a peck on the cheek. "I hope your friend gets better," I said, almost surprising myself with the unprovoked public display of affection. I think it surprised him too, but the watery smile it produced was worth it.
"Me too," he said.
It was just a short walk from the hospital to the Boardwalk proper. The high rise bits of the city were all clustered around this area, the grey horizon obscured by steel and glass canyons. I skirted the edge of the Ashton Park neighbourhood, passed by the glasshouse-garden structure above the Little Paris submall – wasn't going to get in there, I wasn't paying for an access pass – and stepped onto Wear Street, which was the start of the Boardwalk. It was technically right at the edge of the Docks, but you wouldn't think it was part of that area.
It was amazing, the difference half a mile made. I could still see the hospital, a looming grey structure visible over the top of Little Paris, but it didn't belong here. Bright flatscreens festooned the buildings, adverts playing on endless loops. The smart fabric stretched between the buildings was pretending to be a sunny day at the moment, and would keep on doing that even if it started raining. There were clean murals on the walls where there weren't billboards and adverts. The city even smelt different.
Tourists were everywhere, even though it wasn't the weekend. It probably wasn't fair to call them tourists, but as a Brockton Bay native, it was something you just did. Most of them weren't staying here. They'd just drive in or get the train, shop here, and leave. They stood out. They dressed like they had money, even if they didn't.
I knew Dad viewed it as a mixed blessing at best, which was something I hadn't really understood. Surely it was a good thing that Brockton Bay had something like this. It wasn't a real tinkertech town, like some places – such as Silicon Valley – but it helped. It would probably be bigger if we hadn't been so close to Boston, too.
Everything was better here. And didn't the advertising want you to know it? "Nostalgia for Tomorrow," proclaimed a perfume poster. "Embrace your fantasies." And of course, "Why not forget all the stress in your life?" I paused by a mural, showing a romanticised depiction of the docks. A young girl in a white dress holding a red balloon in one hand stood on a pontoon, eating an icecream and staring out of the picture. There was smart paint in the mural, too, because the white seagulls circled in the background.
Of course I looked in the Other Place.
It was fake. All of it. Plastic veneers peeled off bare concrete. There was a haze of – I sniffed, half-aware that I shouldn't really be able to smell this sort of thing – greed and apathy and desperation in the air, like morning mist. Posters of green-eyed vaguely-female monsters declared-
IT'S YOUR FAULT YOU'RE POOR
-and I only had to shift back to the normal world to see that there, the monsters were pretty women and that the 'Because you're worth it' written in a 'flirty' font basically got the same message across.
The girl on the mural was covered in little black words of 'hate' and 'revenge' and 'contempt'. Her arms and legs had red paint thrown over them, so they dripped crimson. No. I sniffed. Blood, not paint. Or paint which smelt like blood, at least. I shook my head and walked on, hands in my pockets.
Envy, greed and worry under a mask of pretending that everything was okay. Way to break any illusions that I might have had about this place, Other Place. Thanks.
Back in the Other Place, it seemed like the wall-screens and smart fabric street-roof were glitching. In some places, they showed an iron-grey sky broken up by pixelated splodges of bright colour. In others, they dimmed into an abstract pattern of coiling serpents and watchful eyes. As I stared, one of them blinked and turned its attention to me. And another. And another, until it seemed like the entire street was staring at me.
I shuddered. Paranoia? Or was the Other Place telling me I was being watched? There were certainly cameras everywhere, and the private security force which patrolled this area kept an eye out for any signs of trouble. They were well equipped – better than the normal police – and had even managed to catch a pair of two not-very-super supervillains a year or so back. Either way, I didn't leave the Other Place. I wanted to see what those eyes and snakes did.
Shaking my head, I headed for Monarch Clothes, to get into my real purpose for being here.
Last night, I had put quite a bit of thought into what I'd wear when getting those pictures. I couldn't be seen doing it. Plus, I'd be superheroing, and you had to dress up when doing that. Even people robbing the local 7-11 threw on a mask, though that was probably mostly to stop any CCTV getting a picture of their faces.
On the other hand, I didn't have much cash to spend – even with the unexpected generosity from Dad – and I certainly couldn't get any of the thinkerfab or tinkertech gear which government capes or well-off supervillains had. And I was a beanpole and would look terrible in spandex.
So, as a result, my objectives in getting a costume were as follows:
1) Stop anyone from finding out who I was,
2) Have a costume which was comfy and warm because it was freezing outside, and
3) Pay as little as possible doing so.
To help towards that end, I'd gone and booted up Mum's old desktop in the study, and – after struggling with myself – connected up the dialup. I hadn't wanted to, because Dad might have called, but I had to check some facts. I wanted to see how other heroes kept their identities secret.
It was, of course, easy to find out who New Wave really were. Exposed faces, public IDs. I'd decided that exposing my face was, all things considered, taking everything into account, a bad idea. Likewise, domino masks were out. I'm not even sure how they attached those things. Was there like… elastic or something? Or did they glue them on? I had no idea. They wouldn't work with glasses, anyway. And would look stupid on me.
Armsmaster, the most senior local cape, wore full self-built power armour which totally covered him in plating which could and had stopped stolen military missiles. And could turn invisible. And probably dispensed coffee. I should totally do that. Except, oh wait, I wasn't a Tinker and couldn't build power armour . Aware that I was wasting time, I had excluded all Tinkers from my search, and then waited for the painfully slow connection to update the page.
Now, Shadow Stalker, one of the local Wards – she had the right idea about things. According to her page, she was a former vigilante, and she seemed to be pretty smart about it. Obscuring garments, a full-face mask, no bare skin. If I was trying to track her down, from what I could pick up I was looking for a girl somewhere between… hmm, maybe -12-13 if she was an early bloomer, all the way up to the max age of the Wards. The Wards attended Arcadia, apparently – there's no way they'd go to a dump like Winslow – which narrowed down the pool of people she could be, but still. Much harder to find. That's the sort of thing I should go for. Full face covering, dark clothing – I could just get a hoodie – maybe a balaclava as well, so they couldn't see my hair.
Of course, if I really wanted to find who she was, I'd just go to one of their PR things and have Sniffer follow her home. Which was another reason I shouldn't join the Wards. PR things. Going and standing in front of crowds and posing or being 'security' on the Boardwalk wasn't something which appealed to me. And if I was part of the Wards, I wouldn't be able to keep me and Dad safe from people with powers like mine.
Man. That was kind of scary. It would be freakishly easy for me to find out who any cape in the public spotlight was, just by setting Sniffer to track them. It was kind of annoying that villains – for some reason – preferred to keep out of the public eye. With that in mind, it was a good thing I was a good guy. Though if it was this easy for me, it suggested that a lot of villains could probably find out who various government capes were. If they hadn't used that knowledge, it probably meant that doing so put anyone who tried it in deep shit. And a quick check did confirm that capekillers tended to meet very quick ends.
That was reassuring, in its own way. The time might come that I might need to go to the Protectorate, to the Parahuman Protection Division. I was under no illusions that I wouldn't be in over my head if something really big happened. Of course, we'd need to move cities if that happened. There was a little bit of me which would be glad to have a completely legitimate reason why I couldn't be a Ward in Brockton Bay, because that meant that I'd have an excuse to move to a new city and a new school. But it would be selfish to force that on Dad.
Plus, if I fucked up that badly, it'd mean people were trying to kill me. I wasn't a great fan of that idea.
Two-and-a-bit years. I'd just grin and bear it for that much longer. Then I could join the Protectorate as an adult. I'd be paid well for it. I could get them to pay my way through college, and I could basically get into the college of my choice, if the rumours were true. Maybe I wouldn't even have to wait that long. If I told them when I was seventeen-and-a-half, maybe, there wouldn't be a need to really join the Wards for six months. I could just stay back, go through the induction period they obviously had to have, and by the time that was over, I'd be basically ready to leave the Wards. Leave Brockton Bay. Maybe I could go to Los Angeles, on the other side of the country from here, working directly under Alexandria.
I could barely wait.
I was smiling as I walked into Monarch Clothes, ready to get my first costume. And then the smell hit me, like a punch to the stomach. Blood and misery and apathy and so many terrible things, all blended together.
The smell of the sweatshop.
Chapter 2.07
There was a moth on my window when I finally twitched the curtains open. The motion disturbed it, and it fluttered away under a grey sky. It was a miserable-looking morning, but at least I was feeling pretty good. I hadn't had any nightmares. The sleeping pills were doing their job.
Wait. I blearily stared out the window, confused as to why everything was so blurred, before realization hit and I pinched my brow, massaging my eyes. I was getting too used to having perfect vision in the Other Place. And I wasn't exhausted, which meant I probably couldn't use Cry Baby. That was sort of annoying. The ability to make someone tired and fed up had probably saved my life yesterday. Because I'd had that thing on hand, I'd managed to drive off the guard without him seeing me. Hopefully, I'd just been a fleeing figure. I could have been anyone. I don't know what would have happened – or what I could have done – if I hadn't had it around.
Wow. A great night's sleep, and I'd already decided that me not feeling shit was a potential problem? At least I could blame this one on my fucked up power.
I'd need to come up with any other things I could force on other people to protect myself. Or see if I could make Cry Baby without needing to be tired. Thinking about what had happened yesterday, I checked my thigh. It was decorated by a nice big bruise where I'd collided with the trash can when running away. It was a fetching shade of red-purple, but least it wasn't somewhere obvious.
Limping slightly, I went to shower and get ready for the day.
…
There was ice in the milk carton. It rattled around when I swirled it. I squatted down by the fridge, and noticed that the inside was encrusted with frost. Even the vegetables had a thin layer of ice over them. I sighed wearily, brushing a lock of still-wet hair away from my face.
"Dad," I called out, "the fridge is too cold! It's all frosted up and there's ice in the milk!" I frowned, and nudged some of the icy lettuce aside. There was also quite a bit of beer in the fridge. More than there would have been normally. And two empty… what are those things called? The plastic sixpack loop things for beer cans? The ones that kill fish when they get dumped in the ocean? There were two of them.
I pushed the lettuce back into place and pretended I hadn't seen them.
"Yeah, it needs defrosting," he called back. "I've been meaning to, but it's been too cold outside."
You mean you haven't got around to it, I thought. I turned the temperature up slightly, and shook my head. I poured myself a bowl of cereal then fished out the lump of ice which fell out of the carton. I took a seat opposite to Dad, and started to eat.
"Taylor?" he asked, sitting at the table. He had his hands folded in front of him.
"Mmmphmph?" I said, with my mouthful, and swallowed. "What is it?"
"So, Taylor," he began. That wasn't a good sign. In my experience, few good things started with 'So, Taylor'. "There's something I meant to say to you yesterday, but… well, I got the phone call. We have a meeting at school tomorrow. We need to talk about how you're going to return to school, and they also want to get you to hand in the work you're meant to have done."
I was right. That really wasn't a good sign. "I have done the work," I said quickly. "Not much else to do in the hospital."
"And that's good," he said, "but we do need to talk about how you're going back."
My shoulders slumped. "I know," I said in a tiny voice.
"Now, one of the things they suggested was that you change classes," he said. "You know, so you're not around the people who are being a problem anymore."
"What, you mean like Emma?" I said bitterly. "That's going to help so much. They'll just have to get me in the corridors and at lunchtime. I'm sure that'll be so much of a problem for them. I just hope Winslow hasn't prepared them for the academic challenge of finding me."
"Oh, I've talked with them plenty," he said darkly, hands baling into fists. "They're going to listen to any future complaints. If they don't… well, they will. Trust me on this."
"What did you do, Dad?" I asked nervously.
"I know people," he said. Okay, that didn't help my concern at all. That sounded like the prelude to an admission that he actually ran the Brockton Bay branch of the Russian Mafia or something.
"Dad…" I said.
"I talked to some people on the union grapevine who linked me up with a friendly lawyer, and she gave me some advice," he added. "Helped advise me how to present my demands to them, and how to use the kind of language which made it clear I'd been talking to a lawyer. They don't want an expensive court case or the bad publicity – and she pointed out that 'My daughter tried to kill herself while locked in a locker filled with…' uh, those things."
"Used tampons," I said, with fake helpfulness.
He looked decidedly awkward. "Yes, that. The press would be all over that. She… uh, that is, the lawyer… well, she was shocked enough that…" he took a deep breath. "Well, the point is, if the school doesn't do everything they can to help, she said that we'd probably win any case. They knew that too."
"Well, why aren't you suing, then?" I asked, my voice cracking.
"Taylor," Dad said, trying to look for words. "This already happened. We settled , and that's why the hospital got paid for along with any extra care you need in the longer term, and why we got a bit extra on top of that. And another part of it is that they have to show that they're taking action to stop anything like that happening again. If they don't, they're breaching the terms of the settlement."
"Good," I said.
"The point is," he said, "when you go back, if they try anything again – anything at all – then tell the school. And tell me."
I stared at him in frustration. How could I explain that I couldn't tell? That it would just make things worse if I did? That telling never helped and… I took a breath.
Was that me thinking that, or was that Madam Secret? The thought came on so suddenly I might have almost doubted that it was my own. But that wasn't it. It was me, but it was the memory of how I felt when I had Madam Secret beaten down and chained talking.
It had felt good.
It had felt like how things had been before Mum had died.
"I'll try," I said quietly.
"Taylor. Please, promise me, you'll do more than try. Do it. Or else…" and whatever he was about to say was broken by the phone ringing. He left me sitting in silence while he got that.
"Danny Hebert speaking… oh Janice. What is…. oh shit. Shit, is he… oh." I heard a sharp inhalation. "I'll be right there," he said. "Hold on." He put down the phone. "Tim's taken a turn for the worse," he said, lips thin. "That was his wife. I'm heading to the hospital and… are you going to be…"
I thought fast. "I'll come with you," I said. I think that surprised him. He expected more protest. "But… uh, I really don't want to hang around the hospital all the time. I've seen more than enough of hospitals the past few months. I'll just go out to the Boardwalk. It's pretty close, right?"
He looked uncomfortable. "I'd prefer you close by," he said. "I really shouldn't be dragging you all over the place, when you're still not 100% yourself."
"It's not your fault what happened," I said. "But think about it, Dad! The Boardwalk and the area around it are safe. There's all that security. I'll be close, and I can come back if you call me. And there are things I need to get," I pointed out. "Like lip balm. My lips were cracking from just spending a bit of time outside yesterday. And warmer gloves, because I'm really feeling the cold in my hands."
He sighed, but acquiesced. I barely had enough time to grab a coat and what money I had in savings before we were off racing to the hospital. I had to remind Dad to keep below the speed limit several times, and that wasn't like him, because he was usually obsessively careful about his driving. I shivered at the sight of the building I'd spent time recovering in, and the memory of drug-hazed and nightmare-filled nights.
Dad handed me a bundle of dollar bills distractedly as we got out of the car. "I'll expect some change from that," he said. "Get lunch. And call me if you need help or feel…"
"Yes, yes," I said. I leaned in and gave him a peck on the cheek. "I hope your friend gets better," I said, almost surprising myself with the unprovoked public display of affection. I think it surprised him too, but the watery smile it produced was worth it.
"Me too," he said.
It was just a short walk from the hospital to the Boardwalk proper. The high rise bits of the city were all clustered around this area, the grey horizon obscured by steel and glass canyons. I skirted the edge of the Ashton Park neighbourhood, passed by the glasshouse-garden structure above the Little Paris submall – wasn't going to get in there, I wasn't paying for an access pass – and stepped onto Wear Street, which was the start of the Boardwalk. It was technically right at the edge of the Docks, but you wouldn't think it was part of that area.
It was amazing, the difference half a mile made. I could still see the hospital, a looming grey structure visible over the top of Little Paris, but it didn't belong here. Bright flatscreens festooned the buildings, adverts playing on endless loops. The smart fabric stretched between the buildings was pretending to be a sunny day at the moment, and would keep on doing that even if it started raining. There were clean murals on the walls where there weren't billboards and adverts. The city even smelt different.
Tourists were everywhere, even though it wasn't the weekend. It probably wasn't fair to call them tourists, but as a Brockton Bay native, it was something you just did. Most of them weren't staying here. They'd just drive in or get the train, shop here, and leave. They stood out. They dressed like they had money, even if they didn't.
I knew Dad viewed it as a mixed blessing at best, which was something I hadn't really understood. Surely it was a good thing that Brockton Bay had something like this. It wasn't a real tinkertech town, like some places – such as Silicon Valley – but it helped. It would probably be bigger if we hadn't been so close to Boston, too.
Everything was better here. And didn't the advertising want you to know it? "Nostalgia for Tomorrow," proclaimed a perfume poster. "Embrace your fantasies." And of course, "Why not forget all the stress in your life?" I paused by a mural, showing a romanticised depiction of the docks. A young girl in a white dress holding a red balloon in one hand stood on a pontoon, eating an icecream and staring out of the picture. There was smart paint in the mural, too, because the white seagulls circled in the background.
Of course I looked in the Other Place.
It was fake. All of it. Plastic veneers peeled off bare concrete. There was a haze of – I sniffed, half-aware that I shouldn't really be able to smell this sort of thing – greed and apathy and desperation in the air, like morning mist. Posters of green-eyed vaguely-female monsters declared-
IT'S YOUR FAULT YOU'RE POOR
-and I only had to shift back to the normal world to see that there, the monsters were pretty women and that the 'Because you're worth it' written in a 'flirty' font basically got the same message across.
The girl on the mural was covered in little black words of 'hate' and 'revenge' and 'contempt'. Her arms and legs had red paint thrown over them, so they dripped crimson. No. I sniffed. Blood, not paint. Or paint which smelt like blood, at least. I shook my head and walked on, hands in my pockets.
Envy, greed and worry under a mask of pretending that everything was okay. Way to break any illusions that I might have had about this place, Other Place. Thanks.
Back in the Other Place, it seemed like the wall-screens and smart fabric street-roof were glitching. In some places, they showed an iron-grey sky broken up by pixelated splodges of bright colour. In others, they dimmed into an abstract pattern of coiling serpents and watchful eyes. As I stared, one of them blinked and turned its attention to me. And another. And another, until it seemed like the entire street was staring at me.
I shuddered. Paranoia? Or was the Other Place telling me I was being watched? There were certainly cameras everywhere, and the private security force which patrolled this area kept an eye out for any signs of trouble. They were well equipped – better than the normal police – and had even managed to catch a pair of two not-very-super supervillains a year or so back. Either way, I didn't leave the Other Place. I wanted to see what those eyes and snakes did.
Shaking my head, I headed for Monarch Clothes, to get into my real purpose for being here.
Last night, I had put quite a bit of thought into what I'd wear when getting those pictures. I couldn't be seen doing it. Plus, I'd be superheroing, and you had to dress up when doing that. Even people robbing the local 7-11 threw on a mask, though that was probably mostly to stop any CCTV getting a picture of their faces.
On the other hand, I didn't have much cash to spend – even with the unexpected generosity from Dad – and I certainly couldn't get any of the thinkerfab or tinkertech gear which government capes or well-off supervillains had. And I was a beanpole and would look terrible in spandex.
So, as a result, my objectives in getting a costume were as follows:
1) Stop anyone from finding out who I was,
2) Have a costume which was comfy and warm because it was freezing outside, and
3) Pay as little as possible doing so.
To help towards that end, I'd gone and booted up Mum's old desktop in the study, and – after struggling with myself – connected up the dialup. I hadn't wanted to, because Dad might have called, but I had to check some facts. I wanted to see how other heroes kept their identities secret.
It was, of course, easy to find out who New Wave really were. Exposed faces, public IDs. I'd decided that exposing my face was, all things considered, taking everything into account, a bad idea. Likewise, domino masks were out. I'm not even sure how they attached those things. Was there like… elastic or something? Or did they glue them on? I had no idea. They wouldn't work with glasses, anyway. And would look stupid on me.
Armsmaster, the most senior local cape, wore full self-built power armour which totally covered him in plating which could and had stopped stolen military missiles. And could turn invisible. And probably dispensed coffee. I should totally do that. Except, oh wait, I wasn't a Tinker and couldn't build power armour . Aware that I was wasting time, I had excluded all Tinkers from my search, and then waited for the painfully slow connection to update the page.
Now, Shadow Stalker, one of the local Wards – she had the right idea about things. According to her page, she was a former vigilante, and she seemed to be pretty smart about it. Obscuring garments, a full-face mask, no bare skin. If I was trying to track her down, from what I could pick up I was looking for a girl somewhere between… hmm, maybe -12-13 if she was an early bloomer, all the way up to the max age of the Wards. The Wards attended Arcadia, apparently – there's no way they'd go to a dump like Winslow – which narrowed down the pool of people she could be, but still. Much harder to find. That's the sort of thing I should go for. Full face covering, dark clothing – I could just get a hoodie – maybe a balaclava as well, so they couldn't see my hair.
Of course, if I really wanted to find who she was, I'd just go to one of their PR things and have Sniffer follow her home. Which was another reason I shouldn't join the Wards. PR things. Going and standing in front of crowds and posing or being 'security' on the Boardwalk wasn't something which appealed to me. And if I was part of the Wards, I wouldn't be able to keep me and Dad safe from people with powers like mine.
Man. That was kind of scary. It would be freakishly easy for me to find out who any cape in the public spotlight was, just by setting Sniffer to track them. It was kind of annoying that villains – for some reason – preferred to keep out of the public eye. With that in mind, it was a good thing I was a good guy. Though if it was this easy for me, it suggested that a lot of villains could probably find out who various government capes were. If they hadn't used that knowledge, it probably meant that doing so put anyone who tried it in deep shit. And a quick check did confirm that capekillers tended to meet very quick ends.
That was reassuring, in its own way. The time might come that I might need to go to the Protectorate, to the Parahuman Protection Division. I was under no illusions that I wouldn't be in over my head if something really big happened. Of course, we'd need to move cities if that happened. There was a little bit of me which would be glad to have a completely legitimate reason why I couldn't be a Ward in Brockton Bay, because that meant that I'd have an excuse to move to a new city and a new school. But it would be selfish to force that on Dad.
Plus, if I fucked up that badly, it'd mean people were trying to kill me. I wasn't a great fan of that idea.
Two-and-a-bit years. I'd just grin and bear it for that much longer. Then I could join the Protectorate as an adult. I'd be paid well for it. I could get them to pay my way through college, and I could basically get into the college of my choice, if the rumours were true. Maybe I wouldn't even have to wait that long. If I told them when I was seventeen-and-a-half, maybe, there wouldn't be a need to really join the Wards for six months. I could just stay back, go through the induction period they obviously had to have, and by the time that was over, I'd be basically ready to leave the Wards. Leave Brockton Bay. Maybe I could go to Los Angeles, on the other side of the country from here, working directly under Alexandria.
I could barely wait.
I was smiling as I walked into Monarch Clothes, ready to get my first costume. And then the smell hit me, like a punch to the stomach. Blood and misery and apathy and so many terrible things, all blended together.
The smell of the sweatshop.
BlackoutSampler
So Easily Forgotten
Did Coil just watch her stare straight at a hidden camera? that must have been creepy for him to have a random girl stop in the middle of the boardwalk to stare at him though a camera.
Revlid
blob of bugs
- Location
- England
So, now Taylor must deal with having a costume that stinks of misery and blood in her mind's nose. She will not rest until it is washed clean by the mighty suds of justice. Until her costume is redeemed!
Just as designer clothes can fall, who is to say that brand knock-offs cannot rise?
Just as designer clothes can fall, who is to say that brand knock-offs cannot rise?
Trier
Trying fate
- Location
- Digitally existent
Sooo... It appears that Tinkers have turned all mundane inventors into either RE researchers or vegetables. Was the first Tinker to think of a global computer network with fast home connections of the Trump type or what? Or was this here just the situation at Danny's home (or at homes of... almost 99% of the poor souls condemned to live in ES's Worm)?
The Answer, of course, is 'No answer for now. Wait and see.' The problem is that the pacing is so very excruciatingly un-Worm-ly slow. I had thought about what exactly could be harming the pacing in this... Turned out I 'hated' a lot of objectively okay things that are done well here. So, I can't criticize the aspects that are slowing things down. They're good, just not what I expected, coming for more Worm.
Response to Answer: This is not Worm. Or a proper crossover, even. This an ES work inspired by Worm and another setting, with all the plot/setting-rebuilding that entails. That's not at all a bad thing; it's great and I'm still following. But to have some meta-expectations, know that this [edit] is much slower and more introspective (deliberate?) than Worm, for better or worse. [/]
The Answer, of course, is 'No answer for now. Wait and see.' The problem is that the pacing is so very excruciatingly un-Worm-ly slow. I had thought about what exactly could be harming the pacing in this... Turned out I 'hated' a lot of objectively okay things that are done well here. So, I can't criticize the aspects that are slowing things down. They're good, just not what I expected, coming for more Worm.
Response to Answer: This is not Worm. Or a proper crossover, even. This an ES work inspired by Worm and another setting, with all the plot/setting-rebuilding that entails. That's not at all a bad thing; it's great and I'm still following. But to have some meta-expectations, know that this [edit] is much slower and more introspective (deliberate?) than Worm, for better or worse. [/]
Revlid
blob of bugs
- Location
- England
Note that the Wormsverse has been in the grip of a colossal recession for a rather long time now, courtesy of a number of factors, not least of which are the giant monsters destroying three cities a year like clockwork. Such an environment is not particularly friendly to development of new technologies, and the Imago setting seems to have taken the idea of a kaiju-induced recession to heart (in contrast to canon, really). The sheer cost of setting up a broadband infrastructure might simply make it untenable for the Brockton Bay area - especially considering that, as a coastal city, it's half-again as likely to be attacked by an Endbringer as an inland population centre.Trier said:
On the other hand, the setting also has some capes with a nigh-futuristic grasp of certain specific scientific principles or areas, and/or inhuman abilities that allow them to bypass certain infrastructural failings. As a result, you are going to have a lowered degree of obvious technological development and infrastructure in most areas, with some more modern-day touches and a handful of (to us anachronistic) leaps like the smart fabric we see here, available mainly to those with the cash. Some of these leaps may be the result of straight tinker-to-production-line inspiration. Others may be the result of normal human inventiveness coming into contact with the possibilities opened up by certain powers - consider how much easier it must be to find exotic matter or energy or biology to study? It's a schizophrenic technological environment, in some ways reminiscent of cyberpunk - the Boardwalk/Docks transition, in particular.
Trier
Trying fate
- Location
- Digitally existent
[edit] There was a bit here on Imago's cyberpunk, recession and general bleak economic/technological elements. I gave a vague example from where I am, but on rereading decided it needed more detail to be worth including. I'm just taking it off instead.
The author gets a lot of leeway if they can show that contrast well. I'll leave it (what I started; I just meant it as a quick comment) at that and say I'm still on board and waiting with baited breath.Revlid said:
Lexica
Persevere
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Computerized serpents? My immediate thought here is that Dragon is watching Taylor.EarthScorpion said:
Hmmm... Recent high trauma event followed by a sudden spike in cape research? That's definitely the kind of thing that Dragon might be watching for potentially, if she's been ordered to in this universe. (Which would make sense, as that's the kind of thing that the PRT and Guild would want to know about.)EarthScorpion said:
COILED serpents seem to point out to a much more unscrupulous character.Wander said:
Maybe Taylor's second guess was the correct one and he isn't watching her , he's just hijacked the cameras on the Boardwalk and he's looking for his business there.illhousen said:
Legend of Ruina
Growing eyes on the inside
I wouldn't be surprised if it was indicative of Coil doing something along the lines of hacking the security cameras in a secondary timeline to spy on something important without leaving a trace of having done so. Or it could be Dragon, or just some completely different piece of symbolism that actually has nothing to do with Coil or Dragon, for all we know that could've just been the Other Place's reaction to a shift change for who's watching the cameras, or just that somebody is watching the cameras.
Lexica
Persevere
- Pronouns
- She/Her
True, but there's no reason for Coil to be watching Taylor at this point. Dragon watching her could be explained at least.utherdoul said:
Trauma + sudden spike in cape research. Those two factors seem worth monitoring to me, and they can't be too large a category.illhousen said:
Lexica
Persevere
- Pronouns
- She/Her
True... But it's also true that in this universe, internet usage and technology in general seems to be much more limited in accessibility than in the real world. I could definitely see fancy tinkertech computers that vastly outstrip normal ones allowing Dragon to pull of that kind of monitoring.illhousen said:
- Location
- The Land of Many Bregrets
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Ah, such wonderful cynicism.
...Though who the hell calls their clothing store Monarch Clothes. It just doesn't seem a good or sensible name for a brand store (which I'm assuming it is from the location and sweatshop connection). That was just picked for the foreshadowing theme wasn't it.
I wonder if Taylor will start calling herself Monarch as a cape name in this 'verse. Something that can be taken as "Queen/Ruler of the Other Place" along with the insect connection would be hilariously appropriate for her.
...Though who the hell calls their clothing store Monarch Clothes. It just doesn't seem a good or sensible name for a brand store (which I'm assuming it is from the location and sweatshop connection). That was just picked for the foreshadowing theme wasn't it.
I wonder if Taylor will start calling herself Monarch as a cape name in this 'verse. Something that can be taken as "Queen/Ruler of the Other Place" along with the insect connection would be hilariously appropriate for her.
Because Imago is the kind of story which asks cutting questions about why people who steal $50 get punched in the face by Batman, while people who close a branch office, causing thirty redundancies, because it wasn't meeting central targets (but was still making money) and so because they hit their target, qualify for an extra $50,000 bonus, have dinner with Bruce Wayne.illhousen said:
Because the median technology available to you in Imago if you're not rich is mid-90s. The Endbringers have been responsible for almost two lost decades of economic growth. Hence why I've been showing all these cathode ray televisions, making the point that only the rich have smart phones, and things like that. Why do most house that even have computers only have dialup and shitty slow machines? Because nearly twenty years of giant monster attacks has fucked over the entire world economy and the Greatest Depression makes the "Great Recession" of RL look laughable. There's no BRIC development which means everyone is worse off. The Leviathan periodically swamps cargo ships, and the Endbringers wreck centres of economic activity. Say goodbye to mass production and just in time delivery. You pay more for a home desktop machine which is worse than an IRL smartphone. There isn't the money, the infrastructure is decaying, and unemployment is sitting at over 20% nationally in the US, with youth unemployment edging towards 50%.Trier said:
And then there are rich people, who can get near-future technology. Our near-future. Because median technology has stood still since the Endbringers showed up (and even regressed in some places - clothing is more expensive, food is more limited in what you can get), while peak tech has shot up. Nine people have brick-like mobiles which can text, take calls and play Snake, while one person has a Galaxy Nexus 9 which has more processor power than everything in the nine's houses put together. Welcome to a world where things aren't so much "mass production" and are rather more "artisan", because even tinkerfab production can't scale up in the same way so they just make things better quality and charge more for them, rather than increasing production lines.
No, of course it isn't fair. That's the point.
And at a Doylist level, mid-90s is a much more useful technology level for oppressive humanity-has-declined urban fantasy. No smartphones, which means far fewer cameras, which means there are far fewer impromptu images of capes around - you have to use a proper camera and then scan the image in (and scanners are expensive). No handheld access to internet. No capacity to just google things casually - when you want to check something at home, you have to go use dialup and that means no one can call you (and Taylor can't easily secretly browse). If she wants internet access without her dad knowing, she has to go find a library and that opens up its own issues (and gets her out of the house, so Plot can happen). Information is more restricted, communications are harder, people are more isolated.
Perfect.
Also cathode rays are cool, and can produce creepy static. A room lit by a fuzzy CRT tuned to no station is a way better image than a flatscreen showing a blue screen.
... I may listen to Pruit Ignoe and Prophecies when writing this sometimes.biigoh said:
Trier
Trying fate
- Location
- Digitally existent
Also applicable (post below): [<i]you don't have GPS (though [/i]no one has GPS, because the Simurgh - while trollfacing - went and smashed up all the satellites in a way to maximise chaotic debris patterns and every attempt to launch anything into orbit has been hit by space debris).>EarthScorpion said:
Very different from what I expected. They don't slumber as much as in canon, huh. Even though I swear it was said they only attacked twice a year; but that's just 'cause they're busy with extra-curricular activities, I'm sure.
So it's the author being a Magnificent Bastard from the safe side of the writer/story wall. (Said in good [edit] humor.) Eh. The story's different, and you'll no doubt make a great thing out of it. But I didn't take you seriously enough when you said you were using -punk a lot in this. This'll be fun, just not in the "more consistent, more awesome, dark,
Bets up that that's the real reason...
slybrarian
Creature of Fable
- Location
- A Far and Sunless Land
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Does this mean that Parahumans Online is a gloriously old-school BBS?