Standard Disclaimer: Worm belongs to Wildbow; blah, blah, blah - you know the drill...
Contamination Rating: Severe (Worm, SI)
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1.1
Standard Disclaimer: Worm belongs to Wildbow; blah, blah, blah - you know the drill.
Contamination Rating: Severe 1.1
The minute Behemoth hit New Orleans the PRT immediately contacted local hospitals in order to deal with the incoming casualties. It was a process both quick and efficient after years of dealing with the Endbringers, and while most of the staff weren't willing to turn away from the safety of the shelters, some consented to remain. Ultimately, it was a decision which would cost them their life.
Slowly - with magma sloughing off his form - the Herokiller emerged from the earth. Digging his black claws into the fragile concrete beneath him, he heaved himself free of the mantle and announced his arrival with a roar. Buildings shook. Others collapsed. Among them were two of the hospitals which had been preparing to receive the wounded.
"Scapegoat down C-12. Medicinal down C-12. Wrack down C-8. Fallback points three and five, annihilated," Dragon reported from half a dozen armbands. Given to us when we reached the headquarters of the Salt Lake City Protectorate, we were just about to teleport in when the grim appraisal arrived.
"Shit," Strider cursed, his back tense beneath his armor. Lowering his hands from their position high above his head, he depressed one of the buttons on his bracer and struggled to keep his cool.
"Dragon," he bit out, his voice hoarse and a little shaky. "I need a new exit point for the second wave of healers. Where do you want me to take them?"
The six of us stood in silence, while the machine rerouted his call. "...Take them to the Tulane parking lot," she replied, distracted by the ongoing fight. "The PRT have just informed me that they're arranging something there." Passing the co-ordinates along with a quiet beep, Strider shifted on the rooftop, and then forced himself to calm down.
"...Fuck it," he breathed out. "Next stop: Tulane."
Gesturing towards the ground once more, a bark of thunder filled my ears, and I felt myself get torn from the world. Tossing; turning - it felt like we were being propelled through a river of mud; however, with regards to our speed or direction, I couldn't have said. Overwhelmed by the sensations assaulting me, it was all I could do to block the trip out until we finally reappeared by the curb. One cape just hit the ground and threw up.
"Sorry," the villain muttered, before spitting off to the side. A dark haired Changer with a thick tail, his chest was covered by a layer of bone and his fingers were abnormally long.
Dr. FeelGood - another cape who appeared rather ill - merely gave him a wary look. "Is that...?"
"Toxic?" I finished for the healer, my gaze catching his own. "Yeah. Try not to step in it."
Well... that was a bit of a lie. Based upon the smell, the viscosity and the way it was going at the pavement, it was more likely to be caustic, than poisonous. I could have spoken up and corrected the impression I'd left; however, by the same token, I don't think anyone cared. Heck, even the Changer let it lie; instead, he just gave me an ugly glare, as though I'd offered him some sort of insult.
'Prick,' I returned silently, the curse a little too uncomfortable for my tongue. Scowling at the villain and the rolling sensation in my stomach, I abandoned our impromptu clash in order to follow the crowd towards the street.
Two black vans were waiting for us. Weighed down with both men and equipment, one was still sporting the sprayer which had become iconic for their forces, while the other had been stripped away to make room for several metal poles. Eyeing them curiously as we approached, I wondered what they'd brought them for, until a trooper climbed out of the cab.
"You the capes we were told to meet?" he asked, before checking the read-out on his armband. "We've got a tent and some supplies, but if you require anything more specific, now would be the time to mention it."
Brushing off the trooper's question, since I wasn't all that dependent, I twisted my neck to the side and watched a trio disembark. Climbing up the ladder above the van's right, rear tire, they removed the railings from their ties and began screwing them together. Meanwhile, a fourth ducked through the rear doors with a large, steel gun in his hand.
'Thu-thump,' it echoed alarmingly, as a metal spike drilled into the earth. Repeating the procedure at a number of points spread throughout the parking lot, the officer swiftly set the stakes for the structure slowly taking shape.
"How big will the tent be?" Dr. FeelGood questioned in concern. "If it's too large, I'll run into problems getting the material to accept my power."
The PRT agent hummed as he scratched at the hair on his chin. "Maybe twelve meters by nine? I think that's what the box said."
Hissing that the dimensions were 'far too big,' I ignored Dr. FeelGood's aggravation and continued to contemplate the gun. That design... it was beginning to give me an idea; if I stripped away the marrow to a man's ulna and reinforced the bone with a mesh, I could convert the forward half of his arm into a powerful, pneumatic piledriver. It wouldn't be perfect, since the modifications would cause rot to slowly develop; however, even once it'd turned green, the weapon would still work quite well.
Chewing on my bottom lip, I had to fight the compulsion to get started.
"Hey, Blondie!" our liaison officer called out. "What are you rated for?"
Grateful for the distraction, I finally shook the urge off. "Priority three," I yelled back, my eyes drifting towards the handle of my bag. "Maybe priority two, if I can repurpose some of the bodies."
Frowning at the grim reminder, I recalled the serums in my case and the tools I had not yet built. At her best, my namesake could revive the dead. Not well perhaps, but she'd done it. Compared to the restoratives I'd spent the last three months preparing, I felt distinctly second rate.
'Well frick her,' I decided with a quiet, unvoiced growl. I was here; she wasn't - and to the best of my knowledge she never had been. I was basically competing with a ghost, and the entire idea was silly. All that mattered were the capes who would soon be arriving and making sure they all survived the fight. Anything else was just arrogance. Thus, after pasting a smile onto my face, I waited for the tent to rise up and shifted my hands on my case. It was time to get to work.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
The first person to find himself coked up on my slab was a dark haired Brute from the Protectorate South-North-East. A 'home-town hero,' so to speak, he was known for doing a few lectures regarding the gangs and how to stay safe. Pity he couldn't practice what he preached. Bleeding from a piece of rebar which had been lodged into his stomach, his arm was missing below the elbow and his legs were covered in burns. In short? He looked like crap.
'Crip? Crack? Crud? Crud,' I corrected myself, my hands hovering over his wounds. Gripped by a sense of dissonance at the uncharacteristic thought, I had found my fingers fumbling, before a sense of certainty slowly returned.
'That was a close one,' I cursed, before trimming the ragged edge of his stump. Unable to decide if I was Alice pretending to be Bonesaw, or Bonesaw pretending to be Alice, my mind had frozen up, while a white, hot pain began to radiate from my corona. Experience had taught me that such fits would fade with time; however, in the short term, access to my powers would be curtailed by my passenger's confused spasms. I wouldn't be helpless - not really, but I still wouldn't have access to at least half of my shard: specifically, the half which contained Bonesaw's memories.
Even with the aid of superpowers, do you know how long it took me to get from basic theory to a working prototype? Days; weeks - sometimes months. According to my new knowledge, Bonesaw had spent almost two years designing the subsystems to all of her spider bots, and while I possessed the same foundation from which she too had begun, I had little desire to repeat her mistakes. Thus, wouldn't it be easier if I just... stood on the shoulders of my predecessor? Heck, scientists did it all the time. It was weird and broken and something in my passenger protested it fiercely; however, you could say those words were just as good for describing my second take on life. Weird, broken and sharply protested; I guess I was a parahuman, after all.
Frowning at the depressing turn my thoughts were trying to take, I reached into my handbag and removed a small, white pill. Then, after popping it into my mouth, I held it beneath my tongue and waited for its contents to dissolve. Slowly my mood perked up; finally, with a grin at the paralyzed cape, I gestured at the beam in his stomach. "I don't know about you, but I think it's about time we pulled that bad boy out."
The cape gurgled softly in reply.
"You're darn right," I returned, despite having failed to understand a word. "Let me just make some room, and I'm sure it'll slide free in a jiffy."
The sound of one of his ribs breaking split the hot, summer air. Then, once I'd shifted the loose bit of bone to the side, I got a decent look at the mess which was waiting for me to fix. The smile on my face became a frown. Whoever had cut him free had been a complete dum-dum about it! What - did they think that just because he'd fought Behemoth, he wouldn't be bothered by a little heat? They should have used raw force! Now, instead of a quick, clean operation, his flesh was fused to bits of the rail! Heck, his intestinal track looked more like a pancake which had been left too long on the stove.
"What were they thinking?" I hissed quietly, the blade of my scalpel sliding forward. Cutting away at the damaged tissue, I focused my attention on the gristle in order to ignore the inadequacy of my tools. This would all be so much simpler if I had access to my full kit. Over the years, Burnscar had hurt a lot of people Jack had wanted to keep alive, and though it kind of went against branding, I'd gained a lot of experience cleaning up after her tantrums.
'A bit of wiring; a decent chassis; some slightly used grey-matter.' It wouldn't take much - not a hack job like I was considering, but it would make cutting him loose a far less troublesome affair.
"Aannndd, it's out," I announced, before swiftly sowing him up. "Normally, I'd have to deal with the blood loss, but I'm pretty sure your power can compensate. Or did you want to go back out? It'd be a bit hard on your body, but your stitches should be able to handle it."
The cape stayed silent, his hands twitching on the cheap, plastic table. "Oh, right," I exclaimed, my palm slapping against my forehead. "I forgot to take you off the meds."
"This is why I don't use painkillers," I muttered, in between digging through my bag. "They always muck up the details."
Searching through the satchel's contents, I tried to find the antidote, but I couldn't seem to remember where I put it. I mean, I did make an antidote, right? Why wouldn't I make an antidote to my own anesthesia? Had I just planned to let it wear off, or...
I pushed my disquiet aside, before removing serum A-6. Either way, I could improvise a pick-me-up in a pinch, and while not its intended purpose, the vial in my hand would get him moving. Heck, provided I didn't flub the dose, he wouldn't even notice the side-effects.
"Now, you're going to feel a slight pinch," I told him, before filling up the syringe. Leaning over his chest, I jabbed him beneath the chin and smoothly depressed the plunger. His pulse rapidly grew frantic, as the solution headed towards his brain.
'Hmmm,' I thought to myself, when his body began to shake on the slab. 'That wasn't supposed to happen.' I mean, A-6 was just an all purpose stimulant. Some methamphetamine, a few things for flavor... it could have been caused by the painkillers already floating around in his system, but somehow that didn't seem like the root. At any rate, eventually, the tremors began to settle down and he appeared to be in decent enough health. Delaying investigation of the problem until I had a better set of tools, I waved for one of the PRT agents to come over and help me move him onto a cot.
"So much to do; so little time." It wasn't an ideal situation, but if Jack had taught me anything, it was how to work under pressure. Signaling for the liaison to send another patient my way, I cataloged his injuries with a glance and reached into my bag with a grin.
Contamination Rating: Severe 1.1
The minute Behemoth hit New Orleans the PRT immediately contacted local hospitals in order to deal with the incoming casualties. It was a process both quick and efficient after years of dealing with the Endbringers, and while most of the staff weren't willing to turn away from the safety of the shelters, some consented to remain. Ultimately, it was a decision which would cost them their life.
Slowly - with magma sloughing off his form - the Herokiller emerged from the earth. Digging his black claws into the fragile concrete beneath him, he heaved himself free of the mantle and announced his arrival with a roar. Buildings shook. Others collapsed. Among them were two of the hospitals which had been preparing to receive the wounded.
"Scapegoat down C-12. Medicinal down C-12. Wrack down C-8. Fallback points three and five, annihilated," Dragon reported from half a dozen armbands. Given to us when we reached the headquarters of the Salt Lake City Protectorate, we were just about to teleport in when the grim appraisal arrived.
"Shit," Strider cursed, his back tense beneath his armor. Lowering his hands from their position high above his head, he depressed one of the buttons on his bracer and struggled to keep his cool.
"Dragon," he bit out, his voice hoarse and a little shaky. "I need a new exit point for the second wave of healers. Where do you want me to take them?"
The six of us stood in silence, while the machine rerouted his call. "...Take them to the Tulane parking lot," she replied, distracted by the ongoing fight. "The PRT have just informed me that they're arranging something there." Passing the co-ordinates along with a quiet beep, Strider shifted on the rooftop, and then forced himself to calm down.
"...Fuck it," he breathed out. "Next stop: Tulane."
Gesturing towards the ground once more, a bark of thunder filled my ears, and I felt myself get torn from the world. Tossing; turning - it felt like we were being propelled through a river of mud; however, with regards to our speed or direction, I couldn't have said. Overwhelmed by the sensations assaulting me, it was all I could do to block the trip out until we finally reappeared by the curb. One cape just hit the ground and threw up.
"Sorry," the villain muttered, before spitting off to the side. A dark haired Changer with a thick tail, his chest was covered by a layer of bone and his fingers were abnormally long.
Dr. FeelGood - another cape who appeared rather ill - merely gave him a wary look. "Is that...?"
"Toxic?" I finished for the healer, my gaze catching his own. "Yeah. Try not to step in it."
Well... that was a bit of a lie. Based upon the smell, the viscosity and the way it was going at the pavement, it was more likely to be caustic, than poisonous. I could have spoken up and corrected the impression I'd left; however, by the same token, I don't think anyone cared. Heck, even the Changer let it lie; instead, he just gave me an ugly glare, as though I'd offered him some sort of insult.
'Prick,' I returned silently, the curse a little too uncomfortable for my tongue. Scowling at the villain and the rolling sensation in my stomach, I abandoned our impromptu clash in order to follow the crowd towards the street.
Two black vans were waiting for us. Weighed down with both men and equipment, one was still sporting the sprayer which had become iconic for their forces, while the other had been stripped away to make room for several metal poles. Eyeing them curiously as we approached, I wondered what they'd brought them for, until a trooper climbed out of the cab.
"You the capes we were told to meet?" he asked, before checking the read-out on his armband. "We've got a tent and some supplies, but if you require anything more specific, now would be the time to mention it."
Brushing off the trooper's question, since I wasn't all that dependent, I twisted my neck to the side and watched a trio disembark. Climbing up the ladder above the van's right, rear tire, they removed the railings from their ties and began screwing them together. Meanwhile, a fourth ducked through the rear doors with a large, steel gun in his hand.
'Thu-thump,' it echoed alarmingly, as a metal spike drilled into the earth. Repeating the procedure at a number of points spread throughout the parking lot, the officer swiftly set the stakes for the structure slowly taking shape.
"How big will the tent be?" Dr. FeelGood questioned in concern. "If it's too large, I'll run into problems getting the material to accept my power."
The PRT agent hummed as he scratched at the hair on his chin. "Maybe twelve meters by nine? I think that's what the box said."
Hissing that the dimensions were 'far too big,' I ignored Dr. FeelGood's aggravation and continued to contemplate the gun. That design... it was beginning to give me an idea; if I stripped away the marrow to a man's ulna and reinforced the bone with a mesh, I could convert the forward half of his arm into a powerful, pneumatic piledriver. It wouldn't be perfect, since the modifications would cause rot to slowly develop; however, even once it'd turned green, the weapon would still work quite well.
Chewing on my bottom lip, I had to fight the compulsion to get started.
"Hey, Blondie!" our liaison officer called out. "What are you rated for?"
Grateful for the distraction, I finally shook the urge off. "Priority three," I yelled back, my eyes drifting towards the handle of my bag. "Maybe priority two, if I can repurpose some of the bodies."
Frowning at the grim reminder, I recalled the serums in my case and the tools I had not yet built. At her best, my namesake could revive the dead. Not well perhaps, but she'd done it. Compared to the restoratives I'd spent the last three months preparing, I felt distinctly second rate.
'Well frick her,' I decided with a quiet, unvoiced growl. I was here; she wasn't - and to the best of my knowledge she never had been. I was basically competing with a ghost, and the entire idea was silly. All that mattered were the capes who would soon be arriving and making sure they all survived the fight. Anything else was just arrogance. Thus, after pasting a smile onto my face, I waited for the tent to rise up and shifted my hands on my case. It was time to get to work.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
The first person to find himself coked up on my slab was a dark haired Brute from the Protectorate South-North-East. A 'home-town hero,' so to speak, he was known for doing a few lectures regarding the gangs and how to stay safe. Pity he couldn't practice what he preached. Bleeding from a piece of rebar which had been lodged into his stomach, his arm was missing below the elbow and his legs were covered in burns. In short? He looked like crap.
'Crip? Crack? Crud? Crud,' I corrected myself, my hands hovering over his wounds. Gripped by a sense of dissonance at the uncharacteristic thought, I had found my fingers fumbling, before a sense of certainty slowly returned.
'That was a close one,' I cursed, before trimming the ragged edge of his stump. Unable to decide if I was Alice pretending to be Bonesaw, or Bonesaw pretending to be Alice, my mind had frozen up, while a white, hot pain began to radiate from my corona. Experience had taught me that such fits would fade with time; however, in the short term, access to my powers would be curtailed by my passenger's confused spasms. I wouldn't be helpless - not really, but I still wouldn't have access to at least half of my shard: specifically, the half which contained Bonesaw's memories.
Even with the aid of superpowers, do you know how long it took me to get from basic theory to a working prototype? Days; weeks - sometimes months. According to my new knowledge, Bonesaw had spent almost two years designing the subsystems to all of her spider bots, and while I possessed the same foundation from which she too had begun, I had little desire to repeat her mistakes. Thus, wouldn't it be easier if I just... stood on the shoulders of my predecessor? Heck, scientists did it all the time. It was weird and broken and something in my passenger protested it fiercely; however, you could say those words were just as good for describing my second take on life. Weird, broken and sharply protested; I guess I was a parahuman, after all.
Frowning at the depressing turn my thoughts were trying to take, I reached into my handbag and removed a small, white pill. Then, after popping it into my mouth, I held it beneath my tongue and waited for its contents to dissolve. Slowly my mood perked up; finally, with a grin at the paralyzed cape, I gestured at the beam in his stomach. "I don't know about you, but I think it's about time we pulled that bad boy out."
The cape gurgled softly in reply.
"You're darn right," I returned, despite having failed to understand a word. "Let me just make some room, and I'm sure it'll slide free in a jiffy."
The sound of one of his ribs breaking split the hot, summer air. Then, once I'd shifted the loose bit of bone to the side, I got a decent look at the mess which was waiting for me to fix. The smile on my face became a frown. Whoever had cut him free had been a complete dum-dum about it! What - did they think that just because he'd fought Behemoth, he wouldn't be bothered by a little heat? They should have used raw force! Now, instead of a quick, clean operation, his flesh was fused to bits of the rail! Heck, his intestinal track looked more like a pancake which had been left too long on the stove.
"What were they thinking?" I hissed quietly, the blade of my scalpel sliding forward. Cutting away at the damaged tissue, I focused my attention on the gristle in order to ignore the inadequacy of my tools. This would all be so much simpler if I had access to my full kit. Over the years, Burnscar had hurt a lot of people Jack had wanted to keep alive, and though it kind of went against branding, I'd gained a lot of experience cleaning up after her tantrums.
'A bit of wiring; a decent chassis; some slightly used grey-matter.' It wouldn't take much - not a hack job like I was considering, but it would make cutting him loose a far less troublesome affair.
"Aannndd, it's out," I announced, before swiftly sowing him up. "Normally, I'd have to deal with the blood loss, but I'm pretty sure your power can compensate. Or did you want to go back out? It'd be a bit hard on your body, but your stitches should be able to handle it."
The cape stayed silent, his hands twitching on the cheap, plastic table. "Oh, right," I exclaimed, my palm slapping against my forehead. "I forgot to take you off the meds."
"This is why I don't use painkillers," I muttered, in between digging through my bag. "They always muck up the details."
Searching through the satchel's contents, I tried to find the antidote, but I couldn't seem to remember where I put it. I mean, I did make an antidote, right? Why wouldn't I make an antidote to my own anesthesia? Had I just planned to let it wear off, or...
I pushed my disquiet aside, before removing serum A-6. Either way, I could improvise a pick-me-up in a pinch, and while not its intended purpose, the vial in my hand would get him moving. Heck, provided I didn't flub the dose, he wouldn't even notice the side-effects.
"Now, you're going to feel a slight pinch," I told him, before filling up the syringe. Leaning over his chest, I jabbed him beneath the chin and smoothly depressed the plunger. His pulse rapidly grew frantic, as the solution headed towards his brain.
'Hmmm,' I thought to myself, when his body began to shake on the slab. 'That wasn't supposed to happen.' I mean, A-6 was just an all purpose stimulant. Some methamphetamine, a few things for flavor... it could have been caused by the painkillers already floating around in his system, but somehow that didn't seem like the root. At any rate, eventually, the tremors began to settle down and he appeared to be in decent enough health. Delaying investigation of the problem until I had a better set of tools, I waved for one of the PRT agents to come over and help me move him onto a cot.
"So much to do; so little time." It wasn't an ideal situation, but if Jack had taught me anything, it was how to work under pressure. Signaling for the liaison to send another patient my way, I cataloged his injuries with a glance and reached into my bag with a grin.
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1.2
1.2
By my sixth patient, my smile was falling apart. By my eighth? It had disappeared completely. Personally, I wanted to blame that on my dwindling supplies, as it'd make me sound like a kinder person; however, that wasn't the real reason. Instead, it was largely due to the drug which was rapidly leaving my system. Designed to minimize my B-Response, so there wouldn't be much of a hangover, I'd put a decent amount of time into its development, but it still had a ways to go. Exhaustion; dehydration; muscle tremors. The side-effects were numerous, but to summarize: I felt like crud.
"I'm out," I signaled to our liaison with a vague gesture at my bag. "Unless you can get me a chemical lab, you could probably do a better job yourself."
The PRT agent, a heavy-set man in tactical armor, blinked in surprise at the admission. "Well, you'd be the one to know," he told me with a quiet, southern drawl. "I'll see if I can scrounge something up, but until then, consider yourself relieved."
Waving my hand to acknowledge the sudden shift in my status, I walked over to rest by the wall with the only other cape on 'break.'
"Giving up?" she asked with a bored look in her eyes. Tapping her thumbs against her biceps as she watched the others work, Wellspring might have said it casually enough, but she'd definitely meant it as an insult.
I... tried not to pick a fight. Instead, I folded my legs beneath me and took a seat on the canvas covered ground. Moving my bag into my lap, so it'd be out from under foot, I rested my head against its side and waited for my stomach to unknot.
"Tch," the woman scowled, her nose curling up in disgust. The leader of the Protectorate North-North-West, she cut a striking enough figure in her costume, but I couldn't say much for her attitude. Eager for a fight and showing it, I figured it was a small miracle she hadn't gotten thrown from the tent.
'Must be because she's tired,' I decided, studying the busty brunette. A Striker with a temporal power, her shtick was the ability to undo damage, provided it'd been done within the last five minutes. Forced to work on a kind of currency system by her passenger, I heard she only had so many applications, and that it'd be best to send the hard patients her way. Whether that was her pride talking, or just a poorly worded bit of pragmatism, I couldn't have said; however, after sitting here and watching her fume, I was willing to bet it was the former.
"You got something to say?" she huffed, glancing down at my form. "Fucking say it already, Christ. You're worse than the little ankle biters chasing me around back in Boise."
'Yeah?' I griped silently. Were they getting paid to walk the dog?
The sentiment was fairly crude considering Bonesaw's standard of behavior, and though I knew she'd said far worse, my passenger still made me pay for the insult. 'Worth it,' I shot back, while I warmed my hands by its anger. Then, ducking my head until my hair obscured my face, I gave her a 'cherubic' grin and let her draw her own conclusions.
She took it in the worst way possible. "Fucking cunt," she hissed, her hand groping for her belt. Hooking her fingers around the grip to a small, tinkertech pistol, the weapon had been designed to look comical, but I bet it could put a hole through my head.
"Hey, no fighting!" our liaison angrily called out. Stomping over to our half of the tent, he looked between Wellspring and myself, before focusing on the location of her hand. "I want you to think real hard about whatever it is you were about to do."
The hero just bared her teeth. 'Nothing which couldn't be fixed,' her eyes seemed to scream back. Unfortunately - since she wasn't an idiot - she kept the comment to herself; however, the trooper must have sensed her intent, because he nodded towards my face with his chin. "Do you even know who she is?"
The cape slowly shook her head.
"Me neither," he told her grimly, before folding his arms across his chest. "Kind of makes me wonder what this mess is even about. Certainly can't be bad blood."
'So don't try to use that as an excuse.' He didn't come right out and say it, but we could both read between the lines.
Maybe... maybe if I'd been part of a gang, the three of us would be having a different conversation. Lung and Kaiser? They could get into a pissing match without threatening to damage the truce. It would never be endorsed by the establishment, but allowances would always be made.
Wellspring and myself? We weren't villains - not officially, anyway. Heck, the two of us had never even met, so she couldn't exactly cite 'high tensions' and expect her answer to cut it. Forced to chew on that conclusion as she stared the trooper down, the Striker finally backed off and looked like she'd eaten something foul.
"What's your name?" she asked, hating every word she spoke.
I returned her glare tit for tat. "Bonesaw," I answered flatly, the sobriquet so natural you'd think it was my own.
Wellspring repeated it once or twice. "I'll remember it," she told me, before turning and walking away. The start of an 'excuse' for the next time we met, I didn't think she'd violate the truce, but it'd be a good idea to stay out of Boise. If I dropped by, I might just get caught 'resisting' her so-called arrest. 'So sad,' she'd say. 'Very unfortunate.' Wouldn't it just be great that her power could 'heal' all my injuries?
'Overindulged piece of sugar.' The liaison watched her walk away, though at least he had the good grace not to stare at her butt while he did it.
"The same goes for you," he continued, after the hero had stepped into the street. "Don't start shit; don't end shit, and if you have a problem go take it out on Behemoth. We clear?"
I gave him an apathetic thumbs up and received a sharp snort in reply. Then, after taking one last look around to see if anyone else had an issue, our liaison walked back to the entrance and the rest of the wounded outside.
'That... could have gone better,' I decided, still feeling a rush from the fight. Glancing away from the door as another cape limped by, I spent the next few minutes clearing my head and trying to shake the spite off my tongue.
It was difficult to recall why I'd come.
'Because bio-tinkers get a bullet to the brain,' I repeated, the mantra painfully familiar. Between Nilbog, Lab-Rat and Cauldron, that particular cup had long since been poisoned. They wouldn't slap me with a kill order just for having my power, but by the same token, they would be watching me carefully with their finger wrapped around the trigger. Coming here as my first official act as a cape? It sent a certain message. I hoped to build some good will by reminding people of the positives; however, that confrontation might have damaged my case.
"...I need to get some air," I muttered, while I fought off a brief flash of panic. Pushing myself up, I walked over to the tent's flap and checked to see if Wellspring was still around. Then, once I was sure my new nemesis had left, I ducked beneath the limp overhang and stepped out into hell itself.
Lightning flashed. The earth shook. The very air seemed to threaten to crush me. Beyond the aging buildings which made up the French Quarter, Behemoth stood submerged in the river, his aura going full blast.
He looked a bit like the Challenger right before it blew up. Covered by a thick cloak of fog, due to the boiling banks of the Mississippi, a few capes tried to force him towards the shore; however, there weren't many who could take the punishment. Legend: a dark, blue light which ducked in and out with impunity; Alexandria: immune by virtue of her power. There had to have been others, obscured by the great distance; however, if there were, I couldn't make them out from my position a mile away. Even the two I could were only due to my armband and its unending tide of information.
"Hardhat deceased, F-7. Hookwolf deceased, F-7. Capacitor down, F-7. Please clear the area for incoming ordnance." The Blasters gave our forces a few seconds to make way, and then filled the city with color.
Frost beams; heat rays; zones of twisted space. Our forces gave physics the middle finger and the world cried out like we were raping it. The Endbringer, though? He just didn't care. Behemoth took the entire cacophony to the chest and barely stumbled back a few steps.
"So this is the Herokiller," I muttered, while I watched him swat a cape from the sky. "Hard to believe he's real."
Standing both head and shoulders above any of the surrounding buildings, I could hear his every scream in my stomach and feel his every foot step in my toes. Back home, when he'd only been words on a page, Dubai had seemed over the top. I mean, according to Wildbow, this was the monster who had tanked the shot which shook India. 'Wanked' didn't quite cover it.
Now, though? Staring at his slate, black hide as the city around us burned? I felt like he'd failed to do him justice. To my terrified mind, the Herokiller was more than just a rip-off Godzilla or some sort of half-baked angel: he was a living natural disaster.
"...And I came here to fight him." I whispered, stunned by the extent of my folly. "I must've been high at the time."
My armband seemed to agree with me. "Eidolon down, F-7. Second Wind deceased, F-7. Calamity down, F-7. Retreat to Fall Back Point Eight."
Tiredly recalling the list of rally points outlined during the briefing, I tried to remember which was number eight and felt myself draw a blank. "Clarify," I requested, after holding down a button. "Where is rally point eight?"
There was a faint whir in my armband as the computer's fan kicked in. "Fall Back Point Eight is located on the south side of the Interstate near the off-ramp to Route 61. Please be advised that untested tinkertech weaponry has been deployed along the highway."
"Untested?" I asked, a weight settling into my stomach. "Please define untested."
My armband didn't respond for a moment, and then just repeated the previous phrase. Realizing that it didn't have an answer or simply couldn't produce one, I stopped pestering the A.I. and glanced at the hospital behind my back.
...This city was fucked. Even if Golden-Cthulu managed to make it to the fight, I knew there wouldn't be any parades waiting in our future. Heck, we'd be lucky to impersonate Chernobyl given our showing so far. Between the shattered buildings, the molten streets and the radiation fouling the river, it'd be years before the city was livable, and that was a best case scenario. Better, I thought, to go get something done - especially while everyone was too distracted to stand over my shoulder and complain.
The only problem? It'd mean taking another pill. Digging into the pocket of my satchel, I pulled out a small, orange bottle and the numerous capsules within. Ichigo had his bankai, Homura had her soul gem and me? I had about eight thousand milligrams of off-brand crystal meth.
'I need to make a better happy pill,' I decided, before unscrewing the child-proof lid. Then, after placing one on my tongue, I relocated the bottle to my pocket and waited for the drug to kick in.
"There we go," I breathed, when I finally felt my passenger relax. Convinced it was attached to the right parahuman for once, the memories came fast and fluid, while I began writing up a list.
Cash... chemicals... corpses. The alliteration made me smile, and amidst my growing high, I could remembered when Burnscar had joined. She used to act so 'thug,' before she learned how the Nine chose to operate. She had this habit...what was it... something she used to call people before Jack took us down through Mexico...
"Pendejo," I exclaimed, with a sudden snap of my fingers. She used to call everyone pendejo. Then, Crawler had eaten his way through the East Suns, and she'd stopped using it altogether. Still, it had definitely been fun while it lasted.
"Pendejo," I repeated, a skip slowly entering my step. "Pendejo. Pendejo. What does that even mean?" Chewing on my bottom lip, I realized I'd never gotten an answer to that question. Usually, whenever I thought to ask, big sister would just ruffle my hair and give me this toothy grin.
...I missed that grin. I missed big sis. Feeling a frown tug at my lips, I dug out the bottle from my pocket and stared at the writing on the label.
...One more probably wouldn't hurt. Placing it beneath my tongue, I pressed it against my gum-line and waited for the pill to dissolve.
"Pendejo," I continued to lisp sullenly, as the drug took forever to breakdown. "Pendejo. Pendejo."
" ...Stupid pendejo."
By my sixth patient, my smile was falling apart. By my eighth? It had disappeared completely. Personally, I wanted to blame that on my dwindling supplies, as it'd make me sound like a kinder person; however, that wasn't the real reason. Instead, it was largely due to the drug which was rapidly leaving my system. Designed to minimize my B-Response, so there wouldn't be much of a hangover, I'd put a decent amount of time into its development, but it still had a ways to go. Exhaustion; dehydration; muscle tremors. The side-effects were numerous, but to summarize: I felt like crud.
"I'm out," I signaled to our liaison with a vague gesture at my bag. "Unless you can get me a chemical lab, you could probably do a better job yourself."
The PRT agent, a heavy-set man in tactical armor, blinked in surprise at the admission. "Well, you'd be the one to know," he told me with a quiet, southern drawl. "I'll see if I can scrounge something up, but until then, consider yourself relieved."
Waving my hand to acknowledge the sudden shift in my status, I walked over to rest by the wall with the only other cape on 'break.'
"Giving up?" she asked with a bored look in her eyes. Tapping her thumbs against her biceps as she watched the others work, Wellspring might have said it casually enough, but she'd definitely meant it as an insult.
I... tried not to pick a fight. Instead, I folded my legs beneath me and took a seat on the canvas covered ground. Moving my bag into my lap, so it'd be out from under foot, I rested my head against its side and waited for my stomach to unknot.
"Tch," the woman scowled, her nose curling up in disgust. The leader of the Protectorate North-North-West, she cut a striking enough figure in her costume, but I couldn't say much for her attitude. Eager for a fight and showing it, I figured it was a small miracle she hadn't gotten thrown from the tent.
'Must be because she's tired,' I decided, studying the busty brunette. A Striker with a temporal power, her shtick was the ability to undo damage, provided it'd been done within the last five minutes. Forced to work on a kind of currency system by her passenger, I heard she only had so many applications, and that it'd be best to send the hard patients her way. Whether that was her pride talking, or just a poorly worded bit of pragmatism, I couldn't have said; however, after sitting here and watching her fume, I was willing to bet it was the former.
"You got something to say?" she huffed, glancing down at my form. "Fucking say it already, Christ. You're worse than the little ankle biters chasing me around back in Boise."
'Yeah?' I griped silently. Were they getting paid to walk the dog?
The sentiment was fairly crude considering Bonesaw's standard of behavior, and though I knew she'd said far worse, my passenger still made me pay for the insult. 'Worth it,' I shot back, while I warmed my hands by its anger. Then, ducking my head until my hair obscured my face, I gave her a 'cherubic' grin and let her draw her own conclusions.
She took it in the worst way possible. "Fucking cunt," she hissed, her hand groping for her belt. Hooking her fingers around the grip to a small, tinkertech pistol, the weapon had been designed to look comical, but I bet it could put a hole through my head.
"Hey, no fighting!" our liaison angrily called out. Stomping over to our half of the tent, he looked between Wellspring and myself, before focusing on the location of her hand. "I want you to think real hard about whatever it is you were about to do."
The hero just bared her teeth. 'Nothing which couldn't be fixed,' her eyes seemed to scream back. Unfortunately - since she wasn't an idiot - she kept the comment to herself; however, the trooper must have sensed her intent, because he nodded towards my face with his chin. "Do you even know who she is?"
The cape slowly shook her head.
"Me neither," he told her grimly, before folding his arms across his chest. "Kind of makes me wonder what this mess is even about. Certainly can't be bad blood."
'So don't try to use that as an excuse.' He didn't come right out and say it, but we could both read between the lines.
Maybe... maybe if I'd been part of a gang, the three of us would be having a different conversation. Lung and Kaiser? They could get into a pissing match without threatening to damage the truce. It would never be endorsed by the establishment, but allowances would always be made.
Wellspring and myself? We weren't villains - not officially, anyway. Heck, the two of us had never even met, so she couldn't exactly cite 'high tensions' and expect her answer to cut it. Forced to chew on that conclusion as she stared the trooper down, the Striker finally backed off and looked like she'd eaten something foul.
"What's your name?" she asked, hating every word she spoke.
I returned her glare tit for tat. "Bonesaw," I answered flatly, the sobriquet so natural you'd think it was my own.
Wellspring repeated it once or twice. "I'll remember it," she told me, before turning and walking away. The start of an 'excuse' for the next time we met, I didn't think she'd violate the truce, but it'd be a good idea to stay out of Boise. If I dropped by, I might just get caught 'resisting' her so-called arrest. 'So sad,' she'd say. 'Very unfortunate.' Wouldn't it just be great that her power could 'heal' all my injuries?
'Overindulged piece of sugar.' The liaison watched her walk away, though at least he had the good grace not to stare at her butt while he did it.
"The same goes for you," he continued, after the hero had stepped into the street. "Don't start shit; don't end shit, and if you have a problem go take it out on Behemoth. We clear?"
I gave him an apathetic thumbs up and received a sharp snort in reply. Then, after taking one last look around to see if anyone else had an issue, our liaison walked back to the entrance and the rest of the wounded outside.
'That... could have gone better,' I decided, still feeling a rush from the fight. Glancing away from the door as another cape limped by, I spent the next few minutes clearing my head and trying to shake the spite off my tongue.
It was difficult to recall why I'd come.
'Because bio-tinkers get a bullet to the brain,' I repeated, the mantra painfully familiar. Between Nilbog, Lab-Rat and Cauldron, that particular cup had long since been poisoned. They wouldn't slap me with a kill order just for having my power, but by the same token, they would be watching me carefully with their finger wrapped around the trigger. Coming here as my first official act as a cape? It sent a certain message. I hoped to build some good will by reminding people of the positives; however, that confrontation might have damaged my case.
"...I need to get some air," I muttered, while I fought off a brief flash of panic. Pushing myself up, I walked over to the tent's flap and checked to see if Wellspring was still around. Then, once I was sure my new nemesis had left, I ducked beneath the limp overhang and stepped out into hell itself.
Lightning flashed. The earth shook. The very air seemed to threaten to crush me. Beyond the aging buildings which made up the French Quarter, Behemoth stood submerged in the river, his aura going full blast.
He looked a bit like the Challenger right before it blew up. Covered by a thick cloak of fog, due to the boiling banks of the Mississippi, a few capes tried to force him towards the shore; however, there weren't many who could take the punishment. Legend: a dark, blue light which ducked in and out with impunity; Alexandria: immune by virtue of her power. There had to have been others, obscured by the great distance; however, if there were, I couldn't make them out from my position a mile away. Even the two I could were only due to my armband and its unending tide of information.
"Hardhat deceased, F-7. Hookwolf deceased, F-7. Capacitor down, F-7. Please clear the area for incoming ordnance." The Blasters gave our forces a few seconds to make way, and then filled the city with color.
Frost beams; heat rays; zones of twisted space. Our forces gave physics the middle finger and the world cried out like we were raping it. The Endbringer, though? He just didn't care. Behemoth took the entire cacophony to the chest and barely stumbled back a few steps.
"So this is the Herokiller," I muttered, while I watched him swat a cape from the sky. "Hard to believe he's real."
Standing both head and shoulders above any of the surrounding buildings, I could hear his every scream in my stomach and feel his every foot step in my toes. Back home, when he'd only been words on a page, Dubai had seemed over the top. I mean, according to Wildbow, this was the monster who had tanked the shot which shook India. 'Wanked' didn't quite cover it.
Now, though? Staring at his slate, black hide as the city around us burned? I felt like he'd failed to do him justice. To my terrified mind, the Herokiller was more than just a rip-off Godzilla or some sort of half-baked angel: he was a living natural disaster.
"...And I came here to fight him." I whispered, stunned by the extent of my folly. "I must've been high at the time."
My armband seemed to agree with me. "Eidolon down, F-7. Second Wind deceased, F-7. Calamity down, F-7. Retreat to Fall Back Point Eight."
Tiredly recalling the list of rally points outlined during the briefing, I tried to remember which was number eight and felt myself draw a blank. "Clarify," I requested, after holding down a button. "Where is rally point eight?"
There was a faint whir in my armband as the computer's fan kicked in. "Fall Back Point Eight is located on the south side of the Interstate near the off-ramp to Route 61. Please be advised that untested tinkertech weaponry has been deployed along the highway."
"Untested?" I asked, a weight settling into my stomach. "Please define untested."
My armband didn't respond for a moment, and then just repeated the previous phrase. Realizing that it didn't have an answer or simply couldn't produce one, I stopped pestering the A.I. and glanced at the hospital behind my back.
...This city was fucked. Even if Golden-Cthulu managed to make it to the fight, I knew there wouldn't be any parades waiting in our future. Heck, we'd be lucky to impersonate Chernobyl given our showing so far. Between the shattered buildings, the molten streets and the radiation fouling the river, it'd be years before the city was livable, and that was a best case scenario. Better, I thought, to go get something done - especially while everyone was too distracted to stand over my shoulder and complain.
The only problem? It'd mean taking another pill. Digging into the pocket of my satchel, I pulled out a small, orange bottle and the numerous capsules within. Ichigo had his bankai, Homura had her soul gem and me? I had about eight thousand milligrams of off-brand crystal meth.
'I need to make a better happy pill,' I decided, before unscrewing the child-proof lid. Then, after placing one on my tongue, I relocated the bottle to my pocket and waited for the drug to kick in.
"There we go," I breathed, when I finally felt my passenger relax. Convinced it was attached to the right parahuman for once, the memories came fast and fluid, while I began writing up a list.
Cash... chemicals... corpses. The alliteration made me smile, and amidst my growing high, I could remembered when Burnscar had joined. She used to act so 'thug,' before she learned how the Nine chose to operate. She had this habit...what was it... something she used to call people before Jack took us down through Mexico...
"Pendejo," I exclaimed, with a sudden snap of my fingers. She used to call everyone pendejo. Then, Crawler had eaten his way through the East Suns, and she'd stopped using it altogether. Still, it had definitely been fun while it lasted.
"Pendejo," I repeated, a skip slowly entering my step. "Pendejo. Pendejo. What does that even mean?" Chewing on my bottom lip, I realized I'd never gotten an answer to that question. Usually, whenever I thought to ask, big sister would just ruffle my hair and give me this toothy grin.
...I missed that grin. I missed big sis. Feeling a frown tug at my lips, I dug out the bottle from my pocket and stared at the writing on the label.
...One more probably wouldn't hurt. Placing it beneath my tongue, I pressed it against my gum-line and waited for the pill to dissolve.
"Pendejo," I continued to lisp sullenly, as the drug took forever to breakdown. "Pendejo. Pendejo."
" ...Stupid pendejo."
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1.3
1.3
I came down in a Best Buy surrounded by a pool of blood. On my left - arranged in neat rows - were over four dozen computer parts pilfered from the nearby shelves. On my right were two teens with severe burns covering both of their legs. Each had been cut open by some sort of circular saw, and after staring blankly at the sight, I realized where the blood must have come from.
Also? Something was hugging me from behind.
Too hungover to panic, I just reached across my hip and felt a mixture of plastic and steel. 'Must be one of my spider bots,' I decided, the limbs a comforting presence. I twisted my arm once or twice to check the unit's responsiveness; however, besides a bit of input lag, it appeared to be working fine.
Better than I was, at any rate. "God, how much did I take?"
All of it, I concluded, when I caught sight of the little, orange bottle. Lying open on top of the checkout counter, most of the pills had already been used, and those few which remained had been crushed into a thin, white line.
"Are we even still under attack?" I groaned, as I curled up on the rug. Sending my spider bot over to clean up the powder, I endured the faint whine of its vacuum with the least grace physically possible. Then, the darn thing had the audacity to chirp when it decided it was finally done. 'Past me is a cu-shy sailor,' I corrected mid-thought. My passenger metaphorically frowned, it's disapproval shining through; however, due to aura before my eyes, I couldn't bring myself to care. "Floor is nice," I muttered drunkenly. "Floor is comfy. Floor is..."
"Oh my god!"
...kind of covered in blood. Twisting my neck to the side at the unexpected shout, I saw a cape freaking out in the doorway, a look of wide-eyed shock on his face. "It's actually not that bad," I tried to reassured him; however, from my position face down on the carpet, my words were too muffled to make out. Instead, the teen just continued to lose it, while the morning sun peeked in through the frame.
"This-this is Sureshift," he stuttered out, before bracing himself against a wall. "I-I need an ambulance, and...God, I don't know: maybe a hearse?"
I chuckled at what must have been a Ward, an edge of drunken humor in my voice. Between both his arrival and the light, I was pretty sure I had missed the fight, but to be honest? So what? It wasn't like I had a rap sheet. The kids had obviously been killed by Behemoth if you performed even a cursory check, and while they might get me on looting or something similar, I could probably come up with an excuse.
'Scavenging for parts,' maybe. It was even sort of true.
The only real question on my mind was how much hassle I wanted to go through. I was tired, hungover and probably still a little bit high. Unless our 'discussion' came with a cold pack and an Advil, I wasn't exactly feeling up to it.
Unfortunately, unless I'd done some serious body work in my fugue, I lacked the energy to try to escape. In the end, it was easier to just lie there and groan, while the Ward did his little dance of horror.
"Ok-ok: should I... perform CPR? Is that a thing you do for blood loss?"
The teen made to draw a little closer, but balked at the bloody mess. Hesitant to trudge through the gore, you could almost see the word 'forensics' flash through his mind, while he recalled every cop show in existence. 'Will this contaminate the crime scene?' he must have wondered. '...Am I supposed to enter, anyway?'
Finally taking pity on the youth, I had my spider bot crawl across the floor and wave one of its arms through the air.
Sureshift hit the sixth octave. "Not dead," I called out, past the gunk lodged in my throat. Giving my leg a shake to show I was still alive and kicking, the teen began to calm down, but his eyes never left my little friend.
"Right," he muttered nervously, before slowly backing up. "In that case, in the name of the Wards South-South-South... please identify yourself?"
I rolled over onto my back. "My name's Bonesaw," I replied, feeling my brain start to sober up. "I was part of the team that fought Behemoth; how'd we do, by the way?"
The youth shifted on his feet. "We won... sort of. The clean up's still ongoing, but the Endbringer fled the field. Also, you kind of missed your ride."
I shrugged my shoulders. "I figured as much."
Then, after I blue-screened at the thought of getting up, I eyed the Ward anew. "Hey, you want to do me a favor? Come over here and give me a hand; I'm honestly pretty messed up."
Sureshift shot me a look. "The Truce is still in effect. If you pull something, it's going to go badly."
I brushed his warning off. "What do I look like, a monster? Just come over here and help."
He lingered on the doorstep for another moment, but eventually he did acquiesce. Then, as I braced myself against his shoulder, I put more weight on his arm than he expected and we almost pitched into the mess.
"Crap,," the teen chanted furiously, while we slid through the viscous muck. Stumbling back and forth in an attempt to keep himself erect, his eyes fell upon the kids and his breath stilled in his throat.
I followed the direction of his gaze. "Don't worry about it," I told him, hauling him away from the bodies. "They've both been dead for a while."
"Was it... Behemoth?" he asked uncertainly, unable to look away.
I made a mou of agreement. "For the most part. I'm responsible for the tool marks, but he did the initial damage. Like I said, I came to help with the fight, but eventually I ran out of supplies. Since, no one was around to fly me back, I had to try and make do."
His lips twisted in a grimace. Then, after wrapping his arm around my back, he wrenched his head to the left, grumbling all the while. "Come on," he muttered, his eyes on the ground beneath his feet. "If we're in luck, maybe we can bum a ride."
Neither of us were that lucky.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
It took us about five blocks to reach our intended destination. A three floor hotel which had weathered the storm fairly well, it was being used as a forward aid station, while more important business was conducted downtown.
"Hey, Thomas," Sureshift yelled when we walked through the building's front door. "I found another one."
The eponymous Thomas was a tall, grey haired man with a haggard expression, who winced from his place by the registry. "Oh, great," he complained. "Just what I always wanted: another drunk fucking cape. Just put her with the rest and tell her to lay off my stock! In fact, tell them all to lay off my stock! Useless fucking capes; useless fucking city; useless fucking Enbringers..."
He went along like that for quite a while, while Sureshift scowled at his back. "There are others?" I pressed, when the lull threatened to stretch on.
The teen nodded sourly. "Yeah, they rolled through late last night after the fighting finally ended. Normally, the Protectorate would have chased them off, but no one's found the time. It isn't quite a problem per se; it's just - well: see for yourself."
Pushing against the door to the bar, Sureshift ducked through the frame and stepped into the musty lounge. Then, after heading towards the seats at the back, the two of us hobbled past the dance floor and the wreckage of a small stereo system.
"...F-Fuck this," a man slurred hatefully, still covered in a layer of dust. "What kind of f-f-faggot up and dies?"
His companion, a gangly woman with a small microphone, didn't immediately respond. Eventually, after starting hard enough to knock over her drink, she lifted the device to her lips and pressed the button on the side. "Wasn't a faggot," she hissed in a harsh, synthetic tone. "...Maybe a puss. Definitely not a faggot."
She said it with the kind of drunken glee which implied personal experience.
The last cape at the bar - a cowboy in a blue bodysuit - seemed inclined to let them have at it. Hunched over his cup like he was using it to balance on his face, he whispered something beneath his breath and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
Him - him I didn't recognize - and even the former was kind of a stretch, but the woman in the middle? That was Cricket; had to be, given the voice.
That meant the other was likely Stormtiger and the third was...I don't know, Earth Bet's answer to the Marlboro Man? Either way, it didn't take a rocket scientist to realize why they were here.
"Hey, Sureshift, grab a table," I muttered, uneager to interrupt their wake.
The overburdened Ward glanced around and paused in awkward confusion. "Uh... where?" he asked, kicking a bit of debris. "Do you see one still intact?"
I didn't. Resting my hand on his shoulder, so I could twist and search for myself, I poured over the empty room, but I didn't have any better luck. Forced to resign myself to dealing with the two drunken Nazis, I shook my head somewhat tiredly and told the teen to 'forget it.'
"Uh... if you say so," he replied, resuming our previous course. Stumbling up to the bar just as the blonde held up her hands, I collapsed into one of the seats and immediately hid my face in my hands.
"...Listen, I've got to get back to work, but if you have any questions someone should be around later. Do you know much about the local branch? Pantera's currently in charge. Just... try not to break anything, ok?"
Slowly backing up, so as not set me off, Sureshift glanced between the four of us, and then ran like a startled deer. Personally, I couldn't blame the kid, given the situation at hand; however, it did leave me up a creak, and I couldn't help fearing the worst.
Looking up, I turned to my right and sure enough, the two villains were staring at my face.
"What?" I asked a bit petulantly, my hangover bleeding through. "Uber was on the fritz."
As soon as the words left my mouth, I wanted to take them back. I mean, was Uber even a thing on Earth Bet? I knew there was a villain named Uber, but what about the business? Either way, it was too late to change anything, so I was forced to just deal with the consequences.
Thankfully though, if Stormtiger thought it strange he just snorted and turned away. Cricket was a bit more curious and glanced between me and her partner, but in the end? She too let it pass. Then, from way on the other side of the bar, Sir Smoke's-a-lot himself opened his big, fat fudging mouth. "The fuck is Uber?" he asked, blinking through a drunken haze.
...I imagined what it'd be like to wrap my hands around his throat. "It's... it's a thing. A car thing. Like... taxi-cabs... only not."
I almost winced at my explanation, expecting glares and an interrogation. Instead, I'd clearly underestimated how drunk he was, because he nodded like that made perfect sense. "Sounds nice," he slurred, his body slumped in his seat. "Gonna need me an uber. Can't drink and drive. Boss wouldn't let me forget it."
I didn't know what kind of PR department his team was paying, but that seemed like good advice. At the very least, it was up there with 'never solicit a prostitute, and for god's sake don't kill the civies!'
Speaking of which, I felt my spider-bot crawl into my lap. Previously wrapped around my back like some kind of demented knapsack, it'd been designed to be almost unobtrusive, but there were difficulties during assembly. Poor parts; a lack of parts; too much damage to the ones I had. If nothing else, Jack had kept Riley spoiled for choice, and without resorting to the old ultraviolence, there wasn't much I could do to compensate.
Sensing the shift in my mood, the robot deployed one of its syringes and waved its lanky arm through the air. Glimmering beneath the lamp-light like a bit of polished crystal, perhaps it was inevitable that it would draw the attention of my seat-mates.
"What's that?" Stormtiger asked, watching it from the corner of his eye. "Some sort of Tinkertech drone?"
I nodded tiredly. "Made him earlier today. He'll get the job done, but his coding still isn't up to snuff."
Curious, he watched the machine scuttle across the counter in order to investigate the top of the shelf. Then, after pouring over the labels on display, something caught the attention of his sensors, and he paused to steal a bottle of vodka.
"You selling?" Stormtiger asked in a bored, half-drunken lit. "Not that one mind you, but in general?"
I was. I'd been toying with the idea for a few weeks; however, it was hard to put my name out there and still avoid the pressure it'd evoke. From the gangs; from the Protectorate; from anyone looking to make a buck. I'd been forced put it off, until I had a better reputation; however, now that everyone knew I could play nice, it was finally time to open up shop.
"It depends on what you want," I explained, calling the drone back to my lap. "Take Fluffles here, for instance. Sure, he can tear a man's face off, but his job's procurement and supply."
Perking up at the sound of his name, Fluffles tilted his shell in the air and wiggled an arm at the blonde. "Mostly, I do cybernetics and other modifications, but if you've got some damage you want fixed, I could probably handle that too."
Glancing across the room, I met Cricket's curious stare. "Take your teammate there for example; I'd need some time to replenish my stocks, but I could probably fix her throat if you'd like."
Rather than seem grateful or even angry at the gruesome reminder, she just took a calm sip of her drink. "No thanks," she said, lifting the mic held in her hand. "I kind of like it. It adds character."
Stormtiger groaned in response. "We have someone in house who's more than up to the task; however, Cricket's never accepted. If I didn't see her take the hit personally, I'd assume she did it to herself."
Nudging the larger man with her elbow, he grunted at the force of the blow, and then rolled half a foot in his chair.
That... was a fairly good point. Half the reason I was even entertaining a business relationship with these two was because they already had a healer on hand. Unlike the vast majority of organizations who might pressure me for my abilities, the nazi's had little to gain. A largely ideological movement, because I satisfied their own innate bigotry and wasn't local enough to compete, it wasn't worth it to press the point. They'd recruit me if I showed any interest, but so long as I didn't linger in their turf? They wouldn't prove to be a problem.
Plus, I was obviously willing to do business. If worse came to worse, I was only a phone call away, and in that sense, meeting them was an opportunity. They were large, safe and well supplied; the only thing preventing this from being a match made in heaven was the moral dilemma inherent to helping them. Did I want to support an organization which victimized others on a whim? Of course not, but a girl had to eat, and I was a little pressed for options.
Besides, if things worked out like I expected, than most of the planet was doomed, anyway. Might as well take advantage while I could. Thus, rather than letting the topic die, I actually wracked my brain for something they'd be interested in. Bioweapons were out, since the Protectorate would be on me in a second, and I couldn't do laser guns, due to the nature of my shard; the one thing I was prepared to offer - healing at discount prices - was already available through Othala, and save for offering upgrades to their members, I didn't have that much to sell.
Weighing the pros and cons in my mind, I considered offering it, anyway, but I didn't think they'd go for it. Maybe later once I could prove it wouldn't fail deadly, but not as an early adopter.
Come to think of it, most of the stuff I'd inherited from Bonesaw was fairly useless in this regard. Frequently grotesque in the extreme, her art only appealed to the monstrous and the desperate, and the Empire had never been the latter. In the end, it was my own forays into our shard which I thought would seal the deal, and thus, instead of offering something esoteric only to be shot down in return, I reached into my coat pocket and slid a small, plastic bottle across the table.
"What's this?" he asked, squinting at it through the gloom. "Some kind of painkiller?"
I shook my head. "I could whip some up if you'd like, but I imagine you have your own suppliers. No, this is something else. You know sodium thiopental - that so called 'truth drug' the CIA was working on? They never really got it to work, but they didn't have a tinker, either. Don't get me wrong, this isn't perfect, and I wouldn't even call it efficient, but it does function as intended."
Intrigued, he held the bottle up to the light. "How's it work?"
"Slowly," I told him, annoyed by the problems I'd encountered. "It plays with the subject's vocal cords and causes them to blurt things during the priming process. Basically, if you give this to someone, and then ask them about their father, you'll get various bits and pieces through the rest of the drek they tell you. Farmer, if he used to work in the fields; gin, if he happened to be a drinker. Like I said, it's neither quick nor perfect, but I'm willing to bet you'll find a use."
He tossed the bottle up and down, lips twisted in thought. "How much?" he asked. "Can't say I'm happy at the idea of doping up my own friends."
That was a load of bull-sugar; now, he was just arguing price. "There's about two thousand milligrams in there right now. Standard dose is a single, four hundred milligram pill every eight hours. Effects last for about four with residual ones lingering for about a week; I'm prepared to let that go, so you can make sure everything's above board, but anything more will be expensive."
I double checked the materials I'd need and did a bit of quick math in my head. "Call it five hundred dollars per pill, fifty pills per bottle."
He grunted at the cost. "What a pain - you're going to make me kick this up, aren't you? Ah, well. You going anywhere?"
I shook my head. "Cleveland eventually, but it's not like I left the stove on. I can wait a day or two, if it means finalizing this deal."
He stumbled off of his stool. "It won't take that long. Cricket, do me a favor and don't finish off the rest of that bottle." Ignoring the finger she tossed him over her left shoulder, he walked away through the lounge and headed towards the bathrooms behind the counter.
Petting Fluffles, as I waited for him to get back, I leaned against the side of the bar and saw the cowboy watching us.
...Who was that guy, anyway? Was he a villain? A hero? Maybe some sort of rogue? Stormtiger hadn't been bothered about talking business in front of him, but on the other hand, Stormtiger was three sheets to the wind. I wasn't sure if he'd even noticed he was there.
Personally, I wasn't inclined to worry about it, since the Truce was still in effect, and if he did object? It wasn't likely he'd try anything, now. It'd be unfortunate if it got around that I did a drug deal with the E88; however, I'd also known a conflict was pretty much inevitable.
You don't offer healing to capes, and then blacklist half your clientele. For one thing, it's just bad business, but it also makes the other half jealous. If I tried, it'd be weeks at the most before someone was pointing a gun at my head.
No, better to head that off. I'd offer my services to everyone - regardless of affiliation, and if someone had a problem with that, I should be easy enough to ignore. It wouldn't save me entirely, but that was part of what made this deal attractive. In short, the Empire wasn't local. If Armsmaster or Lung took offence, they couldn't just run down and pick a fight. They might take a shot at me when I went to make the delivery, but most capes were fairly parochial with all the benefits that implied.
Thus, my own ambivalence. I knew Mr. Marlboro wasn't from Cleveland, since I'd made sure to memorize that scene, so... who was he? Local Protectorate? Someone called in from overseas? I wasn't in the mood to ask, but like Stormtiger and Cricket, I didn't think it'd matter. Eventually, I twisted my head to the side and waited for my connection to return from his call.
"Done?' I asked, when he returned to his previous seat. "You look like it went well."
"Yeah, yeah," he griped, eyeing the rest of his glass. "It's easy to sober up when you've got the boss on the line. Anyway, we're interested to the tune of eighty grand, but not at five hundred a pop. Do two-fifty, and we'll have a deal."
I drummed my fingers against the counter. "Can't do it," I told him. "Overhead's three-twenty eight. Normally I'd charge seven hundred, but I figured an offer of five would set the tone for any repeat business."
Stormtiger shrugged his shoulders. "Four," he countered, barely bothered by the concession. "Four and a guarantee that there won't be any hard feelings if we're not satisfied with the product."
That'd put me out if he cancelled at the last minute, but it was a fair deal. Truthfully, he had probably been authorized to pay more, just like I was willing to go two. The 'three hundred for overhead,' was a bald faced lie, but since neither of them was Tattletale, I didn't think they'd call me on my bluff. Still, eighty grand in the bank would keep me afloat for a little while longer, and while I'd still have to deliver on my end, I didn't think it'd prove to be an issue. "When do you want to do this."
He scratched at the base of his beard. "You got a phone?"
I passed him the number to my burner.
"We'll be in touch."
And that as they say was that. Hardly the best start to my new life on Earth Bet, but considering what I had to work with? I thought I was doing pretty well.
AN: And... we're done. Ok, things should be set up for now.
I came down in a Best Buy surrounded by a pool of blood. On my left - arranged in neat rows - were over four dozen computer parts pilfered from the nearby shelves. On my right were two teens with severe burns covering both of their legs. Each had been cut open by some sort of circular saw, and after staring blankly at the sight, I realized where the blood must have come from.
Also? Something was hugging me from behind.
Too hungover to panic, I just reached across my hip and felt a mixture of plastic and steel. 'Must be one of my spider bots,' I decided, the limbs a comforting presence. I twisted my arm once or twice to check the unit's responsiveness; however, besides a bit of input lag, it appeared to be working fine.
Better than I was, at any rate. "God, how much did I take?"
All of it, I concluded, when I caught sight of the little, orange bottle. Lying open on top of the checkout counter, most of the pills had already been used, and those few which remained had been crushed into a thin, white line.
"Are we even still under attack?" I groaned, as I curled up on the rug. Sending my spider bot over to clean up the powder, I endured the faint whine of its vacuum with the least grace physically possible. Then, the darn thing had the audacity to chirp when it decided it was finally done. 'Past me is a cu-shy sailor,' I corrected mid-thought. My passenger metaphorically frowned, it's disapproval shining through; however, due to aura before my eyes, I couldn't bring myself to care. "Floor is nice," I muttered drunkenly. "Floor is comfy. Floor is..."
"Oh my god!"
...kind of covered in blood. Twisting my neck to the side at the unexpected shout, I saw a cape freaking out in the doorway, a look of wide-eyed shock on his face. "It's actually not that bad," I tried to reassured him; however, from my position face down on the carpet, my words were too muffled to make out. Instead, the teen just continued to lose it, while the morning sun peeked in through the frame.
"This-this is Sureshift," he stuttered out, before bracing himself against a wall. "I-I need an ambulance, and...God, I don't know: maybe a hearse?"
I chuckled at what must have been a Ward, an edge of drunken humor in my voice. Between both his arrival and the light, I was pretty sure I had missed the fight, but to be honest? So what? It wasn't like I had a rap sheet. The kids had obviously been killed by Behemoth if you performed even a cursory check, and while they might get me on looting or something similar, I could probably come up with an excuse.
'Scavenging for parts,' maybe. It was even sort of true.
The only real question on my mind was how much hassle I wanted to go through. I was tired, hungover and probably still a little bit high. Unless our 'discussion' came with a cold pack and an Advil, I wasn't exactly feeling up to it.
Unfortunately, unless I'd done some serious body work in my fugue, I lacked the energy to try to escape. In the end, it was easier to just lie there and groan, while the Ward did his little dance of horror.
"Ok-ok: should I... perform CPR? Is that a thing you do for blood loss?"
The teen made to draw a little closer, but balked at the bloody mess. Hesitant to trudge through the gore, you could almost see the word 'forensics' flash through his mind, while he recalled every cop show in existence. 'Will this contaminate the crime scene?' he must have wondered. '...Am I supposed to enter, anyway?'
Finally taking pity on the youth, I had my spider bot crawl across the floor and wave one of its arms through the air.
Sureshift hit the sixth octave. "Not dead," I called out, past the gunk lodged in my throat. Giving my leg a shake to show I was still alive and kicking, the teen began to calm down, but his eyes never left my little friend.
"Right," he muttered nervously, before slowly backing up. "In that case, in the name of the Wards South-South-South... please identify yourself?"
I rolled over onto my back. "My name's Bonesaw," I replied, feeling my brain start to sober up. "I was part of the team that fought Behemoth; how'd we do, by the way?"
The youth shifted on his feet. "We won... sort of. The clean up's still ongoing, but the Endbringer fled the field. Also, you kind of missed your ride."
I shrugged my shoulders. "I figured as much."
Then, after I blue-screened at the thought of getting up, I eyed the Ward anew. "Hey, you want to do me a favor? Come over here and give me a hand; I'm honestly pretty messed up."
Sureshift shot me a look. "The Truce is still in effect. If you pull something, it's going to go badly."
I brushed his warning off. "What do I look like, a monster? Just come over here and help."
He lingered on the doorstep for another moment, but eventually he did acquiesce. Then, as I braced myself against his shoulder, I put more weight on his arm than he expected and we almost pitched into the mess.
"Crap,," the teen chanted furiously, while we slid through the viscous muck. Stumbling back and forth in an attempt to keep himself erect, his eyes fell upon the kids and his breath stilled in his throat.
I followed the direction of his gaze. "Don't worry about it," I told him, hauling him away from the bodies. "They've both been dead for a while."
"Was it... Behemoth?" he asked uncertainly, unable to look away.
I made a mou of agreement. "For the most part. I'm responsible for the tool marks, but he did the initial damage. Like I said, I came to help with the fight, but eventually I ran out of supplies. Since, no one was around to fly me back, I had to try and make do."
His lips twisted in a grimace. Then, after wrapping his arm around my back, he wrenched his head to the left, grumbling all the while. "Come on," he muttered, his eyes on the ground beneath his feet. "If we're in luck, maybe we can bum a ride."
Neither of us were that lucky.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
It took us about five blocks to reach our intended destination. A three floor hotel which had weathered the storm fairly well, it was being used as a forward aid station, while more important business was conducted downtown.
"Hey, Thomas," Sureshift yelled when we walked through the building's front door. "I found another one."
The eponymous Thomas was a tall, grey haired man with a haggard expression, who winced from his place by the registry. "Oh, great," he complained. "Just what I always wanted: another drunk fucking cape. Just put her with the rest and tell her to lay off my stock! In fact, tell them all to lay off my stock! Useless fucking capes; useless fucking city; useless fucking Enbringers..."
He went along like that for quite a while, while Sureshift scowled at his back. "There are others?" I pressed, when the lull threatened to stretch on.
The teen nodded sourly. "Yeah, they rolled through late last night after the fighting finally ended. Normally, the Protectorate would have chased them off, but no one's found the time. It isn't quite a problem per se; it's just - well: see for yourself."
Pushing against the door to the bar, Sureshift ducked through the frame and stepped into the musty lounge. Then, after heading towards the seats at the back, the two of us hobbled past the dance floor and the wreckage of a small stereo system.
"...F-Fuck this," a man slurred hatefully, still covered in a layer of dust. "What kind of f-f-faggot up and dies?"
His companion, a gangly woman with a small microphone, didn't immediately respond. Eventually, after starting hard enough to knock over her drink, she lifted the device to her lips and pressed the button on the side. "Wasn't a faggot," she hissed in a harsh, synthetic tone. "...Maybe a puss. Definitely not a faggot."
She said it with the kind of drunken glee which implied personal experience.
The last cape at the bar - a cowboy in a blue bodysuit - seemed inclined to let them have at it. Hunched over his cup like he was using it to balance on his face, he whispered something beneath his breath and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
Him - him I didn't recognize - and even the former was kind of a stretch, but the woman in the middle? That was Cricket; had to be, given the voice.
That meant the other was likely Stormtiger and the third was...I don't know, Earth Bet's answer to the Marlboro Man? Either way, it didn't take a rocket scientist to realize why they were here.
"Hey, Sureshift, grab a table," I muttered, uneager to interrupt their wake.
The overburdened Ward glanced around and paused in awkward confusion. "Uh... where?" he asked, kicking a bit of debris. "Do you see one still intact?"
I didn't. Resting my hand on his shoulder, so I could twist and search for myself, I poured over the empty room, but I didn't have any better luck. Forced to resign myself to dealing with the two drunken Nazis, I shook my head somewhat tiredly and told the teen to 'forget it.'
"Uh... if you say so," he replied, resuming our previous course. Stumbling up to the bar just as the blonde held up her hands, I collapsed into one of the seats and immediately hid my face in my hands.
"...Listen, I've got to get back to work, but if you have any questions someone should be around later. Do you know much about the local branch? Pantera's currently in charge. Just... try not to break anything, ok?"
Slowly backing up, so as not set me off, Sureshift glanced between the four of us, and then ran like a startled deer. Personally, I couldn't blame the kid, given the situation at hand; however, it did leave me up a creak, and I couldn't help fearing the worst.
Looking up, I turned to my right and sure enough, the two villains were staring at my face.
"What?" I asked a bit petulantly, my hangover bleeding through. "Uber was on the fritz."
As soon as the words left my mouth, I wanted to take them back. I mean, was Uber even a thing on Earth Bet? I knew there was a villain named Uber, but what about the business? Either way, it was too late to change anything, so I was forced to just deal with the consequences.
Thankfully though, if Stormtiger thought it strange he just snorted and turned away. Cricket was a bit more curious and glanced between me and her partner, but in the end? She too let it pass. Then, from way on the other side of the bar, Sir Smoke's-a-lot himself opened his big, fat fudging mouth. "The fuck is Uber?" he asked, blinking through a drunken haze.
...I imagined what it'd be like to wrap my hands around his throat. "It's... it's a thing. A car thing. Like... taxi-cabs... only not."
I almost winced at my explanation, expecting glares and an interrogation. Instead, I'd clearly underestimated how drunk he was, because he nodded like that made perfect sense. "Sounds nice," he slurred, his body slumped in his seat. "Gonna need me an uber. Can't drink and drive. Boss wouldn't let me forget it."
I didn't know what kind of PR department his team was paying, but that seemed like good advice. At the very least, it was up there with 'never solicit a prostitute, and for god's sake don't kill the civies!'
Speaking of which, I felt my spider-bot crawl into my lap. Previously wrapped around my back like some kind of demented knapsack, it'd been designed to be almost unobtrusive, but there were difficulties during assembly. Poor parts; a lack of parts; too much damage to the ones I had. If nothing else, Jack had kept Riley spoiled for choice, and without resorting to the old ultraviolence, there wasn't much I could do to compensate.
Sensing the shift in my mood, the robot deployed one of its syringes and waved its lanky arm through the air. Glimmering beneath the lamp-light like a bit of polished crystal, perhaps it was inevitable that it would draw the attention of my seat-mates.
"What's that?" Stormtiger asked, watching it from the corner of his eye. "Some sort of Tinkertech drone?"
I nodded tiredly. "Made him earlier today. He'll get the job done, but his coding still isn't up to snuff."
Curious, he watched the machine scuttle across the counter in order to investigate the top of the shelf. Then, after pouring over the labels on display, something caught the attention of his sensors, and he paused to steal a bottle of vodka.
"You selling?" Stormtiger asked in a bored, half-drunken lit. "Not that one mind you, but in general?"
I was. I'd been toying with the idea for a few weeks; however, it was hard to put my name out there and still avoid the pressure it'd evoke. From the gangs; from the Protectorate; from anyone looking to make a buck. I'd been forced put it off, until I had a better reputation; however, now that everyone knew I could play nice, it was finally time to open up shop.
"It depends on what you want," I explained, calling the drone back to my lap. "Take Fluffles here, for instance. Sure, he can tear a man's face off, but his job's procurement and supply."
Perking up at the sound of his name, Fluffles tilted his shell in the air and wiggled an arm at the blonde. "Mostly, I do cybernetics and other modifications, but if you've got some damage you want fixed, I could probably handle that too."
Glancing across the room, I met Cricket's curious stare. "Take your teammate there for example; I'd need some time to replenish my stocks, but I could probably fix her throat if you'd like."
Rather than seem grateful or even angry at the gruesome reminder, she just took a calm sip of her drink. "No thanks," she said, lifting the mic held in her hand. "I kind of like it. It adds character."
Stormtiger groaned in response. "We have someone in house who's more than up to the task; however, Cricket's never accepted. If I didn't see her take the hit personally, I'd assume she did it to herself."
Nudging the larger man with her elbow, he grunted at the force of the blow, and then rolled half a foot in his chair.
That... was a fairly good point. Half the reason I was even entertaining a business relationship with these two was because they already had a healer on hand. Unlike the vast majority of organizations who might pressure me for my abilities, the nazi's had little to gain. A largely ideological movement, because I satisfied their own innate bigotry and wasn't local enough to compete, it wasn't worth it to press the point. They'd recruit me if I showed any interest, but so long as I didn't linger in their turf? They wouldn't prove to be a problem.
Plus, I was obviously willing to do business. If worse came to worse, I was only a phone call away, and in that sense, meeting them was an opportunity. They were large, safe and well supplied; the only thing preventing this from being a match made in heaven was the moral dilemma inherent to helping them. Did I want to support an organization which victimized others on a whim? Of course not, but a girl had to eat, and I was a little pressed for options.
Besides, if things worked out like I expected, than most of the planet was doomed, anyway. Might as well take advantage while I could. Thus, rather than letting the topic die, I actually wracked my brain for something they'd be interested in. Bioweapons were out, since the Protectorate would be on me in a second, and I couldn't do laser guns, due to the nature of my shard; the one thing I was prepared to offer - healing at discount prices - was already available through Othala, and save for offering upgrades to their members, I didn't have that much to sell.
Weighing the pros and cons in my mind, I considered offering it, anyway, but I didn't think they'd go for it. Maybe later once I could prove it wouldn't fail deadly, but not as an early adopter.
Come to think of it, most of the stuff I'd inherited from Bonesaw was fairly useless in this regard. Frequently grotesque in the extreme, her art only appealed to the monstrous and the desperate, and the Empire had never been the latter. In the end, it was my own forays into our shard which I thought would seal the deal, and thus, instead of offering something esoteric only to be shot down in return, I reached into my coat pocket and slid a small, plastic bottle across the table.
"What's this?" he asked, squinting at it through the gloom. "Some kind of painkiller?"
I shook my head. "I could whip some up if you'd like, but I imagine you have your own suppliers. No, this is something else. You know sodium thiopental - that so called 'truth drug' the CIA was working on? They never really got it to work, but they didn't have a tinker, either. Don't get me wrong, this isn't perfect, and I wouldn't even call it efficient, but it does function as intended."
Intrigued, he held the bottle up to the light. "How's it work?"
"Slowly," I told him, annoyed by the problems I'd encountered. "It plays with the subject's vocal cords and causes them to blurt things during the priming process. Basically, if you give this to someone, and then ask them about their father, you'll get various bits and pieces through the rest of the drek they tell you. Farmer, if he used to work in the fields; gin, if he happened to be a drinker. Like I said, it's neither quick nor perfect, but I'm willing to bet you'll find a use."
He tossed the bottle up and down, lips twisted in thought. "How much?" he asked. "Can't say I'm happy at the idea of doping up my own friends."
That was a load of bull-sugar; now, he was just arguing price. "There's about two thousand milligrams in there right now. Standard dose is a single, four hundred milligram pill every eight hours. Effects last for about four with residual ones lingering for about a week; I'm prepared to let that go, so you can make sure everything's above board, but anything more will be expensive."
I double checked the materials I'd need and did a bit of quick math in my head. "Call it five hundred dollars per pill, fifty pills per bottle."
He grunted at the cost. "What a pain - you're going to make me kick this up, aren't you? Ah, well. You going anywhere?"
I shook my head. "Cleveland eventually, but it's not like I left the stove on. I can wait a day or two, if it means finalizing this deal."
He stumbled off of his stool. "It won't take that long. Cricket, do me a favor and don't finish off the rest of that bottle." Ignoring the finger she tossed him over her left shoulder, he walked away through the lounge and headed towards the bathrooms behind the counter.
Petting Fluffles, as I waited for him to get back, I leaned against the side of the bar and saw the cowboy watching us.
...Who was that guy, anyway? Was he a villain? A hero? Maybe some sort of rogue? Stormtiger hadn't been bothered about talking business in front of him, but on the other hand, Stormtiger was three sheets to the wind. I wasn't sure if he'd even noticed he was there.
Personally, I wasn't inclined to worry about it, since the Truce was still in effect, and if he did object? It wasn't likely he'd try anything, now. It'd be unfortunate if it got around that I did a drug deal with the E88; however, I'd also known a conflict was pretty much inevitable.
You don't offer healing to capes, and then blacklist half your clientele. For one thing, it's just bad business, but it also makes the other half jealous. If I tried, it'd be weeks at the most before someone was pointing a gun at my head.
No, better to head that off. I'd offer my services to everyone - regardless of affiliation, and if someone had a problem with that, I should be easy enough to ignore. It wouldn't save me entirely, but that was part of what made this deal attractive. In short, the Empire wasn't local. If Armsmaster or Lung took offence, they couldn't just run down and pick a fight. They might take a shot at me when I went to make the delivery, but most capes were fairly parochial with all the benefits that implied.
Thus, my own ambivalence. I knew Mr. Marlboro wasn't from Cleveland, since I'd made sure to memorize that scene, so... who was he? Local Protectorate? Someone called in from overseas? I wasn't in the mood to ask, but like Stormtiger and Cricket, I didn't think it'd matter. Eventually, I twisted my head to the side and waited for my connection to return from his call.
"Done?' I asked, when he returned to his previous seat. "You look like it went well."
"Yeah, yeah," he griped, eyeing the rest of his glass. "It's easy to sober up when you've got the boss on the line. Anyway, we're interested to the tune of eighty grand, but not at five hundred a pop. Do two-fifty, and we'll have a deal."
I drummed my fingers against the counter. "Can't do it," I told him. "Overhead's three-twenty eight. Normally I'd charge seven hundred, but I figured an offer of five would set the tone for any repeat business."
Stormtiger shrugged his shoulders. "Four," he countered, barely bothered by the concession. "Four and a guarantee that there won't be any hard feelings if we're not satisfied with the product."
That'd put me out if he cancelled at the last minute, but it was a fair deal. Truthfully, he had probably been authorized to pay more, just like I was willing to go two. The 'three hundred for overhead,' was a bald faced lie, but since neither of them was Tattletale, I didn't think they'd call me on my bluff. Still, eighty grand in the bank would keep me afloat for a little while longer, and while I'd still have to deliver on my end, I didn't think it'd prove to be an issue. "When do you want to do this."
He scratched at the base of his beard. "You got a phone?"
I passed him the number to my burner.
"We'll be in touch."
And that as they say was that. Hardly the best start to my new life on Earth Bet, but considering what I had to work with? I thought I was doing pretty well.
AN: And... we're done. Ok, things should be set up for now.
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Just a little detail
There is no such a thing as South North East. It would instead be East-South-East
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Pretty much; Bonesaw's shard has most of her memories, but there are no signs she's ever existed in the local reality.
Just a little detail
There is no such a thing as South North East. It would instead be East-South-East
Since when has bureaucratic naming conventions ever adhered to sense? They weren't going to call the new department, South-South-West B - bad PR that.
I'm liking this a lot. Fics that give other people Bonesaw's power are always fun. My favorite was Medical, but that's been dead for a year.
Anywho. excited to see where this goes.
Question though: will you be doing upgrades on yourself or your clients?
Yes, and no. Due to the way that Tinker-tech fails deadly a lot of people are justifiably wary, even when the Tinker is on their team. I've got plans to use it on myself, but it ties back into the biggest issue: Bonesaw's skillset is optimized for an entirely different environment. Namely, one with mass casualties. She had the freedom to dig through twenty screaming people to find the right set of organs for her work; me, not so much.
College student. I'm about 5'4" with brown hair, but I dyed it blonde due to my shard. The Chirurgeon only cares about whether the mental profile matches; however, it couldn't exactly hurt, so I decided to go with it, anyway. Method acting, yo: it's a thing.
Update schedule, though? No clue. Probably not as fast as others.
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That was one of the things I loved about Medical. Given the right equipment, you can synthesize whatever you need.
Of course, Taylor had help and funding from Dragon and the PRT. You... not so much.
Baughn
Healing-type writer
- Location
- Dublin
I like, but it was a little hard to follow. Personally I like jigsaw puzzles, but not everyone does, so you should probably try to work some of that into the opening.
Dromeosaur
Feathery Raptor of snowy planes and frozen sea
- Location
- The land of Trees and Squirrels
I sense a lot of potential here. Good work, waiting for more.
1.4
1.4
I ended up catching a ride with my new connection when they headed out the next morning. There might have been a few states between our two destinations; however, because we all had to take the same interstate on our way north, it was more convenient than you might think. Still, what can I say about road tripping with my two favorite allies? The roads were shit, the company was hungover, and I was fairly certain the car was stolen. The only thing missing from the tableau was a high speed chase and we could have made a killing at the box office. Unfortunately, without a few musicians to hunt down, our only entertainment was the pit stop we made at Denny's.
I got pancakes. Cricket insisted upon eggs.
Anyway, to make a long story short, I finally got off at Whytheville, while the other two headed further east. From there, I took a bus back to Cleveland - and besides the walk to get to my apartment - it was an easier journey than I'd expected.
"Ravenwood; Bluebank; Goldhill; ah, here we go." Ducking into an alleyway between a barber shop and a bakery, I made sure no one was around, and then took off my coat and mask. Folding them up, so they'd be more difficult to identify, I didn't hold my identity in high esteem; however, it was a simple concession to make. Still, one had to wonder what the people on that bus had thought about the young woman in the strange costume. Were they excited about the way the extraordinary had just stumbled into their lives, or were they like me and underwhelmed by a peek behind the curtain? I'd like to think I wasn't so jaded as to instantly assume the latter, but in truth? I wasn't even sure they'd noticed. The way they'd glanced away; the limpid stillness of their gaze. Was it a lack of embellishment which beggared their disbelief, or did they simply refuse to accept that a cape could ever be so prosaic? Grue; Stormtiger; Tattletale; myself. So many of us made our personas from more than merely cloth that sometimes it was easy to forget, we rarely lived up to our own mystique.
The real heroes? They weren't like that. Through the memories I'd inherited from Bonesaw, I could remember what they had been like, and beneath the euphoria, terror and awe, I could picture Jack in my mind. More than anyone else, he had lived in his name, and while it might have been a consequence of her age, I could still recall the sense of wonder Bonesaw had felt at the mere sight of him. Sometimes, it almost felt like my own.
Shivering in the warm August air, I held my burden close to my chest and continued down the dusty street. Fluffles was kind enough to warble from his place beneath my coat, and though it was only an artificial sentiment, it still cheered me up to hear him.
"Thanks buddy," I muttered, reassured by the sound of his voice. "If you ever catch me getting down, you just speak up and say something."
Fluffles chirped in reply, but mindful of our surroundings, he was careful to keep the noise fairly low. Then, after we moved past the laundromat with the broken sign, I spotted our destination up ahead. An immense complex made of red brick, it was separated into apartments with mine being located on the third. It wasn't bad as far as tenements go; however, despite, the unobjectionable furnishings, it never quite felt like home.
Shifting Fluffles beneath my arm, while I dug through my pocket for my key, I cursed when I almost let him slip, but I managed to juggle him and the lock. "Jeeze," I muttered irritably, when I finally shut the door with my heel. "First thing we're fixing is you're horrible actuation." Then, after placing Fluffles on the ground, so he could explore his new environs, I carried my costume into my room and tossed it next to the plastic hamper. Basically, just a lab coat with a sanitary mask to match, the former would have to be washed, but I could afford to discard the latter.
"What a day," I sighed wearily, as I fell onto my bed. First Behemoth; then the Empire... sometimes, I wondered why I even bothered to enter the business. "How about it wall? Any answers?"
The thick, black letters stayed silent. Covering my apartment from floor to ceiling, they repeated the same twelve names in an unending series of styles. Sharp; crisp; angry; calm. Several had bits of wax burned into the grain, and in my first desperate days on Earth Bet, I had scoured them for answers to my questions.
That search had never paid off. This apartment - like my life and the ten grand I'd found in the bank - resisted all inquiries. Heck, I'd been pouring over the mystery for so long that the names had become a kind of song. Now, if only I could figure out how the rest of it was supposed to go.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Unfortunately, that was a problem which resisted all solutions, and In the meantime, I had things I needed to do. First on the list was getting some sleep after yesterday's events; however, once that was taken care of, I needed to go over Fluffles in depth. Code; hardware; wetware. I'd done most of his assembly while high, and I didn't quite trust my own work.
"You hear that?," I cooed the next morning. "It's time to take you to the vet. Would you like that, boy? Would you - would you - would you?" Unlike real animals, Fluffles danced in place. Deploying a scalpel and a syringe from two of his eight arms, he scampered across my living room, eager to beat me to the lab.
I followed along at a stroll. Heading into the kitchen which also served as my workshop, there were a few serums developing on the table, but nothing which would require my attention. "Up on the counter," I ordered. "Enter safe-mode. Password: tomato-two-four."
Circling the kitchen sink and two of the beakers by the wall, he spread his legs against the marble and went dead in the metaphorical water. Then, after rummaging in a nearby drawer for a screwdriver small enough to fit, I removed the seals to his chassis and pulled off the plastic top.
Blood and bone waited beneath. Kludged together from pieces of the two dead children, I'd bridged the gap with modified circuitry, but altogether it was a rough bit of work. Limited automation; poor response time; growing degeneration. He'd last for another few weeks before his wetware started to rot, but after that? I'd have to replace his components as they failed.
'Now, do I stay organic or try to shift to a synthetic paradigm?' The former would be quicker and more in line with my shard's skillset; however, I lacked the surfeit of materials which had justified Bonesaw's MO.
There was just so much more I needed in order to really measure up. More corpses to harvest neurotransmitters; more bodies to repair my own. I couldn't install modifications without backups already on hand, and while I could rob a few graves for second best, my shard warned me against the decision. I wouldn't go so far as to say it expected the components to fail; however, it just wasn't worth the risk.
Chewing on my bottom lip, while I unhooked my laptop from the powerbar, I connected it to one of Fluffles' ports, and then examined his system in depth. "Let's see: processor seems solid. IFF is green. The sensors look pretty shot, but that's mostly due to the hardware."
Skimming through the code, I noticed I'd been halfway through a fix, before I must have come down from my high. Using thousands of cone cells from the eyes I'd had on hand, I'd rigged up some sort of camera and tied it into his limbs. Staring at the spider-bot passed out on my kitchen counter, I ignored most of his body and focused on the large, left leg.
There: where the metal didn't quite fit and a bit of flesh peaked out through the joint. Originally, I'd thought it was the result of my own improvisation; however, it'd definitely been deliberate. Containing both the cone cells and a few nerves to hold it together, it formed the basis for an eye which could be used as a modified camera.
It wasn't perfect; I still hadn't written the code which would let it connect to a network, but it definitely held some promise. More to the point, after noticing it, I could feel a plan start to piece itself together.
Spider-bots were good at procurement. Heck, that was Bonesaw's primary use for them. Ordered to appropriate material, while she was busy with her own experiments, she had used a vast network of such creations to keep herself supplied on the run.
My own implementation would be limited due to the number I had on hand; however, that didn't mean I couldn't use Fluffles as Bonesaw had originally intended. The best target would be... B.H. Lincoln High School. I'd once raided their science wing for most of my current lab equipment, and though they'd likely noticed the theft, their guard wasn't going to be up. Not really; not against the kind of pressure I could bring to bare. Even, after accounting for Fluffles' limitations, I knew I could pull it off.
Eyeing the robot and the solutions cooking behind me, I sat down and got to work.
AN: Not quite the punch I wanted with the writing on the wall, but I'll run with it. Here's 1.4
I ended up catching a ride with my new connection when they headed out the next morning. There might have been a few states between our two destinations; however, because we all had to take the same interstate on our way north, it was more convenient than you might think. Still, what can I say about road tripping with my two favorite allies? The roads were shit, the company was hungover, and I was fairly certain the car was stolen. The only thing missing from the tableau was a high speed chase and we could have made a killing at the box office. Unfortunately, without a few musicians to hunt down, our only entertainment was the pit stop we made at Denny's.
I got pancakes. Cricket insisted upon eggs.
Anyway, to make a long story short, I finally got off at Whytheville, while the other two headed further east. From there, I took a bus back to Cleveland - and besides the walk to get to my apartment - it was an easier journey than I'd expected.
"Ravenwood; Bluebank; Goldhill; ah, here we go." Ducking into an alleyway between a barber shop and a bakery, I made sure no one was around, and then took off my coat and mask. Folding them up, so they'd be more difficult to identify, I didn't hold my identity in high esteem; however, it was a simple concession to make. Still, one had to wonder what the people on that bus had thought about the young woman in the strange costume. Were they excited about the way the extraordinary had just stumbled into their lives, or were they like me and underwhelmed by a peek behind the curtain? I'd like to think I wasn't so jaded as to instantly assume the latter, but in truth? I wasn't even sure they'd noticed. The way they'd glanced away; the limpid stillness of their gaze. Was it a lack of embellishment which beggared their disbelief, or did they simply refuse to accept that a cape could ever be so prosaic? Grue; Stormtiger; Tattletale; myself. So many of us made our personas from more than merely cloth that sometimes it was easy to forget, we rarely lived up to our own mystique.
The real heroes? They weren't like that. Through the memories I'd inherited from Bonesaw, I could remember what they had been like, and beneath the euphoria, terror and awe, I could picture Jack in my mind. More than anyone else, he had lived in his name, and while it might have been a consequence of her age, I could still recall the sense of wonder Bonesaw had felt at the mere sight of him. Sometimes, it almost felt like my own.
Shivering in the warm August air, I held my burden close to my chest and continued down the dusty street. Fluffles was kind enough to warble from his place beneath my coat, and though it was only an artificial sentiment, it still cheered me up to hear him.
"Thanks buddy," I muttered, reassured by the sound of his voice. "If you ever catch me getting down, you just speak up and say something."
Fluffles chirped in reply, but mindful of our surroundings, he was careful to keep the noise fairly low. Then, after we moved past the laundromat with the broken sign, I spotted our destination up ahead. An immense complex made of red brick, it was separated into apartments with mine being located on the third. It wasn't bad as far as tenements go; however, despite, the unobjectionable furnishings, it never quite felt like home.
Shifting Fluffles beneath my arm, while I dug through my pocket for my key, I cursed when I almost let him slip, but I managed to juggle him and the lock. "Jeeze," I muttered irritably, when I finally shut the door with my heel. "First thing we're fixing is you're horrible actuation." Then, after placing Fluffles on the ground, so he could explore his new environs, I carried my costume into my room and tossed it next to the plastic hamper. Basically, just a lab coat with a sanitary mask to match, the former would have to be washed, but I could afford to discard the latter.
"What a day," I sighed wearily, as I fell onto my bed. First Behemoth; then the Empire... sometimes, I wondered why I even bothered to enter the business. "How about it wall? Any answers?"
The thick, black letters stayed silent. Covering my apartment from floor to ceiling, they repeated the same twelve names in an unending series of styles. Sharp; crisp; angry; calm. Several had bits of wax burned into the grain, and in my first desperate days on Earth Bet, I had scoured them for answers to my questions.
That search had never paid off. This apartment - like my life and the ten grand I'd found in the bank - resisted all inquiries. Heck, I'd been pouring over the mystery for so long that the names had become a kind of song. Now, if only I could figure out how the rest of it was supposed to go.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Unfortunately, that was a problem which resisted all solutions, and In the meantime, I had things I needed to do. First on the list was getting some sleep after yesterday's events; however, once that was taken care of, I needed to go over Fluffles in depth. Code; hardware; wetware. I'd done most of his assembly while high, and I didn't quite trust my own work.
"You hear that?," I cooed the next morning. "It's time to take you to the vet. Would you like that, boy? Would you - would you - would you?" Unlike real animals, Fluffles danced in place. Deploying a scalpel and a syringe from two of his eight arms, he scampered across my living room, eager to beat me to the lab.
I followed along at a stroll. Heading into the kitchen which also served as my workshop, there were a few serums developing on the table, but nothing which would require my attention. "Up on the counter," I ordered. "Enter safe-mode. Password: tomato-two-four."
Circling the kitchen sink and two of the beakers by the wall, he spread his legs against the marble and went dead in the metaphorical water. Then, after rummaging in a nearby drawer for a screwdriver small enough to fit, I removed the seals to his chassis and pulled off the plastic top.
Blood and bone waited beneath. Kludged together from pieces of the two dead children, I'd bridged the gap with modified circuitry, but altogether it was a rough bit of work. Limited automation; poor response time; growing degeneration. He'd last for another few weeks before his wetware started to rot, but after that? I'd have to replace his components as they failed.
'Now, do I stay organic or try to shift to a synthetic paradigm?' The former would be quicker and more in line with my shard's skillset; however, I lacked the surfeit of materials which had justified Bonesaw's MO.
There was just so much more I needed in order to really measure up. More corpses to harvest neurotransmitters; more bodies to repair my own. I couldn't install modifications without backups already on hand, and while I could rob a few graves for second best, my shard warned me against the decision. I wouldn't go so far as to say it expected the components to fail; however, it just wasn't worth the risk.
Chewing on my bottom lip, while I unhooked my laptop from the powerbar, I connected it to one of Fluffles' ports, and then examined his system in depth. "Let's see: processor seems solid. IFF is green. The sensors look pretty shot, but that's mostly due to the hardware."
Skimming through the code, I noticed I'd been halfway through a fix, before I must have come down from my high. Using thousands of cone cells from the eyes I'd had on hand, I'd rigged up some sort of camera and tied it into his limbs. Staring at the spider-bot passed out on my kitchen counter, I ignored most of his body and focused on the large, left leg.
There: where the metal didn't quite fit and a bit of flesh peaked out through the joint. Originally, I'd thought it was the result of my own improvisation; however, it'd definitely been deliberate. Containing both the cone cells and a few nerves to hold it together, it formed the basis for an eye which could be used as a modified camera.
It wasn't perfect; I still hadn't written the code which would let it connect to a network, but it definitely held some promise. More to the point, after noticing it, I could feel a plan start to piece itself together.
Spider-bots were good at procurement. Heck, that was Bonesaw's primary use for them. Ordered to appropriate material, while she was busy with her own experiments, she had used a vast network of such creations to keep herself supplied on the run.
My own implementation would be limited due to the number I had on hand; however, that didn't mean I couldn't use Fluffles as Bonesaw had originally intended. The best target would be... B.H. Lincoln High School. I'd once raided their science wing for most of my current lab equipment, and though they'd likely noticed the theft, their guard wasn't going to be up. Not really; not against the kind of pressure I could bring to bare. Even, after accounting for Fluffles' limitations, I knew I could pull it off.
Eyeing the robot and the solutions cooking behind me, I sat down and got to work.
AN: Not quite the punch I wanted with the writing on the wall, but I'll run with it. Here's 1.4
Dromeosaur
Feathery Raptor of snowy planes and frozen sea
- Location
- The land of Trees and Squirrels
Just cute...
Spider bots are, yes, they are...
Spider bots are, yes, they are...
Since nobody was afraid of her alias, is the Slaughterhouse 9 of this Earth-bet running around without ever having recruited a Bonesaw?
Robo Jesus
Your Mechanical Messiah
Likely so, and that in turn means that Jack was a hell of a lot more cautious as a result. Afterall, without the increased durability/survivability Bonesaw brought to the Slaughterhouse 9, he couldn't afford to be able to do as much of the bullshit as he did in Worm canon.
So it's likely the S9 is more focused towards playing from the shadows here, just due to them not having the world's greatest medic in their employ. :shrugs:
Yes, and no. It's true Jack doesn't have Bonesaw to patch anyone up; however, he's been doing this for a long time without any sort of safety net. Between how hard he is to hit and the Siberian's invulnerability? Not too much has changed. ...More group turn over, maybe. That's about it.
Last edited:
Unless Jack's managed to find a substitute for the role of medic, augmenter, and apocalyptic threat against the breaking of his rules. I can't help but notice Panacea wasn't at New Orleans.
1.5
1.5
Two days later, my phone rang while I was still working on Fluffles' net-card. "Yeah?" I asked, my keyboard balanced in my lap.
It was Stormtiger. "We're pretty satisfied," he said, static muffling his voice. "When will you be ready for delivery?"
Two days to get there; three to synthesize; another for Fluffles; three more just in case...
"How's the eighteenth work for you? If not, I can do the twentieth and the twenty-third."
He paused for a moment, and then yelled at someone in the background. There was a muted answer in return, before he grunted his own agreement. "Eighteenth's fine. We'll do the deal at Somer's Rock. You know the place?"
I did, but only by reputation. He gave me some better directions, and then killed his end of the line.
Well... it looked like I was now on the clock.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Thankfully though, that didn't mean I had to start right away. I'd been careful about the time I'd quoted, and beyond the week I'd initially blocked out, I'd been preparing this for a while.
B. H. Lincoln High School; Black Hill Medical Center; the science wing of the UA campus. All three had significant stores of chemicals on hand - and more to the point - none of them were terribly well guarded. Oh, they had locks and cameras and various other security measures, but to a sufficiently motivated tinker? Those weren't really deterrents. Maybe it'd have been a different story if I was planning to hit CSU; however, I wasn't so foolish as to pick a fight in the Protectorate's proverbial backyard. Instead, I'd endure the twenty minute drive down to Kent where their response time was likely to be garbage. It'd be a pain in the butt, but if it kept me out of prison, I'd consider it time well spent.
"How about it Fluffles? You ready to go?"
The spider-bot chirped enthusiastically. Climbing across my bed, as I finished drying my hair, he nosed around a box of sanitary masks and poked one curiously with his leg. I smiled a bit at the sight. Rubbing the heavy cloth through the dyed locks of my hair, I left it wrapped around my shoulders and tried to get into character. Happy; cheerful; exuberant. Bonesaw was the kind of girl who treated every day like it was an adventure. Sometimes the adventure was scary, sometimes it could even be sad, but it was always to be held close and cherished, because Jack wouldn't accept any less.
Buttoning up the front of my shirt, as I recalled the sound of his voice, there weren't many things the villain had disapproved of; however, half-measures had definitely been one of them.
The faintest flash of steel; the glimpse of something yellow beneath her skin. The woman had screamed hysterically, tears flowing down her face; however, Jack had just guided my hand while the scalpel traced her stomach.
"Like this," he'd murmured gently, each cut almost sloppy to my eyes. "You're power will show you the way, but you have to give it direction."
"Why?" I'd blurted nervously, picking at the base of my nails. "You're going too slow; if you're not careful, she might expire before you're done..."
Smiling a bit, he had reached up to ruffle my hair. "There's more to being a member of the Nine than speed, Riley. Just because you had to rush last time, that doesn't mean you always will. Instead, I want you to try to think of it like a performance, one for you and the others. It's not a matter of efficiency, poppet: it's all about the quality of your work."
Cautiously nodding my head as he illustrated his thought process, I found myself almost shaking in place almost desperate to correct my mistake. "Now, which would you say has more impact. Your way, or my way?"
Tugging on the loose flap of skin, he rolled it up and...
I blinked, before glancing down at my feet. "Fluffles?" I asked blankly, while he buzzed about in irritation.
He pointed his leg at the clock. ...Shoot, it was getting late. Patting him on the back for the unexpected reminder, I finished getting dressed and looked at the costume on my bed.
...Jack would have killed me for wearing this. It was just so... unassuming. A plain white lab coat and a mask I'd bought by the dozen, the man hadn't cared much for ostentation; however, there was a difference between a statement and fear.
Jack had worn a pair of dress pants as a criticism of his peers. I looked like a general practitioner, because I didn't want to get shot in the face. Fortunately though, that wasn't likely to be the case, tonight. Based upon my research on the institution in question, it'd be a calm bus ride through the city, followed by a quick walk to the grounds. The only person on the premises was supposed to be the janitor, and I could pilot Fluffles around him by remote. It was neat operation. Simple. I'd done something similar weeks ago, and I didn't expect this to be any harder.
Ordering Fluffles off of the bed and to wrap his legs around his core, I bundled him up in my coat and slid my mask into a pocket. I'd put it on later tonight if things started to get hot; for now? I had to hurry to catch my ride.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
The bus pulled up to the curb a little sooner than I anticipated. Jogging down the poorly lit street, while I waved my hand above my head, the driver almost didn't see before he drove off to his next stop.
"You ok?" the old man asked, as I huffed and puffed up the steps. "That was quite the sprint."
"Yeah," I panted tiredly, before dragging myself towards a seat. "Just - just a little behind; you know how it is."
Shaking his head, as he glanced at me through the mirror, he pulled away from the shoulder and gave me a small grin. "Do I?" he asked. "Maybe, I'm always on time." A beat passed in silence, while I stared at him uncertainly, but it didn't take long for a grin spread across his lips. "Sorry," he apologized. "I'm just messing with you. It's not often I get any entertainment this early on in my shift."
Scrunching up in my seat, while I hid Fluffles in the corner, I saw his eyes move towards my coat, and then spoke up in an effort to distract him. "Is that so?" I replied. "How come? Is that when the bar crowd drifts through?"
He nodded, glancing to his left at the cars behind us. "Pretty much. The college kids tend to walk and the bums rarely get off, but there's a local group of drunks who occasionally liven things up. They're not a bad crowd all things being said, but they have a habit of making a mess. Not, like the Abaheim route; I almost got mugged the last time I drove it."
Shifting about uncomfortably, while he cursed the recent recession, I found myself fighting down a frown, so as to refrain from leave an impression. 'Of all the bus drivers in town, I get the fudging chatty one.'
"So, you new in town?" he asked, shifting topics fluidly. "You have that new-town look."
I... sighed and shook my head. "No," I admitted softly, the word almost pried from my throat. "I... moved in about two months ago."
"Same difference," he argued, shrugging his shoulders absently. Turning around a in his seat, while the light in front of us was red, he seemed about to say something, and then paused before spinning back around.
"Something wrong?" I asked, surprised he'd kept his silence. "You kind of cut yourself off."
God knows, he hadn't been reluctant to share anything else. Still, the aging drive just shook his head and squinted past the glare of the break-lights. "Something's up ahead," he finally muttered, blinded by a set of high-beams. "A crash maybe? Or a sobriety check?"
Moving to the left, so I could look down the center aisle, I saw a pair of flashing lights mounted on top of a van. "That's not the police," I muttered, a cold chill running through me. "That's a PRT vehicle."
"Oh?" he asked curiously, before complying with the officer on the road. "I wonder why they want us to pull over?"
AN: Fuck me, but there's nothing worse than cutting something, and then having to rewrite it. Last weekend I binged 1.5 and 1.6 only to realize during editing that they were all a little bit shit... so I had to rewrite them. This is the second version and feels better than the first, but if you notice something a little off, don't be afraid to mention it. I'm a little too close to the chapter to be sure, but I might have referenced something that didn't make it past the initial version.
Two days later, my phone rang while I was still working on Fluffles' net-card. "Yeah?" I asked, my keyboard balanced in my lap.
It was Stormtiger. "We're pretty satisfied," he said, static muffling his voice. "When will you be ready for delivery?"
Two days to get there; three to synthesize; another for Fluffles; three more just in case...
"How's the eighteenth work for you? If not, I can do the twentieth and the twenty-third."
He paused for a moment, and then yelled at someone in the background. There was a muted answer in return, before he grunted his own agreement. "Eighteenth's fine. We'll do the deal at Somer's Rock. You know the place?"
I did, but only by reputation. He gave me some better directions, and then killed his end of the line.
Well... it looked like I was now on the clock.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Thankfully though, that didn't mean I had to start right away. I'd been careful about the time I'd quoted, and beyond the week I'd initially blocked out, I'd been preparing this for a while.
B. H. Lincoln High School; Black Hill Medical Center; the science wing of the UA campus. All three had significant stores of chemicals on hand - and more to the point - none of them were terribly well guarded. Oh, they had locks and cameras and various other security measures, but to a sufficiently motivated tinker? Those weren't really deterrents. Maybe it'd have been a different story if I was planning to hit CSU; however, I wasn't so foolish as to pick a fight in the Protectorate's proverbial backyard. Instead, I'd endure the twenty minute drive down to Kent where their response time was likely to be garbage. It'd be a pain in the butt, but if it kept me out of prison, I'd consider it time well spent.
"How about it Fluffles? You ready to go?"
The spider-bot chirped enthusiastically. Climbing across my bed, as I finished drying my hair, he nosed around a box of sanitary masks and poked one curiously with his leg. I smiled a bit at the sight. Rubbing the heavy cloth through the dyed locks of my hair, I left it wrapped around my shoulders and tried to get into character. Happy; cheerful; exuberant. Bonesaw was the kind of girl who treated every day like it was an adventure. Sometimes the adventure was scary, sometimes it could even be sad, but it was always to be held close and cherished, because Jack wouldn't accept any less.
Buttoning up the front of my shirt, as I recalled the sound of his voice, there weren't many things the villain had disapproved of; however, half-measures had definitely been one of them.
The faintest flash of steel; the glimpse of something yellow beneath her skin. The woman had screamed hysterically, tears flowing down her face; however, Jack had just guided my hand while the scalpel traced her stomach.
"Like this," he'd murmured gently, each cut almost sloppy to my eyes. "You're power will show you the way, but you have to give it direction."
"Why?" I'd blurted nervously, picking at the base of my nails. "You're going too slow; if you're not careful, she might expire before you're done..."
Smiling a bit, he had reached up to ruffle my hair. "There's more to being a member of the Nine than speed, Riley. Just because you had to rush last time, that doesn't mean you always will. Instead, I want you to try to think of it like a performance, one for you and the others. It's not a matter of efficiency, poppet: it's all about the quality of your work."
Cautiously nodding my head as he illustrated his thought process, I found myself almost shaking in place almost desperate to correct my mistake. "Now, which would you say has more impact. Your way, or my way?"
Tugging on the loose flap of skin, he rolled it up and...
I blinked, before glancing down at my feet. "Fluffles?" I asked blankly, while he buzzed about in irritation.
He pointed his leg at the clock. ...Shoot, it was getting late. Patting him on the back for the unexpected reminder, I finished getting dressed and looked at the costume on my bed.
...Jack would have killed me for wearing this. It was just so... unassuming. A plain white lab coat and a mask I'd bought by the dozen, the man hadn't cared much for ostentation; however, there was a difference between a statement and fear.
Jack had worn a pair of dress pants as a criticism of his peers. I looked like a general practitioner, because I didn't want to get shot in the face. Fortunately though, that wasn't likely to be the case, tonight. Based upon my research on the institution in question, it'd be a calm bus ride through the city, followed by a quick walk to the grounds. The only person on the premises was supposed to be the janitor, and I could pilot Fluffles around him by remote. It was neat operation. Simple. I'd done something similar weeks ago, and I didn't expect this to be any harder.
Ordering Fluffles off of the bed and to wrap his legs around his core, I bundled him up in my coat and slid my mask into a pocket. I'd put it on later tonight if things started to get hot; for now? I had to hurry to catch my ride.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
The bus pulled up to the curb a little sooner than I anticipated. Jogging down the poorly lit street, while I waved my hand above my head, the driver almost didn't see before he drove off to his next stop.
"You ok?" the old man asked, as I huffed and puffed up the steps. "That was quite the sprint."
"Yeah," I panted tiredly, before dragging myself towards a seat. "Just - just a little behind; you know how it is."
Shaking his head, as he glanced at me through the mirror, he pulled away from the shoulder and gave me a small grin. "Do I?" he asked. "Maybe, I'm always on time." A beat passed in silence, while I stared at him uncertainly, but it didn't take long for a grin spread across his lips. "Sorry," he apologized. "I'm just messing with you. It's not often I get any entertainment this early on in my shift."
Scrunching up in my seat, while I hid Fluffles in the corner, I saw his eyes move towards my coat, and then spoke up in an effort to distract him. "Is that so?" I replied. "How come? Is that when the bar crowd drifts through?"
He nodded, glancing to his left at the cars behind us. "Pretty much. The college kids tend to walk and the bums rarely get off, but there's a local group of drunks who occasionally liven things up. They're not a bad crowd all things being said, but they have a habit of making a mess. Not, like the Abaheim route; I almost got mugged the last time I drove it."
Shifting about uncomfortably, while he cursed the recent recession, I found myself fighting down a frown, so as to refrain from leave an impression. 'Of all the bus drivers in town, I get the fudging chatty one.'
"So, you new in town?" he asked, shifting topics fluidly. "You have that new-town look."
I... sighed and shook my head. "No," I admitted softly, the word almost pried from my throat. "I... moved in about two months ago."
"Same difference," he argued, shrugging his shoulders absently. Turning around a in his seat, while the light in front of us was red, he seemed about to say something, and then paused before spinning back around.
"Something wrong?" I asked, surprised he'd kept his silence. "You kind of cut yourself off."
God knows, he hadn't been reluctant to share anything else. Still, the aging drive just shook his head and squinted past the glare of the break-lights. "Something's up ahead," he finally muttered, blinded by a set of high-beams. "A crash maybe? Or a sobriety check?"
Moving to the left, so I could look down the center aisle, I saw a pair of flashing lights mounted on top of a van. "That's not the police," I muttered, a cold chill running through me. "That's a PRT vehicle."
"Oh?" he asked curiously, before complying with the officer on the road. "I wonder why they want us to pull over?"
AN: Fuck me, but there's nothing worse than cutting something, and then having to rewrite it. Last weekend I binged 1.5 and 1.6 only to realize during editing that they were all a little bit shit... so I had to rewrite them. This is the second version and feels better than the first, but if you notice something a little off, don't be afraid to mention it. I'm a little too close to the chapter to be sure, but I might have referenced something that didn't make it past the initial version.
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esotericist
A Weary Hand
- Location
- Lacey, WA
Well, on the bright side, it's not because one of you is a mass murderer. Probably.
Clandistine1
(Verified Spaceship)
- Location
- Toorak, Melbourne
esotericist
A Weary Hand
- Location
- Lacey, WA
The 'probably' is because we aren't totally sure about the bus driver.
1.6
1.6
The next five minutes were some of the most intense in my life. Moving Fluffles into my lap, so he'd have a better angle of attack, I watched the agent walk down the road, his hand hovering near his gun. And it was a gun. Unlike the containment foam sprayers which popularized their public-image, this was a short little carbine attached to his chest by a cord. Similar to an FN FAL or an M16, I couldn't name the model in question, but it'd clearly traded range for greater heft. 'You whip someone with that, and they're gonna feel it.'
Unfortunately, that someone appeared to be me, and as I stared at the flashing lights outside, I felt the bottom drop out of my stomach. 'I'm going to have to kill this guy.' That was literally the second thing I thought. Third was a wordless flash of apprehension about actually doing the deed and fourth was the grim realization that I'd rather be shot than caught.
A psychotic, criminal bio-tinker? Only one place they'd send me. There weren't a lot of fates I considered worse than death; however, running into Glastig Ulaine was pretty high up on the list. The best case scenario? We had tea, I died, and then she ate my metaphorical soul. Worse case scenario: we had tea, I pissed her off and Grey Boy came out to play. Most capes might have forgotten about the horrors she kept under wraps, but I would murder all of Ohio, before I got stuck in an infinite-pain loop. Thus, as the officer walked towards the door and knocked on the thin, glass panel, I prepared myself for a fight.
"Sir," he began, a speaker in his helmet projecting his voice. "Please open the door, and put your hands on top of the dash."
The old man flinched away, intimidated by the imposing silhouette. Personally? I didn't really blame him. Backlit by a red glow from the van further down the street, the officer was dressed in heavy body armor that had to be two inches thick. Studded with ceramic plates, so it could deflect incoming gun fire, it made him look a blocky nurgling who'd been taking notes from H. R. Giger.
"I- is there a problem, officer?" Reaching towards his right and pulling on the rubber handle, the bus driver opened the door and kept his hands away from the wheel.
The officer nodded his head. "Yes," he replied, before slowly climbing up the steps. "A situation has developed and a villain has been spotted nearby. For the sake of the town and its citizens we are diverting traffic between here and Woodgrove." Glancing around the interior, his visor meet my gaze, and then continue smoothly past. "I need you to turn this bus around. Please reverse direction and proceed using another route."
The old man glanced behind him and stared out the back window. "Not trying to bust your chops, son, but I'm not sure I can do that. This ain't exactly a Chevy, and it won't turn on a dime Can I take it as far as the mall? Maybe circle around in the parking lot?"
The agent grunted irritably. "No. Shots have been fired and no unauthorized personnel are allowed beyond this point. If you can't turn around, then I need you to disembark and return at a later date. I'm sorry sir, but this is non-negotiable."
The driver looked a little pissed and seemed ready to belabor the point. Then, after staring at the officer, deflated with a sigh and shot the cop a glare. "You'll call the bus company when its safe to pick it back up?"
The agent nodded his head. "Yes, sir. I'll make sure it's all taken care of."
Jerking his chin to show he'd hold the man to that promise, the driver unbuckled his seat belt and waved for me to follow. "Sorry about this, but I guess we're getting off early. Where'd you say you were going?"
I gave him the name of a random stop. Then, after descending the narrow steps, I hunched my shoulders against the cold and glanced down the deserted street.
I could hear gunshots somewhere in the distance. Barely more than a quiet 'crack' in the crisp evening air, the old man noticed them as well and grew a trifle nervous.
"Shit," he cursed warily, backing up a couple of steps. "Didn't you say it was a parahuman?"
The agent finished climbing down the steps. "I did. We suspect he might be affiliated with members of the LVH."
In other words, the local cartel. A gang of low-key pushers with ties to the Detroit area, they had a habit of disbarring capes to keep them off the PRT's radar. Normally, they made their home in what some called the Abaheim Projects; however, something must have riled them up if they were breaking out the heavy weapons.
"...Is it just me, or does it sound like they're getting closer?"
Glancing back at the old man's comment, I paused to listen for myself, and then jerked my head towards the van. The troopers were straightening up; soon, they started pointing their guns down the block.
"You need to evacuate the area. Please stay calm and proceed down the road to your right." Finally reaching for his own rifle, as he spun to join his squad mates, the officer ran off down the road, each step a blow against the gravel.
He didn't make it to the van. Stumbling over his feet as a sharp crack split the air, the side of his chest dented inwards and he fell to the asphalt with a crash.
"Christ!" I shouted in surprise, before throwing myself to the ground. Scrambling across the black top, while the agents returned fire, I could hear a few rounds hit the bus, each shot a flash of panic in my chest.
'Fragmentation wound; damage minor; estimated recovery time...' I cut that train of thought off. Focusing on my safety, instead of the agent behind me, I crawled my way across the curb and hid within the curve of the wheelwell.
It didn't do me much good. Bu-bump; bu-bump; ting. I could literally hear the bullets as they punched through the left-front tire. Releasing a piercing whistle as the air escaped from within, I knew I had to get away, but that still left a question of how.
Down the street; in the bus; through a building? The boulevard was bracketed by several abandoned factories; however, just because they were all closed that didn't mean they'd be easy to enter. In fact, it'd probably make them harder. Sealed up tight for fear of vandalism or desperate squatters, I'd probably get trapped against the doorway and shot dead by the gunmen across the street.
I... I just didn't know what to do. I'd never been in this sort of situation, before. I knew I had to stay low and to always keep my head down, but that wasn't a real solution: that was basic fucking sense!
Panting nervously, as my pulse took up residence in my ears, I reached into my coat's inner pocket and blindly fumbled for my pills. I - I had to get into character; Bonesaw could survive this mess.
Wrapping my fingers around the bottle, while the bus driver took off down the street, I followed him for a moment with my eyes, and then watched him get clipped in the back.
I turned away, before I knew if he was dead.
"Fu-fudge. Fuck." I cursed quietly when the top refused to come off. Almost in tears over this stupid child-proof lid, I finally ripped it free and tipped a few capsules into my hand.
I swallowed five of them dry. Panting and shaking, while I tried to smile through my fear, it wasn't easy to manage, and if anything, I felt my shakes grow worse.
I lost the fight to suppress my nervous giggles.
"This... this might have been a mistake," I admitted, terrified I was going to die. Burying my face in my hands, while I almost laughed myself sick, I couldn't help but recall Riley's origin and the rictus grin on her lips.
It felt a lot like my own.
"Gotta be good," I muttered, repeating it to drive the point home. "Gotta be good - gotta be good - gotta be good."
Jack looked down, the edge of his lips the only sign of his amusement. "And are you a good girl, Riley?"
O-of course, I was.
Then, I smiled so wide it hurt.
AN: not sure I like the word choice on the ending. I might go back and edit it later, once it's not so fresh in my head.
The next five minutes were some of the most intense in my life. Moving Fluffles into my lap, so he'd have a better angle of attack, I watched the agent walk down the road, his hand hovering near his gun. And it was a gun. Unlike the containment foam sprayers which popularized their public-image, this was a short little carbine attached to his chest by a cord. Similar to an FN FAL or an M16, I couldn't name the model in question, but it'd clearly traded range for greater heft. 'You whip someone with that, and they're gonna feel it.'
Unfortunately, that someone appeared to be me, and as I stared at the flashing lights outside, I felt the bottom drop out of my stomach. 'I'm going to have to kill this guy.' That was literally the second thing I thought. Third was a wordless flash of apprehension about actually doing the deed and fourth was the grim realization that I'd rather be shot than caught.
A psychotic, criminal bio-tinker? Only one place they'd send me. There weren't a lot of fates I considered worse than death; however, running into Glastig Ulaine was pretty high up on the list. The best case scenario? We had tea, I died, and then she ate my metaphorical soul. Worse case scenario: we had tea, I pissed her off and Grey Boy came out to play. Most capes might have forgotten about the horrors she kept under wraps, but I would murder all of Ohio, before I got stuck in an infinite-pain loop. Thus, as the officer walked towards the door and knocked on the thin, glass panel, I prepared myself for a fight.
"Sir," he began, a speaker in his helmet projecting his voice. "Please open the door, and put your hands on top of the dash."
The old man flinched away, intimidated by the imposing silhouette. Personally? I didn't really blame him. Backlit by a red glow from the van further down the street, the officer was dressed in heavy body armor that had to be two inches thick. Studded with ceramic plates, so it could deflect incoming gun fire, it made him look a blocky nurgling who'd been taking notes from H. R. Giger.
"I- is there a problem, officer?" Reaching towards his right and pulling on the rubber handle, the bus driver opened the door and kept his hands away from the wheel.
The officer nodded his head. "Yes," he replied, before slowly climbing up the steps. "A situation has developed and a villain has been spotted nearby. For the sake of the town and its citizens we are diverting traffic between here and Woodgrove." Glancing around the interior, his visor meet my gaze, and then continue smoothly past. "I need you to turn this bus around. Please reverse direction and proceed using another route."
The old man glanced behind him and stared out the back window. "Not trying to bust your chops, son, but I'm not sure I can do that. This ain't exactly a Chevy, and it won't turn on a dime Can I take it as far as the mall? Maybe circle around in the parking lot?"
The agent grunted irritably. "No. Shots have been fired and no unauthorized personnel are allowed beyond this point. If you can't turn around, then I need you to disembark and return at a later date. I'm sorry sir, but this is non-negotiable."
The driver looked a little pissed and seemed ready to belabor the point. Then, after staring at the officer, deflated with a sigh and shot the cop a glare. "You'll call the bus company when its safe to pick it back up?"
The agent nodded his head. "Yes, sir. I'll make sure it's all taken care of."
Jerking his chin to show he'd hold the man to that promise, the driver unbuckled his seat belt and waved for me to follow. "Sorry about this, but I guess we're getting off early. Where'd you say you were going?"
I gave him the name of a random stop. Then, after descending the narrow steps, I hunched my shoulders against the cold and glanced down the deserted street.
I could hear gunshots somewhere in the distance. Barely more than a quiet 'crack' in the crisp evening air, the old man noticed them as well and grew a trifle nervous.
"Shit," he cursed warily, backing up a couple of steps. "Didn't you say it was a parahuman?"
The agent finished climbing down the steps. "I did. We suspect he might be affiliated with members of the LVH."
In other words, the local cartel. A gang of low-key pushers with ties to the Detroit area, they had a habit of disbarring capes to keep them off the PRT's radar. Normally, they made their home in what some called the Abaheim Projects; however, something must have riled them up if they were breaking out the heavy weapons.
"...Is it just me, or does it sound like they're getting closer?"
Glancing back at the old man's comment, I paused to listen for myself, and then jerked my head towards the van. The troopers were straightening up; soon, they started pointing their guns down the block.
"You need to evacuate the area. Please stay calm and proceed down the road to your right." Finally reaching for his own rifle, as he spun to join his squad mates, the officer ran off down the road, each step a blow against the gravel.
He didn't make it to the van. Stumbling over his feet as a sharp crack split the air, the side of his chest dented inwards and he fell to the asphalt with a crash.
"Christ!" I shouted in surprise, before throwing myself to the ground. Scrambling across the black top, while the agents returned fire, I could hear a few rounds hit the bus, each shot a flash of panic in my chest.
'Fragmentation wound; damage minor; estimated recovery time...' I cut that train of thought off. Focusing on my safety, instead of the agent behind me, I crawled my way across the curb and hid within the curve of the wheelwell.
It didn't do me much good. Bu-bump; bu-bump; ting. I could literally hear the bullets as they punched through the left-front tire. Releasing a piercing whistle as the air escaped from within, I knew I had to get away, but that still left a question of how.
Down the street; in the bus; through a building? The boulevard was bracketed by several abandoned factories; however, just because they were all closed that didn't mean they'd be easy to enter. In fact, it'd probably make them harder. Sealed up tight for fear of vandalism or desperate squatters, I'd probably get trapped against the doorway and shot dead by the gunmen across the street.
I... I just didn't know what to do. I'd never been in this sort of situation, before. I knew I had to stay low and to always keep my head down, but that wasn't a real solution: that was basic fucking sense!
Panting nervously, as my pulse took up residence in my ears, I reached into my coat's inner pocket and blindly fumbled for my pills. I - I had to get into character; Bonesaw could survive this mess.
Wrapping my fingers around the bottle, while the bus driver took off down the street, I followed him for a moment with my eyes, and then watched him get clipped in the back.
I turned away, before I knew if he was dead.
"Fu-fudge. Fuck." I cursed quietly when the top refused to come off. Almost in tears over this stupid child-proof lid, I finally ripped it free and tipped a few capsules into my hand.
I swallowed five of them dry. Panting and shaking, while I tried to smile through my fear, it wasn't easy to manage, and if anything, I felt my shakes grow worse.
I lost the fight to suppress my nervous giggles.
"This... this might have been a mistake," I admitted, terrified I was going to die. Burying my face in my hands, while I almost laughed myself sick, I couldn't help but recall Riley's origin and the rictus grin on her lips.
It felt a lot like my own.
"Gotta be good," I muttered, repeating it to drive the point home. "Gotta be good - gotta be good - gotta be good."
Jack looked down, the edge of his lips the only sign of his amusement. "And are you a good girl, Riley?"
O-of course, I was.
Then, I smiled so wide it hurt.
AN: not sure I like the word choice on the ending. I might go back and edit it later, once it's not so fresh in my head.
Last edited:
esotericist
A Weary Hand
- Location
- Lacey, WA
This is really a special kind of horrifying.
XkaliburRage
Perpetual Procrastinator
What are you talking about? This will surely end well, afterall Bonesaw is ia good girl.