Built To Last

[We Just Write]

"Emmy, I'm sorry. I looked as hard as I could, but I just can't find another job for you."

I nodded across the table to Danny Hebert.

"I understand, Mr. Hebert. Thank you."

I was turning to walk out of the office when it hit me just how fucked I was. I was two weeks out from eviction at any given time if I couldn't keep the money flowing. Let alone the protection money I needed to avoid getting "recruited" by the ABB. No more money meant I was going to be out on the streets, followed by getting dragged into who knows what.

I hadn't even reached the door by the time I'd started to cry. I'd been working my butt off, and trying as hard as I could and it just wasn't enough. Danny was doing all he could too, as was the entire Dockworkers' Association. Society just wasn't built to handle the stresses it had ended up placed under, and it was crumbling as a result. I... I honestly wish it had been built stronger.

[DESTINATION]

[AGREEMENT]

[TRAJECTORY]

[AGREE- IMPACT]

[QUERY]

[DAMAGE][DESTINATION][TRAJECTORY]

[RELUCTANCE][AGREEMENT]
Two gargantuan beings spiraled through the void. As they approached, they shed parts of themselves. One was impacted by an object on approach, shifting its trajectory ever so slightly. Towards me.

When I came to my senses, I was in a warehouse, in front of a machine. Looking around, I saw Danny slumped against a wall, bags under his eyes and his teenage daughter staring at me oddly.

"What... What happened?"

The girl - I think her name was Taylor? - spoke up.

"You spent the last two days straight building... that. It was like you were possessed; we had to put the water bottles and food directly into your hands or you wouldn't eat. Didn't sleep either. That's why dad needed to get my help; he just couldn't keep you safe on his own, and he needed to minimize how many people found out about the new Tinker."

I blinked.

"I'm a Tinker?"

Taylor nodded in sheer exhaustion.

"As far as we can tell, anyway. Any idea what that machine is for, by the way?"

Looking at it, I realized that I had a pretty good idea.

"I think it's a machine for making things. Random junk goes in, sophisticated components come out. Though I don't think I'd be able to move it without heavy machinery, considering it weighs multiple tons."

Danny sighed as he hauled himself to a state of relative wakefulness,

"Don't worry about it. This warehouse is basically the Dockworkers' Association's collective attic full of forgotten things. That's why I brought you here; I couldn't think of anywhere else you could get all the stuff you were demanding in that fugue state without attracting attention."

Thinking for a moment, I realized an issue.

"If I was in a Tinker fugue for two days, my landlord has probably evicted me already, figuring I was dead or had done a runner. He's that kind of ass; only reason I hadn't moved was not being able to afford it."

Danny nodded,

"There's no 'probably' about it. Your stuff went on the street yesterday. Kurt recovered a lot of the sentimental items, government papers, and your electronics, but scavengers were already picking over the pile when he got there."

I blinked,

"Oh."

Just my luck; get superpowers, become homeless. As always, the perversity of the universe tends towards the maximum.

"Where am I going to sleep, then?"

Taylor shrugged,

"The warehouse office has a bathroom, kitchenette, fridge, and an internet connection. Plus we set up a cot for you. It's not much, but it beats living out of a cardboard box."

She was right.

"Thank you. Both of you."

Danny sighed,

"You're welcome. Any thoughts on what you're going to do next?"

As I glanced at the stuff machine I'd built and ideas whirled through my mind, I noted, "I think I'm going to take a couple weeks to figure out what I can do, first. Jumping into stuff with no plan seems like an incredibly stupid decision."

The conversation gradually trailed off; now that I was (apparently) sane, Taylor and Danny needed to go home and get some sleep. I really needed some sleep too, come to think of it. I had some thoughts about analyzing the stuff-maker, but I was just too pudding-brained to do a good job at it right now. So I just wrote a reminder note about it for the morning, crawled into the cot, and went to sleep.

In the morning, I got myself cleaned up in the bathroom - which had a shower for some reason - noted that I needed to get my hands on a laundry machine somehow, brushed my teeth, and had a basic breakfast of instant oatmeal.

Huh, what's this note about-

"To Morning Emmy: try and figure out our Tinker rules today. From sleepy Emmy."

Ah, right. That seemed pretty logical.

So I wandered over to the stuff making machine to take a look at it. Popping off one of the access panels, I immediately noticed something rather important. Not only did every single system in there have backups for its backups, but everything was massively overbuilt, and sensitive components were thoroughly protected from all manner of abuse. It would never be the most efficient or compact of approaches, but the damn thing would probably still work after being used as a chew toy by Lung in full rage mode.

Heck, thinking it over, I don't think this machine would ever break down without getting the absolute shit kicked out of it first.

That... That was huge. From what I recalled, one of the biggest problems Tinkers had to deal with was the sheer amount of maintenance needed to keep all their equipment in working order. And at least for certain devices in certain circumstances, I could just ignore that issue.

Right, so let's think about where this might lead. If my specialty was something to do with making really durable technology, then it should be a lot easier to lean into it than to work against it. Given that I still needed a laundry machine, I had a pretty good first project to test that hypothesis.

Nodding to myself, I booted up the stuff-making machine and got to work.

I knew a fair bit about how washing machines worked on account of my engineering-nerd teenage years, heck, I'd even repaired a few of them. So it was pretty straightforward to start working on the design for a laundry machine. Every single time I tried to make it lighter or more efficient, I felt like I was trudging uphill without any help from my power whatsoever. On the other hand, all my efforts to make the laundry machine more reliable worked just fine.

I had a workable washer-drier design that should last for about a century within an hour, and I got to building it. Even if this project had mostly been meant to learn more about my power, the fact was that I did need some way to clean my clothes. That the laundry machine was rugged enough to work in an active volcano in antarctica was irrelevant.

Come to think of it, that could be a pretty good basis for a cape name. Ruggedizer.

 

[We Just Write]

The next week passed in a blur of planning and Tinkering. I figured out pretty quickly that selling my Tinkertech would be one of the better options in terms of sustaining myself, so I looked into the laws about that.

Putting it bluntly, they were shit. Not being able to patent non-replicable Tinkertech was something I could understand, sure. Sounded pretty reasonable, to be honest. But there was an utter maze of other rules and fines associated with NEPEA-5 that made things very tricky to keep track of. Broadly, it seemed there were only four-ish avenues to operate a business as a Parahuman without getting smacked upside the head with fines.

Option one: have a business entirely unrelated to your powers. Not really an option for me.

Option two: Be a sole proprietor or independent contractor. So long as you stayed below a certain income threshold anyway.

Option three: Work for a business owned by non-parahumans, thought you could kinda-sorta loophole this sometimes.

Option four: Be useful enough to the government that they would ignore the other rules. Not an officially approved route and pretty darn risky, but there were a few known cases.

Of course, there was a fifth option: have enough firepower to simply ignore the fines while being too much of a problem if provoked to merit enforcement. It would get me declared a villain eventually, no doubt about it. But as groups like Toybox and the Elite showed, that wasn't necessarily a dealbreaker. Heck, sometimes the PRT even purchased stuff from members of the Elite. That's how the Rig got its fancy force field after all.

After some thought, I concluded that the best option was to set up a legal fiction of being an independent contractor working for my civilian identity. It wouldn't hold up forever, maybe not even for very long. But it would buy time to build up to the point where I could simply ignore all the fines that came my way.

That clarified some things for me. I needed a starting product, something I could sell. I needed security to keep from getting kidnapped and forced to work for one of the gangs - given my unfortunate ethnicity, I was at risk from the Merchants, ABB, and the Empire 88 -. Lastly, I needed supporting equipment for manufacturing at scale, shipping, that sort of thing. I also needed some help with regards to marketing.

I started with security first. unfortunately, my power just wasn't suitable for making powered armor; the best I could do was something akin to a tankette. But the main issue there was just how much volume was needed to protect my squishy human body without using stuff like crumple zones, which my power absolutely refused to countenance. If I removed myself from the unit, most of those issues went away.

And that's why I made a set of security robots, linked to a CCTV system. They were about human sized, got around on tank treads, featured four dextrous arms and hands each, and each of them had a set of electrolasers to incapacitate intruders. For brutes, well, laser-guided lightning guns could take a fairly all-encompassing definition of "incapacitate". Each of them was also exceedingly durable; anything short of an anti-tank weapon wouldn't even scratch them. Not to mention that they would only need a tune-up every thirty years or so, not accounting for combat damage.

The trio of robots were also smart enough that I decided to err on the side of caution when it came to treating them like people. So I named them Jerry, Berry, and Mary, for lack of better ideas.

As for my initial product, I opted for emergency supplies. Extremely durable radios, flashlights, water purifiers, camp stoves, and solar chargers for the above. Nothing too out there, but things that lots of people would get good use out of. I'd just about finished the stuff-making machines for the solar chargers and radios when Berry broke my concentration.

"Emmy, the Heberts have arrived."

I blinked. The expression on Berry's facial screen was neutral.

"Show them in."

A few minutes later, we were talking in the office. Jerry had joined our impromptu meeting, though the other two security robots were busy maintaining the perimeter.

Danny was the first to speak, asking "So, what have you decided?"

I shrugged "I'm going to try making money off my Tinkertech, though with the laws being what they are that means I'm very technically going villain."

Taylor nodded towards Jerry "You certainly have the intimidating evil minions to pull that off."

I groaned, "Yes the security robots are intimidating, and they are technically my minions, but they're not evil. They don't go around hurting people for no good reason."

Something about that seemed to hit a nerve, as Taylor almost shrank into herself. Meanwhile, Jerry himself apparently felt no need to comment.

Danny sighed,

"I hope it works out for you. God knows, we could use some more good jobs around here."

I nodded,

"I'll see what I can do. I'm going to need some help with shipping and receiving along with marketing, if nothing else."

There were a few moments of silence, then Danny asked,

"Curiously, can I see the stuff you're planning on selling?"

I shrugged,

"Sure? I've got prototypes of the first wave of equipment all ready."

A minute later, Danny was holding my prototype flashlight.

"Good light, nice grip. A bit heavy, though. What exactly separates this from all the other flashlights on the market?"

I held out my hand, "Pass it to me, and I'll demonstrate."

Danny did so. I proceeded to put the flashlight in a clamp, lens up. I then retrieved the pickaxe I'd found lying around the warehouse, and passed it to Danny.

"Hit the flashlight with that pickaxe. Hard as you can."

Danny hesitantly nodded, wound up, and slammed the pickaxe's point into the flashlight's lens at high speed. The light didn't even flicker, and the lens wasn't even scratched. As for Danny, he had managed to swing the pickaxe hard enough to outright break its sturdy wooden handle. He was also cussing up a storm, having apparently pulled a muscle in the process.

Taylor asked "What is that lens even made of?"

I answered "Synthetic corundum, with a few extra things added. It'll stand up to anything short of a gunshot. The case meanwhile is just really good nickel-plated steel with some clever tempering. Quadruple redundant batteries and circuits coupled with extremely good temperature tolerance mean it should stand up to just about anything reasonable."

Danny regained his composure, before asking "Are all the things you make that durable?"

I nodded, "Yeah, kind of my thing, it seems."

"Then what's the going price for one of those flashlights? I bet a lot of people will appreciate having something they can know works with absolute certainty."

"Haven't decided yet. How does two hundred dollars sound?"

Danny thought for a moment, before answering.

"It sounds like you've got yourself a deal. And you should probably charge more for them, being completely honest."

 

[We Just Write]

Two days after I sold that prototype flashlight to Danny, I was ready to make my initial sales pitch to the PRT for the radios and flashlights. About a quarter of that time was spent getting the flashlight making machine up and running, the rest was spent on making another robot. This time, I'd made a body double.

To my overjoyed shock, my power was exceedingly cooperative on the design here. After some thinking, I was able to figure out why: redundancy was a major part of how my power ensured my tech's reliability, and at present I was a single point of failure. With all the features my power was cramming in here, I wasn't just making a decoy. I was basically making an entire second me.

While my power was telling me it would take some brain surgery to fully synch myself up to the robo-mes, a brainwave monitoring headset was an acceptable interim solution. And also I was more than a bit nervous about opening up my skull for any reason whatsoever.

My double was also significantly stronger and more durable than a baseline human. Which let me equip her with "power armor" without the issues that trying to protect my squishy self presented. That "power armor" also let me disguise the fact that she weighed about three times as much as she should, and would set off metal detectors.

Once Me2 was ready, I slept with the brainwave headset on to get her mind up to spec.

I woke up to her gently brushing my hair.

"Morning, Emmy. Big day today, you ready?"

I got up, yawning.

"Yeah. You ready to make the call?"

The second me nodded, as I took off the brainwave headset and stashed it in a cabinet. Meanwhile, Me2 picked up the telephone and dialed the PRT's non-emergency line.

"Hello. I'm a Tinker looking to sell equipment to the PRT."

While Me2 (she really needed a better name) talked, I went through my morning hygiene routine and ate breakfast. Forty minutes later, Me2 hung up the phone and walked over.

"So, I've got... mixed news. We'll be meeting with the PRT in about two hours; that said, they really weren't happy about meeting here instead of PRT HQ, despite our very good reasons for not wanting to go there. They also absolutely refused to let us bring a security robot. So we're going to have Armsmaster here, with two whole vans of PRT troopers to make sure we don't try anything."

I sighed. "That makes sense. In the meantime... how do you feel about Melissa as a name?"

My robot doppelganger shrugged,

"I can live with it. Though you should probably get in the habit of calling me Ruggedizer when there's people over and I've got the suit on."

I thought for a few seconds,

"Yeesh, cape names are a weird concept. They're basically branding."

The two hours passed, and I found myself incredibly jealous of Melissa, mostly on account of constipation. Not needing to go to the bathroom would have been great. Also not needing sleep, though blanket cocoon was nice. Though on the other hand, she was missing out on food on account of not having a digestive system.

I'd barely gotten out of the bathroom in time to see Melissa opening the door for Armsmaster; we'd already explained that the Dockworkers' Association had given us permission to use the building until we could get a permanent location, so we weren't worried about getting arrested for squatting.

As for Melissa Ruggedizer, she greeted Armsmaster with, "Nice to meet you, I'm Ruggedizer."

Armsmaster replied,

"And I'm Armsmaster, Protectorate ENE. I've been told that you want to sell us some equipment?"

"Yes. I specialize in extremely durable and reliable technology. At the moment I've got production of flashlights and radios up and running, though I intend to branch out to more products in future. Would you prefer to see a product demonstration inside, or out here?"

Armsmaster's response was a terse, "Outside, thank you very much."

He very clearly didn't trust us, which I suppose made sense. Still, this was an opportunity.

Ruggedizer turned to me and asked, "Hey boss, would you get one of the flashlights and two of the radios? For demonstration purposes."

I called back, "Sure thing R!" and went to get the items in question, though that did mean I missed out on a bit of the conversation. When I got back, I heard Armsmaster talking.

"So she's only your employer for legal purposes?"

"Yes."

"You're walking a tightrope there. Be careful."

That's when I entered the conversation, handing the bundle of kit to Ruggedizer, who then handed it to Armsmaster.

"I got the stuff!"

Armsmaster turned the devices over, looked at how they were assembled, clicked the flashlight on and off, and such. After a moment, he remarked, "I do not see why this is impressive."

I shrugged. "Then set it down and have one of the PRT guys shoot it. It'll still work."

Armsmaster looked somewhat askance, but did as requested. A moment later, a rifle bullet was fired into the flashlight and each of the radios.

One of the PRT sergeants (his name said Brown) picked up the flashlight and clicked it on.

"Huh. That was a full power rifle round, and the thing's barely dented. I'm shaking it around, and the light's not even flickering."

Ruggedizer shrugged,

"Well yeah, it's got quadruple-redundant circuits and a bunch of other stuff to make sure it's going to work no matter what."

Armsmaster looked askance,

"Why would you put that level of redundancy in a flashlight!?"

"Why wouldn't you? Then it might break when you really need it!"

"But it's so inefficient!"

That's when Sergeant Brown stepped between the other me and Armsmaster.

"You're both smart, now can we please drop the personal issues and focus on the business transaction at hand? Ruggedizer, you want to sell us flashlights and radios, with their extreme durability and reliability being the main selling point, yes?"

The other me nodded, "That's correct. I'm thinking four hundred dollars a flashlight and six hundred per radio; I've looked up prices in the industry, and those seem about right for the quality I'm selling. I might also start making ballistic plates for your armor."

Sergeant Brown nodded,

"Then I can take these demonstration units for Tinkertech evaluations, correct?"

"Sure, consider them free samples."

That's when Armsmaster spoke up again,

"You really should consider joining the Protectorate; independent Tinkers have a tendency to get snapped up or killed in fairly short order."

Ruggedizer smirked, her eyeroll hidden behind her tinted visor.

"I'm not stupid. That's why I made the trio of security robots you absolutely refused to allow anywhere near PRT HQ. Rest assured that I've got plenty of plans to make sure I don't get press-ganged or killed."

There was an awkward pause, as if Armsmaster was mentally evaluating whether or not to continue the obligatory recruitment push.

Eventually, he answered, "Very well. We'll get back to you once we've made a decision about whether or not to purchase your products."

With that, the PRT left, bringing Armsmaster with them.

 

[We Just Write]

A/N: Gonna be a brief hiatus for Thanksgiving Break after this one.

---

Emily Piggot looked up from some routine paperwork as Andre Smith - her division's head of Tinkertech evaluation - entered her office.

"Ma'am, I've got the testing reports on the samples of Ruggedizer's tech that were given to us for testing purposes."

Director Piggot thought for a moment before asking,

"She's the independent Tinker who wanted to sell us flashlights and radios, I believe? How did that go?"

Andre set the report on the director's desk as he answered.

"The full version is in the reports there, but in short, they're good flashlights and radios, and they still work."

Piggot blinked,

"I feel like I'm missing something here. Why is them still working impressive, exactly?"

"Because they still work after being blown up multiple times, shot with the biggest gun we had in inventory, attacked with all manner of power tools, thrown off the PRT building's roof, getting set on fire, getting dunked in liquid nitrogen and various horrible corrosive agents, irradiated with an X-Ray machine, being squished in a hydraulic press, having their casings stuffed full of mud, getting subjected to obscene amounts of thermal wear, being blasted with an EMP, and lastly they were given to the Wards with explicit orders to 'try and break the damn things', quoting Armsmaster."

"Wait, what does Armsmaster have to do with this? And why did he give the testing units to the Wards?"

Andre blinked.

"Right; apparently their opposed Tinker specialties means that Ruggedizer and Armsmaster can't help but irritate each other. Given that, recruiting Ruggedizer into the PRT ENE seems like a bad idea."

"...You said the radios and flashlight still work after being put through all that abuse?"

"Yes. They look like shit and the finish is ruined, but they still turn on and more-or-less function. Last I knew, Vista had tuned one of the radios to a music station for her own amusement. Ruggedizer's tech isn't fully indestructible, but it's damn close."

As Director Piggot began reading through the paper version on the report, she couldn't help but be impressed. Both at just how durable Ruggedizer's technology was, and at how thorough the testing team had been in trying to break it. By the looks of things, someone using a device made by Ruggedizer could totally rely on it to function as advertised, even in truly absurd circumstances.

Still, flashlights and radios weren't all that game-changing, no matter how reliable. On the other hand, Ruggedizer must know that. These first products reeked of someone trying to figure out something they could sell without scaring anyone away. Which was honestly quite sensible.

After mulling it over for a bit, Director Piggot opted to authorize the purchase of two hundred flashlights and fifty radios. And also to query Ruggedizer about some ballistic plates for testing purposes. That would be enough to keep Ruggedizer in the black and started on her way towards somewhat legitimate business, while also being a small enough expenditure to work into her department's permanently over-stretched budget.

Director Piggot wasn't happy about having a Tinker who simply couldn't get along with Armsmaster in Brockton Bay, but she was being pragmatic about the situation. A Ruggedizer rolling in money from selling technology was a Ruggedizer who wasn't raiding banks with nigh-indestructible robots or something equally troublesome. And if the PRT could benefit from keeping the new Tinker happy by getting to use her technology, all the better.

---

The next couple days were a massive pile of anxiety as we waited to hear back from the PRT. We passed the time by Tinkering together, along with... "intense snuggling". The... amazonian features I'd given Melissa awoke something I hadn't noticed before. And that's how I learned I was bisexual at the age of 36.

Anyway, we'd gotten automatic production of the camp stoves and water purifiers up and running by the time we heard back. We'd also had a visit from Danny, who among other things mentioned that the flashlight had proven quite useful when resetting a circuit breaker in the basement.

I fielded the phone call from the PRT this time, since Melissa was taking a shower. Even without sweat, her hair could still get dirty.

"Hello, Emmy speaking."

"Yes, this is Anthony Brown with the PRT. We've decided to purchase two hundred flashlights and fifty radios. How quickly can you get those to us?"

"We've got forty flashlights and twenty radios on-hand at the moment. You can come pick those up and pay for them any time. Still trying to find materials suppliers for the rest, since there's only so much old stuff the Dockworkers' Association is willing to let us recycle."

"We might be able to help with the materials side of things; there's quite a few trusted companies that the Protectorate sources Tinker supplies from, and we can help get you in touch with them."

"That would be really helpful, thank you."

The conversation carried on for a bit, until eventually trailing off. We'd be needing to open a business bank account to get paid, but as soon as we did the PRT would come right over to pick up the first delivery.

Once Melissa got done with her shower and came over, I told her how the conversation went.

"Huh, that's a pretty good sign. Also goes to show just how much we need to do in the getting things set up department."

I nodded,

"Yeah, we really need to hire a secretary and a marketing person at some point. Also an accountant. Maybe Danny knows a few trustworthy people with applicable skills who are looking for work?"

 

[We Just Write]

Getting an official bank account for our business finances was utterly uneventful, as was the PRT coming by to pick up the flashlights and radios. Soon after, Melissa and I were staring at the report that we had twenty eight thousand dollars in our account now. This sparked a quick discussion about moving to a permanent location sooner rather than later. So the next day I found myself gallivanting all over Brockton Bay (Berry in tow), while Melissa looked into getting a loan for starting up a proper factory.

Just in case, we'd made two more security robots to hold down the fort while we were out; wouldn't do for our temporary lab to get raided in the meantime.

Turns out, it was actually Danny who pointed me in the right direction. Apparently when a lot of the businesses in the Bay went under in the wake of the Dock Riots, their buildings had ended up de jure property of the Dockworkers' Association. Not that the Dockworkers' Association could actually use most of them.

So the next day after starting the search, I found myself looking at an abandoned factory. Apparently they used to make equipment for use on ships.

Danny noted, "I know this place isn't much, but... well, it isn't much."

Opening the door, I got a look at row upon row of derelict machinery.

"You kidding? All the stuff in there is a practical goldmine for recycling in the near term. Heck, I might even be able to repurpose some of it for my own use."

Danny chuckled, "Thought you'd like it. All the stuff left here doesn't appear on property valuations for various reasons, but for someone like you? It's a major selling point. Plus the adjacent buildings are just as full of abandoned tooling for you to salvage as your operations expand."

"...Thank you. You're being very generous and I'm not sure how to pay you back."

"By succeeding, and pumping some life back into Brockton Bay's economy. For so, so long there's been precious little available for legitimate income in this city. People find themselves henching for villains just to make ends meet, and you've got the possibility to change that."

I nodded as I thought.

"So how much to buy the abandoned factory?"

"Strictly speaking, I'd sell it for a dollar. That said, if you've got a few thousand dollars to spare, it would really help some people who are in a tight spot right now. Also it would pay to have the utilities reconnected, which is kind of important."

I thought for a moment.

"I can spare eight grand, no problem."

Two days later, we were ready to move. The factory's utilities had been reconnected, a heavy-duty truck had been hired to move the heavy machinery we'd built, and some basic habitation features - namely a bedroom, a shower, and a laundry area - had been added to the factory's office.

We'd just gotten the truck underway when the universe decided we'd been having things too easy. More specifically, the part of the universe who called herself Squealer.

We didn't even see her coming, our first warning being a screech of tires on asphat. Gerry shouted "INCOMING!", and then the suddenly-visible monster truck rammed into the trailer with all our machinery in it.

As the glowering Tinker backed up, Melissa - currently suited up in her armor - asked "What the fuck is your problem!?"

Squealer hollered over the vehicle's sound system "You're a Tinker in the Docks! That's Merchants turf, so you've got to pay up! Now hand over those machines!"

Yeah, no way in hell was that going to happen, giant mechanical arm extending from Squealer's rig aside. Melissa seemed to agree with my assessment, leaping onto the side of Squealer's truck and hanging on for dear life.

Squealer panicked and slammed her truck into reverse, even as the first three security robots opened up with their lightning guns on full blast. Melissa hung on through an abrupt two-point turn (which flattened some poor schmuck's car in the process), and punched through the passenger side window even as the maniac tore off at highway speed with Gerry, Berry, and Mary in hot pursuit.

I could only groan; Squealer had completely trashed the truck's trailer. All the machinery we had loaded was fine; it was built to take this sort of abuse, but we'd need to get a new truck out here, load the machinery on, it was going to be a huge mess.

---

As my armored fist smashed through the passenger window, Squealer shrieked and drew a pistol. Normally I wouldn't be worried - even my visor was more than rated for handguns - but Squealer was a Tinker, so who knew what that gun did. So I began clambering through the window in hopes of getting to her before she could line up a shot.

Then the passenger seat launched itself up, clocking me right in the jaw. I barely even flinched; benefits of being built to take an obscene beating. As the wayward ejector seat went tumbling through the truck's roof, Squealer stared slack-jawed.

"How is your fucking neck not broken!?"

I was thoroughly inside the truck's cabin by this point and still slightly worried about the pistol, so even as I lined up my electrolaser, I answered.

"I'm built to last!"

Then I opened up on Squealer with the taser beam, making her spasm uncontrollably in her seat. The truck swerved abruptly, and I had the barest moment to realize that may not have been the best of ideas before we slammed into a building at full speed.

The entire front of the vehicle crumpled, airbags going off even as Squealer's harness kept her from flying out of the vehicle. I had no such luck, getting launched right through the windshield and ricocheting off the brick walls of the building we'd hit. No internal damage, but my armor's finish might have gotten scuffed a little.

I got to my feet just as Armsmaster arrived, his motorcycle pulling to a stop. Ugh, right, let's try and keep this professional.

"Ruggedizer, what are you doing here?"

I opted to go for the dry, clinical truth.

"Squealer tried to steal some of my machinery while I was moving to a more permanent location. For lack of better ideas, I boarded her truck to keep her from doing that. We had a fight in the truck's cab, which resulted in the truck crashing into that building at highway speed. I don't know if Squealer is still conscious, or even alive."

"Right, I'm going to arrest Squealer now. But I do have some questions for you. Such as how you avoided a concussion from getting slammed into the building."

As Armsmaster jogged over to foam Squealer, I couldn't help but groan internally. I had no good way to answer that question. If I admitted to being a robot it would wreck our end-run around the rogue laws. If I said I'd made some sort of anti-concussion tech there would be no good way to reproduce it when asked. I suppose I could refuse to answer? Strictly speaking, I did have a right to remain silent under the fifth amendment.

 

[We Just Write]

Ultimately, Melissa had simply refused to answer Armsmaster's question, and since he had no grounds whatsoever to hold her, my robot double went free. In the short term it was the right decision, but I had a sinking feeling that our increasingly antagonistic relationship with the Protectorate Tinker was going to come back to bite us eventually. As for Squealer, she lived, but with significant injuries. She was currently sedated in the PRT's infirmary.

No other villains saw fit to interfere with our move, so we managed to finish hauling our machinery to the new place the same day we started. Though the crash did make things take a couple hours longer.

---

The next day, I checked our business email. Offers from a few suppliers that the PRT recommended, a request for some ballistic plates for testing, and... huh, apparently the news wanted to interview us.

"Hey Melissa, want to take a look at this?"

Melissa looked up from her oatmeal - having been upgraded to run off food since she was first built- and remarked, "sure?"

Looking through the email, Melissa noted,

"You know, that could actually be a great opportunity to get our name out there. While they really want to ask about our altercation with Squealer, it wouldn't be too hard to throw in a few sales pitches."

I nodded,

"I for one really want to go."

Melissa thought for a moment.

"I understand, but realistically it should be me. Not only can I move around in the suit without getting tired, but if some asshole decides to take a swing at the interview I'm a lot more likely to survive."

I nodded sadly,

"Honestly, I'm getting really jealous of your super-durable robot body. You get to do all sorts of risky things without needing to worry about serious injury, and you've got backups to boot. Meanwhile I'm a squishy human with only one shot at life. You even got your own copy of our Tinker power, so what's the point of having me around?"

Melissa blushed. I didn't add that feature, so she must have put it in herself.

"I love you. You're cute and you care about me and... I don't want you to get hurt or feel bad."

I sat, stunned. "Oh. I... I love you too."

There was some silence, then Melissa spoke up.

"Emmy... I think it might be possible to move you over to a robot body, like what I'm using."

I thought on it for a moment.

"I can see how that could work, yeah. Definitely risky though, and I'd want lots of practice on animals first."

"In the meantime, we should probably finish up the rest of the PRT's flashlight and radio order. It'll do a lot to help with getting stuff set up."

---

Later that day, I was waiting at the factory with four of the security robots. The PRT was scheduled to pick up the rest of the order along with the test ballistic plates in a few minutes, while Melissa was getting ready for her interview in a bit.

Sure enough, there was a ring of the doorbell at the loading dock. I went over and there was a van with a few men in PRT uniforms that I didn't quite recognize.

Something about this didn't quite seem right, so I didn't open the door. But I did activate the intercom.

"Hello, I take it you're here to pick up the flashlights and radios for the PRT?"

The group's apparent leader replied "Yes, that's correct."

I thought for a moment, racking my brain for a way to tell if these people were legitimate. The PRT hadn't given me any sort of passphrase or anything, so I'd have to verify manually.

"Can I have your names please? I just need to make sure you're the right people or we don't get paid."

The four men outside went still as statues, and I could swear I heard one of them mutter "damnit" under their breath.

Before the incredibly suspicious bunch could do anything even more damning, two actually labeled PRT vans rounded the corner. They immediately lurched to a halt, and the one in front disgorged six PRT troopers in full tactical gear. What followed was an incredibly lopsided firefight in which the four goons were almost immediately foamed and arrested.

Once the impostors were dealt with, I quickly verified that the new bunch were actually sent by the PRT over the telephone. That done, I arranged for the agreed-upon inventory to be loaded onto the second van, confirmed that the payment was currently being processed by the bank, and sent them on their way.

...Hey, if I tuned into the news right now, I'd probably see Melissa's interview. Would be nice to see how that went, and it would take my mind off the events that just transpired.

I promptly made my way to our impromptu living room, and turned on the television.

"-and do you have any thoughts on Squealer's injuries?"

Melissa shrugged,

"Not really? I hadn't meant for her to end up with all that spinal damage, but as far as I'm concerned she brought it on herself. I used the minimum necessary force to protect my livelihood, and if that happens to have caused severe injuries to a public menace, I really can't be bothered to care."

"I hear you're affiliated with the PRT. Would you like to expand on that?"

"They're one of our customers, and that's it. We have every intention of selling highly durable technology to the general public, in addition to government agencies. At present out product line includes flashlights, radios, water purifiers, camp stoves, and solar chargers compatible with the above. We're also willing to consider custom work if requested."

"Tinker tech isn't generally well-regarded in the commercial sphere, given its tendency to break without constant maintenance. What makes you an exception?"

"I am a Tinker specialized in ruggedization, redundancy, and most importantly reliability. All my products have a no-questions-asked lifetime warranty, provided that all major components are present when we get it back. Short of removing major components, I'd be genuinely impressed if someone managed to intentionally break one of my products, let alone by accident."

"That's... quite the vote of confidence."

The interview kept going for a few minutes, before the broadcast switched to a story about Boston's airport having trouble with all the Thanksgiving travelers. Apparently, it was only two days away. Huh. Needed to think about how we were going to celebrate that; we certainly had plenty to be thankful for.

 

[We Just Write]

"Ruggedizer was entirely correct to be suspicious of those four men who showed up."

Director Piggot nodded,

"Well yes, that was obvious from the moment I heard of the impostors. Tell me something I don't know."

Deputy Renick flipped the page,

"Apparently, the four of them are a bunch of low-ranking Empire flunkies who thought conscripting a Tinker into the Empire would get them a promotion, or at least a significant bonus. This kidnapping attempt of theirs wasn't sponsored by the higher-ups, as far as the interrogators can tell."
Emily snorted in disdain.

"I highly doubt Kaiser would have signed off on it, considering how brazenly stupid the attempt was. Did they come up with this plan while drunk by any chance?"

Renick replied, "Yes, actually. All four of them were subjected to a breathalyzer test shortly after their arrest. The lowest blood alcohol content among them was 0.09. Apparently they were at a bar when they concocted the scheme, swung by a costume store and a van rental business, and then proceeded directly to Ruggedizer's factory."

Director Piggot groaned, the stupidity of regular humans could cause far more problems than Capes, sometimes.

"At the very least they shouldn't be worth the Empire's time to bust out of jail, considering how much of a liability they've proven themselves to be."

"That seems quite likely, yes."

"Any good news?"

Director Renick turned the page of the report, and passed it to Emily. Emily began to read. Ah, apparently it was the testing report for the ballistic plates Ruggedizer sent in.

Visual inspection indicated a rigid plate covered in apparently self-healing semirigid foam. Impact testing with a pneumatic ram indicated that the foam backing drastically lowered blunt force trauma sustained by the wearer. Gunshots up to and including a 40mm cannon failed to penetrate, though at the upper end of the range the wearer would definitely be feeling it. Meanwhile the foam on the front acted to catch fragments from bullet impacts, and keep them from flying off to cause injuries elsewhere.

Meanwhile incendiaries seemed to have negligible effect, with the inside of the armor remaining at almost exactly room temperature even with a kilogram of burning thermite on the outside. Same went in reverse for a dunking in liquid nitrogen. And yet those troops who'd worn a set of the plates remarked that they didn't overheat anywhere near as much as when they wore their regular armor. Apparently, the greater the temperature gradient, the more the foam resisted heat transfer; it also locked down on heat transfer if either side of the plate significantly exceeded human body temperature. Blatant Tinker bullshit, but Emily would take it.

As for what it took to actually break one of these plates... well, if anyone was casually throwing around equivalent attacks to multi-kilogram shaped charges, the troopers had bigger problems.

This... This armor would save so many lives. And the price Ruggedizer was asking was quite reasonable. Shame PRT ENE's discretionary spending for the next month was just about tapped out.

...Well, when in doubt, kick matters up the chain of command.

A decision made, Emily Piggot began composing a message to head office. A message that basically amounted to a sales pitch by proxy for Ruggedizer's armor plates. After all, if everyone got the new armor, her troops would benefit too. Not to mention that they could hardly justify denying her funding to get armor from a Tinker who lived right here in Brockton Bay.

Still, even as Director Piggot pressed send, some deeply cynical part of her chided her for believing Costa-Brown would be reasonable. Piggot hoped that part of herself was incorrect, but just in case she started coming up with contingency plans.

 

[We Just Write]

Much to our surprise, Danny invited Melissa and I over for Thanksgiving. After a moment to think on it, we asked if it would be alright if we showed up early to help with the cooking; the idea of entirely imposing on the Heberts just didn't feel right, given how much they'd already done for us. Danny said yes, and we agreed to show up at nine in the morning.

We showed up exactly on schedule, though not without incident. Apparently their front porch had a bad step, and Melissa's high density resulted in her putting her foot right through it. Danny and Taylor apparently heard the crunching noise from inside, since we heard rapid pounding footsteps, followed by the door being flung open.

Danny dropped the shotgun as he chuckled with relief.

"Oh, it's only you two. Sorry, but when I heard the crunching noise I assumed the worst."

Melissa sighed as she hauled herself up.

"Sorry about busting your porch. If you want we can fix it?"

Taylor shrugged.

"Sure?"

Meanwhile, Danny shook his head.

"We've been meaning to fix that step for ages and just not gotten around to it. It would be wrong to impose on you for something like that. You could have been seriously hurt."

Melissa countered,

"But you've helped us so much already. It feels wrong not to pay that back somehow."

That's when Taylor remarked,

"If you two keep trying to out-polite each other, this will keep going forever. Please come in."

So, we came in. We helped with cooking for a good three hours, everyone enjoyed a good meal, and then we sprung our little surprise.

I started.

"Danny, Taylor. We made gifts for you."

Danny answered, "Huh?"

Meanwhile, Taylor's reply was a suspicious "Why?"

"When I got my powers and went into that fugue... you two put everything on the line for me. Not to mention that you've been really really helpful with getting me started. It feels wrong not to pay that back somehow, so we made a watch for each of you."

With that, Melissa fished out the cheap-looking wristwatches we'd made for them. One was red and the other was black; the idea was for them to go beneath notice.

As Taylor looked over the red watch, she asked, "...Why a watch specifically?"

Melissa answered, "Because each of them contains a concealed panic button, and hiding it in a watch lets you bring it everywhere without arousing suspicion. We're worried about something horrible happening to you, maybe because of association with us. Those watches will let you notify us of your exact position and need for rescue if stuff starts going badly, so we can bail you out."

The Heberts both nodded seriously, then Danny asked

"So how do we activate the panic button?"

I spoke up,

"Hand me the black watch, and I'll show you."

---

The Tuesday after Thanksgiving was a big day for us; we'd be interviewing our first hires today. Danny had come through for us big time, finding a secretary, a couple marketing guys, an accountant, and a few dockworkers to handle shipping and receiving. With the thirty assorted orders we'd gotten at our makeshift website over Thanksgiving break, we were optimistic about our business prospects.

To save time, we'd opted to interview everyone all at once. So we'd shuffled some chairs around to convert the factory's old meeting room into a makeshift auditorium.

To our relief, everyone got here on time. Melissa would be presenting in our Ruggedizer identity, while I would ostensibly be non-Parahuman.

As everyone sat down, I greeted them.

"Hello, welcome to our name-pending business. I'm Emmy, the company's legal cover meaning we don't get sued for being run by a Parahuman. This is Ruggedizer, the Tinker who's actually designing all the products we're selling."

A skinny black man in a blue business suit nodded, then asked

"Guessing you need our help handling the more company-related parts of running a business? I'm Ferdinand, by the way."

Melissa nodded,

"Yeah, we need a secretary to screen calls and make official correspondence. Someone to keep track of the money, some people to market my products, and a few people to handle the loading docks. Won't be much manual labor in that last one, but we need some people who can actually think to keep track of the robots."

One of the Dockworkers - Kurt, I think his name was - asked "So, you're not going to automate our jobs away?"

I chimed in,

"Aside from needing the help, a big part of the reason for hiring locals is to breathe some life back into the local economy. We're not going to be hoarding endless wealth for its own sake, which means we're not acting purely to profit. So no, we won't automate your jobs away. We might introduce some automation to make your jobs easier, but not to do away with you entirely."

After a moment, a thought popped to mind,

"Also, we fully expect and encourage you to unionize, organize, that sort of thing. If we're doing something awful or stupid, we want to be told. Starting pay for each of you is thirty dollars an hour, though we're open to negotiation there. Also, hours are nine to five, excepting weekends. No overtime, period."

The female marketing agent raised her hand.

"Er, why no overtime, exactly?"

Melissa answered.

"If nothing else, because Emmy and I live here, at the factory. We want to have some private time to ourselves."

Eventually, the interview wound to a close. We decided that we'd hire everyone Danny found for us, and we set about figuring out what everyone would need to do their jobs and getting that set up.

A few hours later, Rose (the secretary) informed me,

"Emmy, there's a call from the PRT. It's about the ballistic plates."

I accepted the call.

"Hello, this is Emmy speaking."

"This is Deputy Director Renick. I've got some good news and some bad news. The good news is that we're extremely impressed with the body armor. The bad news is that most of the extra funding we asked for to buy it got withheld, so we'll only be able to purchase thirty sets at full price."

"Ah. That's... That's something at least. Are you looking for a discount?"

"If you're offering, though we're willing to favor-trade to partially offset the cost on your end. Thoughts?"

An idea clicked into place.

"If the Wards have some spare time, can they come over and let us take a look at their powers? From what we recall, Tinkers can sometimes develop technology based on another Parahuman's abilities, and we want to see if that holds for Ruggedizer too."

"That sounds reasonable enough, though I'll need to swing it past Piggot first."

And that's how Vista and Kid Win ended up scheduled to come over for a few hours on Friday.

 

[We Just Write]

(Melissa)
I was wearing my "dress armor" when the PRT showed up; less protection, but it was lighter, more flexible, and showed more of my face. Still had a visor covering the top half of said face, but it could externally display cartoony eye and eyebrow graphics to be more expressive.

As for the two Wards, they wouldn't be unsupervised; Miss Militia had come along to keep an eye on them. So when the three heroes showed up (Miss Militia on her motorcycle, Vista via warped space, and Kid Win on his hoverboard), I just waved.

"Nice to meet you, I'm Ruggedizer. I take it you're Miss Militia, Vista, and Kid Win."

Militia's eyes crinkled with a smile as she answered.

"Yes, that's us."

As we entered the factory building, something occurred to me.

"How does your scarf stay up anyway? It seems like it should be prone to wardrobe malfunction."

She answered,

"It's taped to my cheeks. Not the most comfortable option, but I'm used to it."

Huh.

---

I wound up working with Kid Win first; Vista was nearby eating a packed lunch, but was willing to wait her turn.

I'd brought out one of the electrolasers like we typically used on the security robots, while Kid Win brought a spare concussor pistol. The idea being we could compare how we built our stuff.

Kid Win voiced a concern,

"I really hope this isn't like those sessions with Armsmaster. He basically spends all the time pointing out all the stuff I'm doing wrong."

I shook my head,

"That's not how I roll, usually. Now let's pop open the casings and take a look."

My electrolaser was fairly straightforward; a cluster of ultraviolet laser generators around a heat sink, all focused through their own optics and with electrical contacts impinging into the beam volumes. As long as any two of the six worked it could tase a target, and even with one the UV laser could do some serious damage if pushed to the power levels it was actually rated for.

As for Kid Win's concussor... it was a mess. I eventually understood the principle it used; firing a gravitational pocket with a little plasma in it for added punch and visual flare. But the circuitry was a complete nightmare of dead ends and hasty modifications.

As Kid Win looked at the inside of my Electrolaser, he couldn't help but comment,

"If I'd built something like that, Armsmaster would be on my case about it for hours. So much wasted space and material, but I just keep putting extra parts in and needing to take them out again after!"

I thought on that for a bit, then answered

"I can see that; I don't tend to get along with Armsmaster. He's good at his specialty, but keeps thinking said specialty is the be-all end-all. The reason I put all those extra parts in is for redundancy; it means my tech still works after taking one hell of a beating. Meanwhile Armsmaster's kit crams a lot of performance in a tiny package, but needs obscene amounts of maintenance."

Kid Win nodded,

"Yeah, I was seriously impressed with that radio still working after everything it got put through. I'm not sure how that helps me, though. I tried mimicking that approach on the pistol I brought, and my brain just didn't want to cooperate."

I quirked a virtual eyebrow,

"Mind elaborating?"

The teenage Tinker frowned,

"I just can't integrate the backups well enough to make them work for proper redundancy like you do. They're always just barely connected and don't really add anything."

I racked my synthetic brain for an idea of what that could mean, coming up with an idea after a few seconds.

"Maybe your power thinks they're supposed to come off?"

Kid Win blinked.

"Huh? You mean like lego?"

I nodded,

"Not the worst way to think of it. I think there's a decent chance your specialty has something to do with modular technology. And I think I've got an idea for how to test that."

Kid Win tilted his head in confusion,

"So... collaborative Tinkering?"

I nodded,

"Let's make a basic plug-and-play attachment for that concussor you brought; if I'm correct, it should come really easily to you."

As it turned out, I was correct. Within forty minutes Kid Win had a barrel extension for the concussor that increased the effective range at the expense of being strictly lethal. And it could just get plugged in or taken off at a moment's notice.

That done, I noted,

"Thanks for the time Kid Win. I got a lot of ideas for improving my approach from that, and I think it'll be really useful."

Kid Win looked ecstatic,

"Thank you so much! I finally have a solid lead on my specialty for the first time ever!"

Vista got up from her chair, warping over to the conversation.

"Does that mean it's my turn?"

"Yep."

---

I quickly directed Vista to the observation area I'd set up. There were a few things on a table I wanted to look at when she messed with space in and around them.

Vista quickly asked,

"Any particular reason for the cardboard box?"

"I want to get good measurements of what happens when you make something bigger on the inside."

Vista snapped her fingers,

"Done."

I went over and took a look at the box and... yeah it looked to be about twice as big on the inside as it should be.

I quickly set up all sorts of measuring tools, even as Vista looked a bit bored.

"What are you trying to do anyway?"

"I'm trying to figure out the root cause of the spacetime distortions your power produces."

Vista thought for a moment,

"Maybe it would help if I made it move?"

"Sure? An oscillating pattern would be really helpful, I think."

Vista nodded, and quickly began growing and shrinking the inside of the box. The interferometers didn't pick up much in the way of gravity waves, but after a moment the quantum vacuum polarimeters reported a reading. It was very faint, but it seemed that Vista was messing with the energy level of the ground state.

"Could you pause for a moment? I need to put some measurement devices closer, and one inside the box."

Vista promptly released the warp,

"Sure?"

I promptly put one of the polarimeters inside the box, moved the rest of them to physical contact with the box, and motioned for Vista to continue. She began again, and the polarimeters immediately reported a reading. A much, much stronger reading than I'd been getting before.

After about half an hour, the measurements ended.

"So..."

I gave Vista the short answer.

"As far as I can tell, your power moves energy in the quantum vacuum from one place to another. The positioning of the negative energy density zones does really weird things to spacetime."

Vista blinked,

"Huh... I never needed to think about that part. I just decide how I want spacetime to move and it does."

---

Eventually, the Wards headed back to their base. I told Emmy what I'd learned, and we both started looking into relevant scientific literature. Eventually, Emmy had to go to bed, but I kept searching.

Finally, around midnight, I stumbled upon a hit: Energy Teleportation. In 2004 an Earth Aleph physicist had theorized a way to teleport energy from one place to another, and as a side effect it manipulated the energy levels of the quantum vacuum. I promptly began reading up on the subject, and quantum teleportation more generally.

By morning I was absolutely certain: not only could we build a working teleporter based on these principles, but it had the potential to be exceedingly profitable.

 

[We Just Write]

I woke up to Melissa gently brushing my hair. I stretched out, and muttered thanks for it.

"You're so cute when you're just waking up in the morning."

"mrphh. Quantum?"

"Yeah, I found some scientific papers from Earth Aleph that point towards something called Energy Teleportation as the root cause of what Vista's been doing. We can probably make a teleportation system based on that. Anyway, it's the weekend, so would you rather sleep in or get right to work?"

"Sleep. Was up late."

"Alright."

---

By the time I eventually got out of bed, took a shower, dried my hair, and put some clothes on, Melissa had already made a wonderful breakfast for the both of us. Well, more of a brunch, since it was ten AM by now.

As I drank the very strong coffee Melissa had brewed up for me, I read the scientific papers she'd gone through over the night. In the back of my mind, I could feel my power turning over, trying to figure out the requirements needed to build a teleportation machine that would be completely and utterly reliable.

After a few minutes I asked,

"So, is the teleporter business or pleasure?"

Melissa shrugged,

"Could be both? It's a really neat idea to build just on its own, but we also stand to make a truly obscene amount of money from it if we play our cards right."

I thought on it for a moment.

"How about this, we start with small-scale prototypes on our own time, and only move the teleportation project to business hours once we've proven the principle?"

"Sounds reasonable to me."

As it turned out, our power was remarkably unhelpful on the subject of teleportation. All the ancilliary systems and such were easy to nail down, since our power definitely knew what it was doing there. But when it came to the actual quantum shenanigans needed to teleport the mass and energy making up an object from one place to another, we were practically flying blind.

Still, we weren't about to just give up. As Sunday rolled into Monday, we'd managed microscopic instances of teleportation, carefully following the scientific literature. Scaling it up to something useful would be somewhat troublesome, but the rewards would definitely be worth it.

Anyway, at Nine AM sharp, the employees we'd hired came in and got to their assigned jobs. The Marketing duo came up with Reliabuilt as a convenient brand to work under, which we accepted. As for Rose, she quickly notified us of some incoming business.

From the email Melissa and I read, what was going on was pretty clear: The eponymous Bob of Fugly Bob's had gotten fed up with his soft serve and milkshake machines breaking all the time, and the ongoing maintenance contract with their manufacturer had just expired. He was willing to pay us four times the going price for a replacement that would be much less cantankerous, and a lot easier to fix if it did break.

My jaw dropped. That was a price of forty thousand dollars per machine. Between the two of them, those transactions would go a long way towards getting our business firmly up and rolling.

As soon as I was done reading, I paged Rose.

"Rose?"
"Yes Emmy?"

"Ruggedizer's decided to take the job for Fugly Bob's. Can you let them know we're working on it? Please also contact the FDA so we can get some pointers on meeting legal requirements for food service machinery."

"On it."

And with that, Melissa got to work.

---

By Wednesday, we'd gotten the machines for Fugly Bob's made. Still, they needed to be inspected; both Fugly Bob himself and a small team from the FDA were coming over to take a look.

As it so happens, both parties of interest arrived at the same time. I quickly ushered them to the space where the new confection machines were waiting. Both of them had "ReliabuiltTM" stamped into their frontal plate.

Bob was the first to make a comment on both the machines, noting

"Well, they're a tiny bit bigger than I would like, but I can make room for them."

As for the FDA inspectors, they opened up the casing on both machines and took a look. They asked their questions, expressed mild incredulity at just how many redundancies got crammed in there, shined a UV light around to check for non-obvious microbial growths, the works.

Eventually, the lead inspector was ready to deliver his verdict.

"Ruggedizer, you've done the single most thorough job making sure microbes can't grow in there of anyone I've ever seen, even aside from all the other features designed to ensure absolute reliability of the overall system. Seriously, even if any ten different things went wrong at once, these machines would still meet food safety requirements. These milkshake and ice cream machines pass inspection."

Bob nodded,

"Right. I've got a rented truck waiting to bring these back to my restaurant. Good work. How would you like to be paid?"

Melissa answered, "Quickly, please."

Bob actually laughed.

---

We got a few more orders for specialty equipment during the first half of December. Subtracting taxes, we'd just about hit a million dollars of total revenue by the eighteenth of the month. That's when we made a breakthrough in our teleportation research.

We still couldn't quite teleport any object larger than a pea, but we'd made a major advance in Energy Teleportation: a pair of machines that could hook up to the electrical grid, and transfer large amounts of electricity with minimal losses. It had the potential to utterly revolutionize quite a bit about the world's energy infrastructure... provided we could legally patent it. Which required that it be reproducible.

Well, we strictly speaking sent the energy teleporters in for evaluation on the eleventh. But we didn't hear back about them until the eighteenth. And much to the shock of everyone involved, some engineers working for the PRT had managed to build a vaguely worthwhile energy teleporter. It wasn't up to the standards of our unit... but it proved we were elligible for the patent.

The instant Melissa heard the news, she came frighteningly close to cracking one of my ribs with her hug.