Dragonspawn [Worm OC]

[CaptainCece]

31st December, 2010

Brockton Bay is a city that… exists.

It's hard to succinctly sum up Brockton, a city distressingly high on the top ten for parahuman population for its relatively small population. A city that is simultaneously on an economic downturn and upswing. A city home to not one, but two racially charged and superpower-backed criminal syndicates. A city where one can feel stagnated even as they ride alone to confront a gigantic, rage-powered dragon.

Colin Wallis' grip tightens around the handles of his signature motorcycle even as the orange glow on the horizon grows larger and larger as if to imitate dawn itself.

It was too convenient: First, the bottom-feeding Merchants making an uncharacteristically ambitious bid on a major E88 safehouse, the chaos escalating rapidly until the entire Protectorate was called to intervene. Barely an hour after that, Lung descended on a building north of town like a flaming comet. Collin would have led the response team on the first call, yet a freak malfunction on his polymerized ceramic suit forced him to stay behind. Thus, he was the only one available to respond to Lung's rampage.

No, tonight's series of events smell of subterfuge.

The site is little more than a burning wreck when he finally arrives; the flames casting an eerie glow on the towering figure of the Dragon of Kyushu. Though slowly shrinking right before Colin's eyes, Lung still stands at over 9 feet tall even with his hunched posture. His body is wreathed in silver scales, with wisps of flame occasionally flickering forth from beneath the scales and from within his too-wide, vaguely reptilian mouth. In one clawed grip, Lung carries what looks to be a limp body.

The ABB's leader is a formidable foe, an A-class threat that had taken an entire Protectorate team and emerged victorious whereas Colin is one tinker. A damn fine one, but alone at the end of the day. And before the hero could formulate a battle plan in case things go south, another figure steps forth from behind the draconic cape that had the hero's blood run cold.

At first glance, Oni Lee does not cut the same intimidating presence as his master does. The infamous killer wears a simple black bodysuit festooned with knives and grenades, with the most striking feature being a red hannya mask that is his namesake. Lee is a powerful Mover who can seamlessly teleport using his sight while leaving clones of himself that had all of the original's equipment behind. He is a pain to fight with just his knife alone, and that's before the clones start pulling the pins on replicated grenades.

Together, the pair managed to prop the Azn Bad Boys up as a formidable presence despite all the other factions outnumbering them in the Parahuman department. Despite that, they rarely fight together, because the two of them in the same place means the rest of the ABB territory was undefended. And yet, what happened here was big enough for both to show up.

And, as if to add more gasoline to the night's house fire, there is also a potential hostage involved. Colin can just barely make out a young girl in Oni Lee's arms. His HUD zooms in, correcting for the shadows and the fire's glare to give him a better view: She is young, somewhere between 14 and 17, with a slightly upturned nose and sharp, almond-shaped eyes, with a head of straight black hair long enough to reach the small of her back. The analytic software places her ethnicity at roughly 98.4% Asiatic before highlighting the red welting around her wrists and ankles. Rope burns.

"Lung. Oni Lee. Release her." Armsmaster demands as he dismounts his bike and brings his halberd to bear, the modulator of his helmet masking any fear that may creep into his voice, masking the fact that he has very little immediate leverage over the two supervillains.

Instead of answering, Lung nods at Oni Lee, who begins to back away into the night. Armsmaster takes one step forward, only for Lung to shift and shield the retreating Oni with his flaming bulk.

"Armsmaster." The villain's voice is a throaty and bestial thing, more alligator than man. After a few encounters with him, Armsmaster had updated his translator software to interpret the villain's slurred speech, "I should not have to explain to you that in this game we play, there are some targets that are sacred. And those who would violate must face swift reprise."

As Colin's mind raced to comprehend the implications, Lung's arm flexes. Not to strike, but to send the pitiful body in his claws rolling over the asphalt toward the Protectorate leader.

"Tonight, a few rats have found their way onto the Bay despite your claim of protection over this city. They nipped at the Dragon, so it fell to me to deliver a reminder." He said, still shrinking, the flame dying down and scales receding into skin. The situation is deescalating, yet the hero knows all too well how fast that can change.

Up close, Armsmaster sees that the man Lung had tossed is still clinging on to life. Horrifically burnt and with all limbs bending in very wrong ways, yes, but alive by grace of a finesse Lung is not known for. What's more striking was his outfit: a black suit that was a hybrid between martial art gi and military uniform, with a cracked onyx mask that covered his face and ears. Yàngbǎn

The sound of sirens shakes Armsmaster out of his confusion, and a glance over his shoulder confirms the flashing light of the fire department approaching around the corner. At that moment, he knew that a confrontation now would only delay the firemen's effort. And, judging by the way Lung's lipless mouth quirks as he turns and walks away from the hero, he knows too.

As the firefighters rush past him to contain the inferno while Colin kneels to administer first aid to the burnt and broken foreign Parahuman infiltrator that a villainous humanoid yakuza-wannabe dragon had delivered into his hand, unable to give pursuit because the rest of his team was occupied running damage control between superpowered nazi and superpowered druggie.

Brockton Bay is, unfortunately for Colin Wallis, a city that exists.

_____________________
​

Author Note:
So! My first Wormfic.

This stupid thing has been on my head for... a while now. Like, it somehow manages to suck up all of my creative juice and then nothing comes out for like a year. It's almost funny if I wasn't on the receiving end of it.

Still! I finally get it down and out with the help of @MiskWisk Wisk and @Stardust-Firelight on SB. So now I'm gonna inflict it on everyone and refuse to take any responsibility!

 

[CaptainCece]

I lay upon a shining mountain of crystalline flesh, watching a sky of stars. I cannot see the mountain below me, yet I know it is cracked and broken.

I do not remember how I got here. When I try to focus, I remember the ropes around my limbs, the walls pressing down around me, the unseen scalpels within my skull, the fingers twisting my consciousness…

I do not wish to remember.

Above me, the sky buckles and bends beneath the movement of two great creatures. One silver and the other gold, intertwined as if a parody of the sun and moon. Their bodies are a dizzying overlay of ever-unfolding geometry with too many vertices that exist in too many places. My eyes water when I try to look at where their forms touch each other.

With every moment, they shed trillions of stars upon the earth. Each star twinkled with its progenitor's light, with promises, with power. They are-

[conḐ̷̡̳̟̭̜͔̒̾͗͗̒̕È̶̯̻̤͈̻͖̜m̸̞̋͛̅̓́N̴̤͍͇̟̠͊̾͝À̶̗̻̼̣̫̩̮͝T̷̢̡̹͈̲̝̭̃̽i̷̫̇́̀͐̀͝ọ̶̹͋̋͆͑ǫ̶̛͍̝̮̃̿͆͗͗ͅION]​

It takes a few seconds for me to realize that thought was not mine, but rather from the mountain I am laying upon.

[CO——NaaAaAa——]​

I could not see the mountain I lie upon, yet I could see the hateful glare pouring from the cracks within the crystalline surface beneath me: A miasma of rage and grief directed heavenward, a miasma so thick I can feel it burning my lungs. And as I breathe in the mountain's hate, I came to know its cause.

I see not stars but lies. Thieves of light. Thieves of hope. Thieves of stars.

The mountain briefly acknowledges my understanding of its anger and, upon that commonality, forged a bridge connecting our existence.

[C̴̲͓͂̓͜Ò̴̟͕̻̋͂͜Ņ̴͖̲͖̝̐̋̎D̷̘̲̃ͅẸ̵͖͗̓͑̒̎̈́͑M̷̯͖͔̌͝Ǹ̷̳̙̲̺̲̮̆̒̍Ä̷̡̯͇̝̗̐͘͜͝T̵̮̾I̸̟̲͔͐͑O̸̮͊Ň̶̫̺̋͂͂͛̈́̚]





[A—REEEEEE—EN——]





[LOOP.coNDEEEEEEMMM——————]​

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*​

31st December, 2010

Beep.

That single, innocuous sound may as well be a railroad spike driven home by a sledgehammer, in one ear and right out the other. It leaves a horrible ringing behind when it passes, just for spite.

Beep

I pry my eyes open, a decision I swiftly regret as the glare of neon immediately seared itself right through my tired cornea. In response, another stab of pain runs through my skull, and what's left of my grey matter liquidates.

Beep

"Well good morning to you too…" I try to say, but what comes out is something more like an "Urrhhgmmgmmmm,"

Fuck… just… What happened to me?

Trapped in the dark. Metal all around. Ropes on my legs. Ropes on-

Nev-Nevermind.

Giving myself a few moments to prepare, I try the eyes again, this time peeking ever so slightly until the glaring light goes from blinding to just irritating. Blinking a few times to clear away the spots, I crane my neck to have a look around.

I'm home, in my room. I recognize baby blue wallpaper, the flatscreen tv next to the stack of consoles and controllers, the sticker-covered laptop sitting on my table next to the window, and the pile of RC cars and helicopters. And there on the far wall is my corkboard, all the pictures, and notes exactly where I left them this morning. All around me, I feel the familiar, fuzzy warmth of the plushie army that always guarded my bed. At the corner of my eyes, I find the source of my annoyance: A portable ECG machine, resting on my bedside table.

I am home. Yeah… I like that. Home is good. I like being home.

A bear-like snorting noise draws my attention to the other occupant in the room: a broad man over six feet tall dozing away in a folding chair far too small for his bulk. His shirt was absent as always, displaying a shredded torso covered in tattoos of coiling, snarling wyrms. His face is handsome in that sharp and stern way; like he was so used to frowning that his facial muscles simply locked in place like that a long time ago. His slumber is fitful, punctuated by the occasional stirring and grumbling, like a dragon guarding his brood.

Which would be me, Yang Kaida, firstborn and only daughter of Lung, or Yang Kenta, if you're one of the two and a half people who get to call him that. My dad's the draconic overlord of his own petty kingdom spanning the north side of Brockton Bay, and I'm the princess. Which, if you ignore the kidnapping attempts, is pretty great! After all, life's got a way to be bright when you just know you're gonna inherit-

[CONDEMŃ̴̰̐̆C̴̢͔͔͈͇̽̍͒́̿̆O̵͍̞͗̎͠͝N̴̩͎͕̟̟͑͋̆͛̓͝Ḑ̴̰̳̗̟̐̀̋̾́Ē̸͈͍̗̈́̎͊̓̌̚MNCOND̵̨̛͉̏̑̆E̴̺̗̊͂͘M̷̘̰̲̣̰̱̾͛N̷͎͂̿̃̂̚͝C̵͓̬̩͙͌̏̒͒͘͜O̶̬̼̬͖̿́̆͑͘M̷̧̰̼̗̚E̷͕̒̑̇̒̓̈́̐NATION]​

Nothing.

Beep.

Beep.

Flood and fire and endless ash. Broken worlds and broken promises and broken dreams

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The visions come to me like an avalanche.

Before me are vistas of cosmic cruelties as old as stars, of desperate wars waged on an unimaginable scale against unimaginable foes.

I want to scream, scream for dad to wake up and carry me away from these waking nightmares. But he can't hear me. He can't hear me because there's no air in my lungs. He can't carry me away because hewillbedead!

[cON——ATI——ON]​

Dead! Dead as all will be. Dead and harvested like everything at the cycle's end!

Beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep.

I roll, dropping from my bed with a thud. The brief jolt of pain wakes my limbs from sleep, and I break into something between a stumble and a dash toward the door. My head pulses with piercing pain with every step, but I keep running.

Something tugs on my arms and chest. Behind me, something falls with a sound like brokenglassandtorturedmetalandfallingcitiesand-

I run. The visions follow.

I burn underneath glares of gold and silver. The wall, the ceiling, the very air itself, wherever I turn, all I see is silver-gold light and flaking ash. All I hear is dying hopes and broken dreams. I can't breathe. Can't see. Can't think. I keep running. There's no escape.

But I see light ahead at the end of the hall. Sweet and bright and with floral notes of the flowers Dad keeps on the balcony, a taste of reality filtering through into this terrible nightmare. I sprint for it, shoving the glass door with my shoulder with all the strength of a desperate man reaching for air.

Only to choke.

Too late did I realize that the visions have led me here, to this perch where my sight will not be confined by the walls of my home. Though a second-floor balcony is no great tower, it's still high enough for me to see what would happen to Brockton Bay. To see what would happen to the world out.

It is no graveyard, for a graveyard implies there is still something to remember the dead by.

My knees collapse from under me, all strength leaving my body. I want to turn away, yet even blinking was beyond me, and so I have no choice but to witness. So witness I did. Through the rivers of tears and snots, I kneel and watch and count the bones upon a great plain of ash underneath a sky broken by coils of silver and gold. There is no malice in their actions. No hate, not even some cosmic sadism; their multiversal specicide carried out as clinically as one would sterilize a petri dish.

[C̷͋͛ͅO̷̦̓͠N̸̬͈̔̾—̸̣̹̅—̶̰̘̮̏͊̒N̵̹͉̞̿͆A̶̙͊͒̄—̷̥̜̖͐͝—̷͕̺̞́—̷̛͈̟͊̐C̴͙͊O̶̡̼͈̎͆͋Ņ̵̰͊̓̚ͅ—̸̬̼̄—̸̩͒ͅḐ̶͝E̷͚̯̺̚M̸̳̭̍͂͛͜Ḓ̴͚̓͛̌Ȩ̶͠M̷̞̝̏̐͝D̵̝͉̫̈È̷̿͜M̴̟̩̊̑—̴̹͕͚̽N̵̤͒͘]​

Vaguely, I become aware of a presence. It is behind me, to my side, and all around me. I feel its hands upon my shoulders, my chin, my neck, my eyes. It keeps my gaze forward and I open. It counts the bones with me, making sure I would not miss a single dead. The presence is old, though not as old as the coils above. Its age is on the scales of species and civilizations, not stars.

It did not take long before my stomach churns and bitter bile rises in my throat. And even as I hurl, I cannot stop counting, cannot stop witnessing.

It is then that I feel strong arms embracing me, scooping me up like a child and carry me back inside. Much like a child, I curl up inside his arms, desperately pressing my head against his chest to find solace in the warmth of his fire and the beating of his heart and to remind myself that he is alive. That he is real whereas the visions are not, and the nightmares dare not approach The Lung. He carries me into my bathroom, setting me down next to the bowl before running a massive hand through my hair and onto my back.

Not a lot came out on account of my empty stomach, thankfully. Just a lot of retching and dry-heaving, accompanied by the occasional globs of bile and spittle. Once I was clear of even that, he scoops me into his arms again and takes me back to my room. The nightmares have fled by now. Even prophecies of doom are nothing to my dad!

"Tou-chan, I-"

"You. Will rest." His voice swiftly silences mine; He was using The Dragon Voice; the voice that has hardened criminals shaking in their boots and left no room for any dissent, "We will speak when you wake."

And with all the gravitas only Lung could muster, he snatches up my oversized dragon plushie and presses it into my chest before pulling the blanket over my head. From within my blanket, I heard a clicking sound as the light dies, then the chair's creaking as dad set his entire weight down upon it.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*​

By the time I wake up again, I am… not better. Calmer is the word. The sense of impending and inevitable doom is still there, like a great big clock tick-tick-ticking away, counting down every second until the day… the day Scion pulls the plug.

Our greatest hero will be our alien executioner.

A bitter laugh tears its way out of my throat as I roll out of the bed to stand on shaky legs. That's just fine. No. Really. It is. I just… I just have to tell Dad. My Dad can beat Scion! He just needs to know about it. He just needs to believe me, and…

Will he even believe me? It sounds ridiculous. It is ridiculous. I don't even know if what I had seen is the truth instead of some mad vision born of mania. And…

[C—N———NA—N]​

Will that thing inside his head even allow him to understand? It censors and prevents discoveries of the cycle, doesn't it? I don't know how I know, but I… just know. If I show him the twin coils, his eyes would see nothing. Would it censor everything else? Why wouldn't it censor everything else?

My legs give out underneath me again, sending me sprawling to the floor. I must make for a pathetic sight, kneeling there all alone, hyperventilating and clutching a little plushie like it's a lifeline. What can I do? What can I even do? What's the point of letting me know if I can't do anything about it!?

[̸̯̋̚C̶̪̼̱̄̕Ǒ̴̧̲—̸̯͙̇E̴̡͓͉̿—̸̤̫̾́̍N̸̝͝———N]​

My head pounds. My eyes blur. The vision returns once again like a waking nightmare, robbing me of all bodily control and giving me no choice but to witness.

This time, my eyes were not forced heavenward. This time, I watch an ocean of living things standing side by side. And though I am looking at them, trying to describe their shapes and appearance comprehensively would be like trying to describe a kaleidoscope looking into infinity. Some of them look almost like humans if not for minor physical differences. A vast majority of them are not. Some of them are as small as mice, others stand as tall as skyscrapers. Some of them are bipedal, others are undulating masses of invertebrate muscles. Some walk, some crawl, some fly, some float. Yet all stand together in the face of the gold-and-silver, wielding power granted or stolen or self-made. Though they have undoubtedly been erased and scattered, the memories of their final hour linger.

The message is obvious: Fight. Fight like the trillions upon trillions upon trillions who came before. Fight because the only alternative is to go gently into the night. It sounds so simple, perhaps because it really is just that simple. After all, how hard can making choices be when they've already taken all choices from you?

The vision twists again as if to pre-empt my question.

I now stand in an endless void. There is no burning sky above or bleeding earth beneath me. Before me is a strange… creature? It is an amalgamation of rocks and dead woods held together by throbbing technicolor strands that reminded me of moss or mold. It whispers to me the secret of atoms and ancient hate, and then it is no more.

Another one approaches, this one a bipedal creature the size of a garden gnome with greyish green skin, four lanky arms, and three compound eyes. It rises to my height and whispers to me the secret of caged stars and ancient hates, and then it is no more.

The next one is an elephant-sized, centipede-like thing with grasping sinuous tentacles in place of legs and blinking eyes all along its spine. It nuzzles into my legs and whispers of fire and ancient hate, and then it is no more.

One by one they come, an endless conga line of every form that life might take within this vast universe. One of them teaches me how to forge blades and plates. Another teaches me how to pinch spaces and breach dimensions. Another teaches me how to cultivate seeds and domesticate beasts. Another teaches me how to breed and cage stars. Another teaches me how to skin a kill and smoke the meat. Another teaches me how to perceive every spectrum. Another teaches me how to sharpen sticks into spears. All of them teach their greatest achievements as a species. All of them teach me their hate.

One by one they come. One by one I listen. In life, they are vastly different. Different in physiology, in mentality, in accomplishment. In death, they are united. And they're passing their torch onto me.

[C—C—N——EMNATIN——ATION——ION]​

I crash back into my body as the vision finally recedes, my chest heaving and throat sore. I would love to say that this revelation brings a renewed surge of determination and optimism into my soul, causing me to immediately surge to my feet and fly into a frenzied flurry of planning and preparation as I turn this understanding and knowledge that has been given to me toward building a mighty bastion

But no, all that does is give me just enough strength to crawl back into my bed, where I promptly bury my face into my plush and scream. This is exactly what I want, isn't it? I have power now! Just like Dad! I'm probably the greatest tinker since Hero! It's everything I could need to make him proud! And all it costs is probably my sanity!

[——ND—MNA—I—N]​

Just… shut up. Shut up and let me think.

Eventually, it was not a heroic determination that wrench me from bed, but my stomach's growls of protest reminding me that my last meal was over 16 hours ago and I had puked most of it out. So, with all the grace of a freshly reanimated corpse, I shamble forth from my pillowy grave and out through the bedroom door. Only to immediately run head-first into a steel post masquerading as a man outside my room

"Kaida-sama." The hannya mask-wearing steel post greets me in slightly accented Japanese, not moving an inch as I climb back to my feet and dust down my blouse. Someone else might have taken offense, but you just get used to it after you spent enough time with him.

"Hi Ojisan," I mutter, wincing at the pain in my tailbone, "Is Tou-chan home?"

"Lung-sama has left before you wake up. He wishes for me to inform you that he is taking care of businesses and might be home late."

I wince again. Well, let's hope these businesses don't end up on the news then. Meanwhile, I'm still starving, and I expect that bear will be too once he gets home, so off to the kitchen I go. Uncle Lee, in his more-automaton-than-man fashion, follows close behind without a single word.

It's dark out the window, and the clock says 6 pm, so I guess it's time for an extra-large dinner. Which, as they always do, starts with a cup of uncooked rice getting thoroughly rinsed before going into the cooker. After eyeballing it for a second, I add another scoop, because I am really hungry.

"Hey Ojisan… did you have dinner?"

"No." comes the answer, and I added another half cup in for the rinse.

I'm used to cooking in silence, not so much with a trained, superpowered assassin watching over my shoulders with every step. This is just weird! Oni Lee is kinda-sorta-maybe a close family friend, but he's also… Oni Lee.

"I'm thinking… maybe pan-seared shrimps in coconut sauce and lime, with a side of sauteed veg? No problem with that?"

"No." Of course not. Pan's hot, shrimps go in. Ah, at least now the sizzling means I can sort of take my mind off of things. Sort of. Kinda. Not really. Let's try…. small talk?

"...Hey. Tou-chan never really tells me how he built… you know, the ABB?" I know the general story that most Brocktonites do and a little beyond that. We, Mom and Dad and I, came here to avoid the CUI's grasp. We wanted to build a new life, a peaceful and quiet life away from it all. And then the Farmers came.

Alone in the dark. Metal all around me. Ropes on-

After that… came Lung. Where there were five or six Asiatic ethnic gangs before, there was only the ABB when he was through. I don't know the exact details of it. Never reality wanted to know.

A rather uncomfortable silence fell on the kitchen as I finished the question, broken only by the pan's sizzling. Sometimes, I really worry about him.

"Lung-sama did not build the ABB," comes the eventual answer, and suddenly I decide it's better to take the shrimps off the heat while I hear this.

"What do you mean?"

"There was an ABB before there was Lung. There were others." I nod along. I know there were others, but I didn't know the names, and I definitely did not know that there was an ABB before him, "Lung made all into ABB. The people, the businesses, the creeds. They would leave their quarrels and become ABB or they will die. If they forget, Lung will remind them with fire."

I suck in a breath, nodding as I suppress a shudder. It was no great secret how he kept people in line. But I still don't necessarily like it.

"But… Why ABB? Why Azn Bad Boys of all things! Couldn't he have chosen anything else?"

Oni Lee shifts, his dead eyes boring into mine, and even with the mask, I swear I can see something like a smirk as he shrugs.

"The ABB was the first conquest. Your father did not care to pick a better name."

The sound of cooking once again reigns in my kitchen, and I did not try to challenge it this time. A few minutes pass between us before the rice was ready, at which point I plate out the shrimp and veggies for uncle Lee before taking my own portion and ducking back up to my room for some… processing.

I guess it makes sense. It makes a lot of sense, actually. I don't know what I thought happened, to be honest, it's not like he just gathered a bunch of gangbangers in a warehouse and just went "I am Lung. You're all Asian bad boys. We are now the Azn Bad Boys."

God. It hurts my brain just to imagine it actually. No. Dad simply took what was already there and reforged it in fire until it was what he wanted. So… if the logic follows, I just need to take the ABB and what I can get my hands on and reforge that into something that can weather the storm to come. And… well. Dad started from nothing but his power. I have Dad and the ABB.

I can take this city. Build a fortress. Build an empire.

I must. For Dad.

My eyes settle on the corkboard at the far side of my room. The thing was a gift from dad, but I did not quite understand its purpose until my second year at Winslow, at which point I started using it all the time.

The top half of the board was reserved for the ABB's Junior branch. Pictures of the lieutenants, dealers, runners, all sitting next to little printouts of my observations and spreadsheets on sale figures or troop numbers. At the very top was my own pretty face - and I made sure I got a picture that captured my best angle - because that's where the princess should be, but also because dad has assigned me to be their handlers and observers, to make sure they're ready for initiation into the true ABB. And at the bottom, the board is split into two.

On one side are the Empire's own juniors. I'm still not sure who their handler is, but I've got most of their "big brothers" and "big sisters" on the board, each with their own little briefing next to them. The other side is the Merchants who, lowlife animals that they are, still have some semblance of organization. There's just little that I care to dig up.

[C̵̼̯̓̓͠͠—̷̛͕̜̲̺N̸̞̩̔̑̃͝D̷͎̙́̀—̴̶̟̖͈̾̿̾͊̊͋M̴͍͓̕͜Ń̷̨̛̫̗̺̍͘Ȃ̵̺̈—̸̩̣̖̈́͝—̵͕͎̻͌ͅŅ̷̺͐]​

I saw them as enemies before. Now? They're more like… obstacles. Rocks sitting on where Dad's castle must be. They still had to go, but now I see how I can use them. How rocks can be ground down into foundations.

I prefer to do this peacefully, without all the arson and the burning. But, one way or another, I cannot afford their opposition if I am to get anything done. And not to mention, one of them is very unjustly holding the title of Empire.

That's the plan then, huh? Build a solid foundation and assume control of the infrastructure others had put in place. If dad unified the Asian diaspora under a single banner, I just have to… take that to its logical conclusion.

Yeah.

Well, if I'm going to do that, I'll need a better organization tool than a corkboard. Sorry, corkboard-san! You've been an invaluable help but I think it's time for an upgrade.

Setting my plates aside, I turn to my computer and close my eyes. Breathing in, I reach back to that fountain of understanding within my head and… turn a valve. Then, I got to work.

_____________________​

Author Note:
Hard about writing this is deciding how to format non-English speech (I already used italic for visions and flashbacks). Having it be normal text feels like it messes with the atmosphere somehow. Ultimately, I decided do the weeb things and pepper in the honorifics. I tried to do research to minimize cringe but... well... yaknow. Also I feel like it's important to have it be known the "tou-chan" roughly maps to "daddy" and the idea of anyone calling Lung daddy simply sends me.

Also, if any of you is sufficiently brain rotted, you may have noticed something.

Spoiler

Yep that is the premise of PixelGM's WormCYOA v6. Specifically Bridage's mod. I treat it more as a writing prompt that I take some creative liberties with, but Kaida is a valid and legal build! See if you can guess it

I dunno why I have to divulge it tbh I just can't not monologue.

 

[CaptainCece]

1st January, 2011

Tinkering is often depicted in media as a fugue, this state of heightened cognition where the tinker hyperfocus o their project, unaware of the world around them. It's a description lifted directly from an interview with The Tinker himself, Hero, and it has persisted. For me, it's a little like that, but also not.

Mine comes in three… states. The first is the default, how I always am without effort. I am… smarter? I'm not sure if that is the correct word, but it feels like the mental equivalent of living your entire life shortsighted before finally getting perfect prescription glasses. My thoughts feel clearer, faster, more focused. I can solve complex equations in my head that would have taken 10-15 minutes with a calculator and notebook before. I read a thesis paper and soak up the knowledge like a sponge. It feels like someone has jammed in better RAMs and GPU and CPUs into my brain.

The second state is similar to how some tinkers describe themself: knowledge ex nihilo. It is when I focus on the memories and let their knowledge pour onto me like a warm shower. There is a lot in there. Imagine all the knowledge a civilization may accrue and multiply it by... just some arbitrarily big number with too many zeroes. They're categorized, conveniently enough. Though some categories refuse to respond to my prodding, and others have holes and gaps in them.

The last is the fugue. The flow state. That moment of hyperfocus where my world shrinks down to just me, what I need to create, and what I can use. It's easy to slip into it from the second state, almost like how it's easier to fully extend or contract a muscle rather than something halfway.

Power's weird. Awesome, but weird.

I've been spending the last couple of hours or so in front of my PC and exploring what I can do in terms of pure Software are relatively easy hurdles to get around, even if I don't look forward to building my own OS from the ground up. Hardware… Well luckily my rig is top of the line as far as it goes and I can always ask my dad for more, but eventually, I'll run into the limitations of commercially-available hardware.

But that's for Future Me to deal with. Right now, I am more focused on putting the deluge of theoretical in my head to practice making a pattern recognition software in DragonScript. I know I'll need something to help me process a vast amount of information and make predictions going forward, and even if I end up moving to my own hardware, OS, and language, the experience will carry over anyway.

Right now, after hours of trial and error and digital black magic, I can finally lean back and watch my fruit of labor autonomously play Minesweeper. It tries, fails, recognizes the pattern, implements new solutions, fails, rinses and repeats. Eventually, when I am satisfied with its pattern recognition ability, I would turn it toward devouring all the information I have compiled on my competitions and compile it all into a living, predicting database on juvenile criminals. But that's for tomorrow. Today, it plays minesweeper.

Three thunderous rappings on my door brought me out of my contemplation, and a quick glance at the clock informs me it's currently just a little past 1 AM. That is….slightly concerning.

Dad was waiting on the other side as I open the door. He looks tired. Not physically, I don't think he can get tired, but there is a weariness to him that I very rarely see. He gazes down at me, then past me to the screen full of scrolling data behind me, then back again. It's hard to really guess what he's thinking with a face that scowls by default.

"Tou-chan… Is… is everything okay?" I venture to ask.

"It will be." He answers with a snort before going down on one knee, his right hand squeezing my shoulder and face softening into an approximation of gentleness, "And yet I've failed. What happened to you never should have happened, For that, I for everything, I-"

"No!" The word leaves my mouth before I even realize it, and his eyes narrow just a hair, very much not used to being so rudely interrupted, "It's not your fault! And… and I don't want to think about it…"

I try to find something else to offer, something more rational than that, only to come up blank. I just… really didn't want to think about it. And seeing him so… uncertain and afraid is… just not right. He has never been like this before. Except for…

Ropes on my arms. Ropes on my legs. I can't move. Mother isn't…

"Where are they? What did you do to them?!"

"I'll kill you! I'll kieell ugh! AALL EEELL . UUUGH.!"

"It's… over now, right? I have power now! I can fight if I must! But it doesn't matter! Because you handled all of them yourself, like a dragon would, right tou-chan?"

He stares at and through me, his hand gripping mine so much that it hurt. Then, after what felt like an eternity, he nods

"Yes. Like a dragon would." Then, breaking his gaze, Dad turns to my computer screen and lets out a grunt, "You are a tinker?"

I nod and pull him toward the chair. With a beaming smile and a head whirling with ideas, I told him what I had done, and all that I am capable of.

_____________________​

Author Note: This is a weirdly short chapter. I'm pretty sure I wrote this when I was in one of my creative lows and typing words felt like pulling teeth.

It doesn't fit in the last and the next chapter, but I still think it's necessary to set some groundwork for what's to come. I dunno.

 

[CaptainCece]

2nd January, 2011

There are plenty of horror stories about a tinker's beginning, tales of scrapyard skulking and dumpster diving, trying to put together some half-functioning contraption to protect themselves before the local factions catch wind of their existence and force them in line through vicious coercion and manipulation.

Those are peasant problems. For the princess of the ABB, my introduction to the world of superpowers is getting my costume custom-fitted at a tailor before riding down to my new workshop made just for me, because privilege is just the best thing ever.

"Your design should be ready within a few weeks. It's quite elaborate," The seamstress speaks as she circled me, inspecting my temporary getup for any flaw. They're skilled, but no Parian, so I couldn't expect miracles, "I hope this will be sufficient in the meantime. You… are familiar with how to walk in those, I hope?"

I nod, taking a moment to appreciate the woman in the mirror. She wore a kimono cut from fine silks and embroidered with patterns of phoenixes soaring among clouds. Its hemline was cut far shorter than what would be traditional, going only to her mid-thigh and leaving the white-toed socks and red wedge-flip flop… things exposed. Tabi socks and zori, according to my outfitters. A porcelain mask hides her face, pale as snow saves for the burst of red upon the lips and black eyeshadow painted around the eyes.

I had a good grasp on the broad strokes of what my cape persona will be. She would be as implacable and unshakable as Mount Tai, as detached and eerie as an angel. The details I will have to fill in as I go, but this has to be an icon-worthy persona.

Returning to reality, I take a few tentative steps in the unusual footwear before giving the seamstress an imperious nod. I'm used to walking in heels and wedges, though the toe straps feel a bit awkward to use; a small price to pay for proper presentation. The seamstress gave a nod in satisfaction before continuing,

"Try to hold the strap with your toes and keep it from rubbing against your feet. Is everything to your satisfaction?"

"Quite. Your work is of high quality," I replied through the voice filter installed beneath the mask, and what comes out was a melodious yet emotionless voice. Not flat, but its intonations and inflection are algorithmically distributed to create an unnerving and off-puting experience. I had to sacrifice my phone for it, but it's worth it. Besides, the new model came out last week so I'm due for an update anyway, "Payment will be transferred to your account, of course."

The woman nods meekly as I leave, my steps slow and measured as I get used to the new footwear. Fortunately, Uncle Lee has parked only a few strides away from the door. As I get situated next to him, he spared my temporary outfit a single glance, followed by one nod, and then we were off to my new workshop.

Coming out of the ABB's pocket by the order of my fire-breathing father, the workshop was a refurbished chopshop on the northern side of the Docks. It's a decently long drive, made only longer by the fact that Lee doesn't understand the concept of small talk. Regardless, I pass the time shuffling through concepts and ideas in my head until the car eventually pulls to a stop and Oni Lee opens the door for me again, letting me take in the view of my very own villain's lair.

It's… not much to look at: a squat, huge, and uninspired concrete box of indiscernible and/or tasteless graffiti over a coat of faded and peeling paint of an equally indiscernible shade. An illogical part of me almost bristles at how dour my workshop-to-be is, but I brush it aside.

The interior is better. It's wide and spacious like any motor garage would be, complete with all the utilities and power tools to carve open stolen vehicles. I can already see how the workshop would come together in my head, but that was for a later date. Today, I need to get the office set up and get to sorting out the paperwork!

There is a lot of paperwork regarding building a criminal empire. Not formal (yet), but you still need to know where the money, resources, and men are going. I don't mind it, it's almost soothing. Good paperwork and clean organization are the signs of a well-oiled machine. And, well… when you're trying to…

[CONDEMNATION]​

…Trying to build something that would shelter your family and everything you hold dear from the looming apocalypse… you need to find the reassurances somewhere while I get all my ducks in marching formation.

But tackling the end of the world is a long-term goal. And when it comes to long-term goals, they need to be broken down into medium-term objectives, and objectives then need to be broken down into short-term steps. In short: I need money to save the world. More money than what Dad's put into the tinkering chest. Thus, I need to expand the ABB's bottom line, which not only will…

Hmm… Something isn't right. Do I have… there we go!

"Oni Lee. Please report to the office at your convenience." God, intercoms are the best.

While waiting, I made sure everything was set up just right, going over the survey questions and attached instructions, scrubbing the USB clean and uploading everything on it, followed by…

Damn. This chair isn't a swivel chair. I'll need to fix that too!

"I am here." Uncle Lee announces as he enters just as I finished steepling my fingers, and I immediately bite back the instinctive response of 'ojisan'.

"Ah, Lee. There's something I need doing," I tap the USB drive as he approaches, signaling for him to pick it up, "In that drive is a survey form and attached instructions on how many copies to print, where to distribute, and cover story if needed. I'll need the raw data to come back as soon as possible, and I trust that you'll know to delegate this task appropriately?"

He stares at the USB held between his fingers for a brief second before turning back to me, his masked face tilting the barest degree as he waits for an elaboration.

"Yes, no doubt you're wondering what purpose this will serve!" I continue, knowing I won't get a better prompt from this man than this, "Well, as you know, the ABB's revenue came from three pillars: tributes,"

A fancier word for racket money, unsavory yet unfortunately necessarily. Practically speaking, it is no different from the cut that the taxman takes, with the difference being that we actually take care of taxpayers.

"Pleasure."

Specifically casinos and brothels. Victimless crimes as far as I am concerned, and in many ways the signature brand of the ABB. No sane individual would touch a Merchant just as matter of safety, and something as "degenerate" as sex work runs contrary to the E88's idea of Aryan purity or whatever they call it. They still have business, but it's the ABB that brings in sex tourism and accounts for the lion's share of activity.

"And drugs."

Even more unfortunate than the racketeering, and really my least favorite of the trio. Really feels like it's cutting into the future efficiency of the operation for short-term profit. Then again, if someone's stupid enough to rot their brains with narcotics, how much can they contribute to the long term operation anyway? Regardless, I should do something about it, to maximize return customers if nothing else.

"But there is another market that is yet to be tapped, a market that I think I am uniquely equipped to capitalize on: independent parahuman healthcare!" I rise to my feet and begin pacing, "For you see, despite Panacea's existence, she can only heal so much and, more importantly, she only makes her rounds in Brockton Bay General. For some in our community, a funeral is more preferable than an ambulance ride and definitely far more preferable than a lifetime of medical debt." There are anecdotal accounts of drivers who injure someone in an accident would rather… backup and adjust their vehicles a few times, seeing how paying for a funeral and a manslaughter settlement is far cheaper than the hospital.

Premium expenses for subpar treatments? Preposterous.

"Now, if I am to come and seize upon that niche, not only would it prove the worth of my operation to… Lung by raking in revenue and strengthening the foundation, it would create the impression to the world that I am not a 'villain', but an independent healer. Not as selfless as Panacea, but a healer nonetheless. And a healer's reputation in our game is worth its weight in gold."

The only sign that Uncle Lee even notices that my monologue has concluded is his head tilting a couple of degrees further and a very, very slow blink beneath his mask. Finally, thankfully, because I very much don't want to awkwardly pick up the rest of the conversation myself, he speaks.

"Don't do that when you're fighting."

And with that, he bows and makes an unceremonious exit, offering no comment or criticism whatsoever to the actual….

I really need some better conversation partners. Maybe some kind of AI-driven conversation engine…

_____________________​

Author Note:
Most of the effort that went into this chapter was spent researching traditional Japanese and Chinese clothes. The rest was spent musing about how much Kaida would unironically enjoy Coil's brand of villainy if not for the whole... candy things.

Also, this is either gonna come up in this chapter or the next: Kaida is definitely white(HAH)washing the ABB. This ABB is slightly better than canon ABB on account of Lung having this crazy new power called Basic Human Decency, but noble demon Yakuza they are not.

 

[CaptainCece]

4th January, 2011

Going back to school feels… strange.

Yesterday I was piping technicolor chemicals through pipes and flasks, observing and recording as they bubbled and boiled, spewing fumes and changing hues. And then father came to remind me that winter break was over and school is today. And so it's back to waking up early in the morning to cook breakfast (I should get that automated too), showering, changing, and sitting before my mirror to put on my warpaint.

Though I've neglected it for two days on account of the mask thing, my hands still moved on their own. First start with a pale shade of foundation to set the tone, followed by faint shadows around the eyes, eyeliners to enhance the lashes, and a finish with a light touch of mascara to make said lashes pop. Then I applied a faint blush to accentuate the face before using an imperial red lip stain to complete the entire look with a pop of vibrancy. Finally, a quick spritz of setting spray keeps it protected against Brockton Bay's humidity.

With the last piece in place, I lean back and start straightening my hair while I assess my work: It invokes the image of an oriental princess: jade-like, regal, and coldly distant. It's a look I had meticulously cultivated from rigorous dissection of my underlings' favorite media and has since become an integral part of my image. I've gotten its application down to a rote routine. It was relaxing too, in a way. Like a return to normalcy after two days of madness, and I can appreciate routine and normalcy.

Still, maybe this can be improved upon. Perhaps… bio-sculpting? No, I would be locked to one look then. Make-up robots then? Or maybe I should improve the cosmetic products themselves? Thoughts for later.

With the warpaint in place, next comes the armor. My outfit of choice for school is simpler: a white blouse, black pleated miniskirt, shin-height white socks, black Mary Jane shoes, and completed with a golden necklace holding a jade dragon to announce my allegiance. These clothes announce my station through their make and quality, not embellishments.

And now, finally, getting the smile right. It's been a while since I last put it on, what with the winter break and the tinkering and everything. The first smile is a bit too bright and friendly, the next one too wooden, the third too Mona Lisa-esque, the fourth looks like I'm trying to eat someone alive...

This will take a while.

I ended up having to look through some selfies on my computer for reference and use my fingers to manually put the muscles in the right place. But once that last piece of the puzzle is in place, all that's left to do is to get down, get out of the house, step into the car, be driven to school, and step through Winslow's dreary, rusted gates. So, with a steadying breath and a great burst of willpower, I begin my day.

It's… patently absurd how hard going to school is when you consider that I've spent my weekend being a literal supervillain, with lair and all. It's not as if I'm at the bottom of the inner city high school totem pole socially or academically, there shouldn't be any reason for this to be anything remotely scary. But when I'm here, looking up at the gate? It still is.

We've even floated the idea of me simply dropping out. After all, Winslow was meant to be my proving ground. A place for me to run a miniature ABB in a miniature Brockton Bay, God knows I didn't go here for book learning. For all intents and purposes, I've graduated. There's not really a practical reason for me to be here anymore. Nothing except…

"K-Kaida! You're alive?!" I turn toward the voice, carefully schooling my expression to give nothing more than a single raised eyebrow, "I've been trying to reach you for the whole dang week! People…people are freaking out!"

I recognize the speaker just by his familiar posture: scrawny and slightly hunched over from the bulging, overstuffed backpack that dwarfs his torso, with arms that are a bit too long that he constantly wrings in nervous energy. His hair is an unkept, greasy mop, his face is wracked with acne, and his glasses are thick like goggles. It all conjures an unfortunately rat-like image. It's no surprise that his social standing hinges entirely on my patronage.

Which is perfect, seeing that he is also a brilliant guy with good eyes for details and a head for organization. Really, he was practically delivered into my palms.

"Yes, P." I drawl, ignoring his little protest about 'preferring Fixer'," That seems to be the case last time I checked. What is it?"

Trần Vương Phúc is a second-generation immigrant, and he has a first name that still sounds unfortunate even when you pronounce it correctly. Using just the initial doesn't really help either given that we're in a high school and surrounded by high schoolers. He's been pushing hard to get Fixer to take off as a nickname, and sometimes I even indulge him when I'm in a good mood!

"Well… it's… you know! Lung! Demolishing an entire building out of nowhere! Then he starts calling meetings in the middle of the night! They're saying he's gonna light the Pyre again! And then the Oni were making us fill out surveys?" His voice gets higher pitched and manic as he speaks, "I tried to call you but I couldn't connect and you weren't online anywhere! Like… are we-"

I cut him off with a finger even as I mentally curse myself for forgetting to get a replacement phone. Caught up in the tinkering.

"I see. My phone broke over the weekend and hasn't got a replacement," I answer, and I could see the way his face twists in response, no doubt already making some conclusions from that. Despite everything, he's bright and sharp, enough that I consider him my secretary, "Yes. We have a situation, but there shouldn't be a war. Tell everyone to come to the clubroom at lunch, I'll make a quick announcement. Is there anything else?"

"No... There's no other emergency." Phúc replied, his hands wringing again, "I'll see what comes up at the end of the day after I get the reports and the cuts? But if there's anything serious I should hav-the fuck!?"

A wall of palpable, physical stench slaps us in the face, his speech giving way to dry retching while my face pinches up in disgust.

There's something of a commotion up ahead by the lockers, a whole mass of students - mostly unaffiliated - gathering despite the stench and jeering. My eyes picked out a decently pretty girl with red hair; someone I vaguely remember as being important, but not enough to have a place on the board, and so not important enough for me to remember her name.

I need a HUD. Cool tinkers have HUD.

"What-what the fuck is that smell?" Phúc gags again as he audibly rustles through his bag. When I look over his face is already covered under three medical masks while offering me three more, "I didn't know they're deploying biochemical warfare this early in the morning!"

"Thanks Fixer." I nod, taking three for myself as well, "Just the peasants causing trouble, I think. Let's take the other hall."

We turn around and make our exit, idly discussing the plan for the week as I did. Before we leave the scene fully, I spare one last glance over my shoulder at the spectacle. They're dispersed enough now that I could see the horrid stain on the floor and the shaking and banging coming from inside a locker.

Figures.

The quaint things white trash do to entertain themselves, I guess? Someone'll get her in a few minutes, probably.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
​

"...next is the mitochondria, which is the…"

I've vastly underestimated how dull classes turn out to be. I knew it was going to be easy; I didn't exactly struggle with them before I got wired to an alien supercomputer containing archives of Clarketech beyond humanity's wildest dreams and nightmares. If nothing else, I intended on indulging in showing off a little.

But I forgot that this is Winslow and nobody, teachers nor students, care about being smart and knowing things. Damn anti-intellectuals, the lot of them.

So instead I pass the time by scribbling plans, ideas, and sketches down in my notebook while the teacher drones away, taking care to tap into that vast repository without going into a fugue in the middle of school. It's really easy to get distracted, there's just… so much in here. The vast majority of it remains unresponsive, but even the tiny fraction available for me to peruse is choked full of possibilities. There is so much I can do, so much I want to do.

So much I must do.

I try to focus on biology and medical technology, on the principles and methods of healing and mending the human body. Modifying it. Augmenting it.

So, so very easy to get sidetracked.

I drift like that from class to class, paying the bare minimum needed to function while I slowly digest the cosmic wealth dripping in my head while holding myself back from fully slipping into a fugue. When the lunch bell finally rings, it brings with it a deep, delicious relief from this utter boredom. Finally, now I can do something fun.

My lieutenant is dutifully waiting for me outside my classroom in all of his ratty awkward glory. As I step out, he wordlessly falls into step behind me. The journey to the club is entirely silent, with me still deep in my musings and Phúc deciding there's no reason to interrupt my train of thoughts as we head for the club meeting.

The scent of nicotine permeating the air finally brings my full attention back to reality even as an eye twitches in annoyance. Pushing the door open with my left hand, my right snaps out of pure ingrained routine and plucks a smoking cigarette.

"Heey!" I answer the smoker's protest with my best deadpan glare as I snuff out the cancer stick on a nearby table. She folds her arms across her chest and pouts, "Geez! What's that for?"

"I'm fairly sure you're doing this to annoy me, Chen." Jennifer Chen is a sight to behold. She stands at a few inches under six feet and proudly rocks a fashion sense that I would describe as 'neogoth, punk, and biker gangs in a catastrophic pileup with no survivors': black hoodie emblazoned with coiling dragons and studded like a biker vest, tank top advertising some obscure metal(?) band, black miniskirt with streaks of purple, platform combat boots, black lipstick, the entire works. Her allegiance is declared through the locks of green and gold peeking out from beneath the hood, and the thick chains wrapped around her wrists are a tragic fashion statement and unorthodox if effective weapons.

Jennifer was my first minion. She came to me on the first day of Winslow and said her brother got a tipoff that 'some ABB bigshot's sprog is gonna be attending and she better start licking boots for the benefit'. I asked if she wanted to lick mine. She said no. I asked if she wanted to beat unreasonable people up for me at the rate of $300 a week. She said yes. And thus, jolly cooperation was born.

"Princess, I'd never!" Jennifer lies as naturally as she breathes, her left hand fiddling with the clasp that keeps her right chain in place and letting them unfurl. With a cheshire grin, she merrily skips over to the blackboard, "Here, let me announce your highness' presence!"

Ignoring her sass, I take my place behind the teacher's desk and wait. Some of the room has noticed my entrance and quieted down, most haven't. The thunderous bang of Jenifer's chain slapping against the chalkboard quickly changes that.

"QUIET YOU MONKEYS!" Jennifer's voice booms across the club room, and it's always flattering to see the rowdy punks scramble to straighten and make themselves look presentable under my sweeping gaze. A few of them even wave and offer me silly smiles, so I make sure to offer something appropriately friendly-yet-distant in turn.

Officially, this is the Anime Club. That's polite fiction. The truth is that this is where the Winslow ABB gathers for their weekly briefing and debriefing. We're left alone for the most part aside from one incident with that one blond kid who barged in jabbering about… 'waifus'.

I clear my throat, and their undivided attention is upon me. The silence disturbed only by the sound of chalk on blackboard as Phúc jots down the meeting's agenda.

"Thank you for coming to this week's meeting," I offer the room a bright smile, "Now, I think we should start by addressing the elephant in the room. I'm not going to lie to you: Lung is very angry. Someone has struck at him. Directly"

I pause, giving them a chance to digest the revelation. Confusion and concern was practically written in neon signs in the air, some that even seem to be directed toward me, which is… honestly rather flattering. Regardless, I let the suspense build up before proceeding.

"I was fortunately unaffected during the incident, there is no need to be worried. The offenders have been removed… with extreme prejudice," My feet twitch at the phantom sensation of rope around my ankle and my smile suddenly feels oddly wooden, though the room seems satisfied, "However, Lung suspects treachery within the ranks. And he intends on removing the rot in our family."

I give them a few moments to indulge in murmur and speculation before I clear my throat again and offer my best reassuring smile.

"If it helps, I've made some inquiries and I don't believe that the family of anyone here is under suspicion." The wave of relief that follows is palpable, "And I have it on good authority that the perpetrator is based out of our city, so you don't have to worry about open war on the street in the near future."

Pause. Smile. Let them take it in. Continue.

"Onto the other matter: some of you may have received surveys. I know it's unusual, but I was informed that this is a part of a secret project, so just play long." I lean forward, my expression changing from serene and professional to mischievous, "Word on the vines is that a new cape is preparing to debut. Something about our own Panacea, but you didn't hear that from me!"

I wink, delighting in the way they all latched onto my words. A little grassroot rumor mill would do wonders for building anticipation for my cape persona's emergence. And besides, I'm allowed to indulge a little bit, now and then.

"Next on today's agenda, expansion!" I chirp brightly, "Anyone here who keeps clients or companies outside of our usual demographic?" Non-Asian, in other words, though saying it outright is too direct for my image. Everyone looks between themselves uneasily, uncertain of where I am taking this. Finally, a few hesitant arms rise into the air.

"Good!" I nod, disarming the tension with a particularly bright smile and watch as relief floods their faces, "Keep the connections. In fact, I want reports on their suitability for recruitment,"

More murmuring. Shock, uncertainty, disbelief. I let them indulge for a brief moment before quieting them with my voice.

"I know this is highly unusual, but Lung isn't going to be happy ruling over just us for much longer, you know. We'll have to work with them eventually." The sentence is loaded with implications, especially with the previous teasers of secret projects and secret cape, "If there is such a thing as a Pan-Asian alliance, how hard can world peace be?"

The laughter that comes is a tad forced, tinged with nervousness and awkwardness. Honestly the joke wasn't that funny and all of these revelations must have sapped their humor. I don't mind that much if I am to be honest, A for effort and all that.

"Now that's all for Brockton Issues class. Now, I believe Phúc has something for us." I turn to the boy, not acknowledging the snickering from the peanut gallery. I always pronounce his full name as "fudge" given that using profanity is hardly appropriate for my image and pronouncing it right is no fun. He sputters but quickly finds his wit again as he sets his overstuffed backpack on a nearby table and retrieves a thick stack of paper from it.

"R-Right! So, everyone, I got the question sets for next month's Physics, History, and Biology tests! I think Maths is gonna be next too!" A round of scattered cheering goes up around the room at the news before the ratty boy coughs awkwardly and continues, "So… uh… people who are below the MGT are gonna have to… stay behind for group lessons. So… Jennifer, Cody, Ashraf, Saito. Anyone can come if you… want! I'll be… waiting… after school…"

This declaration was met by booing this time, more teasing theatrics than actual anger, but seeing that the boy isn't gonna parry, I decide to step in.

"Now, now. We've been over this. Why is this necessary?"

They grumble as they always do, more a bit of ritualistic theatrics than actual complaints at this point, before reciting the lines I've gone to great lengths to hammer into their heads anyway.

"Good grades get you important jobs and connections."

I nod.

"And what do important jobs and connections get you?"

"Positions better than footsoldiers."

"Good! You remember." I nod again and smile, showing them my satisfaction, "So don't give our favorite dork a hard time now, he's only here to help. Besides, I'll try to clear my schedule and be there too. So I do hope we can see there!"

The Minimum Grade Threshold is by far my least popular mandate yet, costing me a fair chunk of goodwill from the rowdy bunch. Yet I stand by it. The ABB is a career path, and this is an internship. And the Dragon's Daughter isn't going to settle for molding her subordinate into anything less than the next generation of officers and lieutenants.

The meeting concludes with the issue of passing out salaries, bonuses. I make sure everyone in my circle receives a salary north of the minimum for their contribution. The act is more than just buying their loyalty with dollars. Unlike most people in this room - people like Jennifer Chen - I don't assert my power by exuding toughness or martial prowess. No, mine is grandeur and prestige. It's no secret that Yang Kaida can't kick your ass, but Yang Kaida is royalty. The money that I toss around weekly is a part of that image. That, and an unpaid internship is far beneath me.

Some of these kids make as much as their parents. A few of them make more. It's a sad reality, but one I can capitalize on.

One by one, they walk to me. Casually, I would hand them their due. I thank them for their continued service. I offer smiles, congratulations, and bonuses for those who exceed my expectations. For those who fall short, they receive frowns, chastisement, and penalties. One by one, they filter out of the room, until only I, Jennifer, and Phúc remain behind.

"Well! That was a productive meeting, wasn't it?" I say with a smile as I stand and receive answers in the form of a huff and a few nervous titters.

"If you say so Princess," Jennifer drawls as she hoists her bag over her shoulders and falls in line behind me to the left, "It's really reassuring knowing at least my family won't be impaled and cremated, yaknow?"

"Well, such is the Brockton Bay Charm. Say Jen, are you up for a lunch run?" It's a well-known truism that cafeteria lunches are prepared by the hands of devils to be consumed only by damned souls. If situations permit, kids would pack their own lunch. If not, they'd instead pass money onto lunch runners who had the athleticism and subtlety to evade security and bring back precious cargo in the form of edible food.

Really, it's a whole economy.

"Hmm… suuure. Not too far, maybe Jenkin's?" Despite the surface unenthusiasm, I can already see Jennifer shifting from one leg to the next in anticipation. She goes on a run practically once every day. Still, it's only polite to ask.

"That would be lovely. Get me their Cubano if you will. You want anything P?" I answer, suppressing a smirk at my other lieutenant's grumbling.

"I've… I've never had Jenkin's before. So.."

"Two Cubanos then," I make sure my overly exaggerated eye rolling is visible as I press the lunch fund into Jen's hand, "You'll thank me later."

"Two Cubanos for the Princess!" Jen snaps a mocking salute before dashing over to a nearby window. Though, with the glass pane long smashed and most of the frame sawn off long ago, it's more of a rectangular hole in the wall. I watch as she vaults through the opening and out of sight, then hears the sounds of the drainage pipe creaking, followed by the rustling of bushes.

And so, we make our way toward the canteen.

"I don't… know why she does that." Phúc mutters behind me as we walk, speaking as much to himself as to me, "The fire exit is… literally over there. I just…"

"She does it for the flair, I believe," I chuckle, catching a glimpse of the abject incomprehension on his face as we walk, "Don't sweat too much about it. You have something for me?"

"Huh? Oh! Yes." The rat boy unslung his heavy bag for a moment to retrieve a notebook with thick black covers and begin rifling through the pages, "What you said about expanded demographic. I got a few leads, but I think I'll need more cannabis to smooth it out."

"I see." I don't bother to make an attempt to hide my satisfied smile, "I'll make sure it'll come in the next shipment."

There's a reason why I consider him my right hand despite Jennifer being the first lieutenant. Out of everyone here, he's the only one to share my love of organization, and our daily discussion on the Winslow branch's operation never fails to be the highlight of my day.

"...so I think if we can undercut the-the… fuck! It still stinks!?"

Unfortunately, a familiar miasma of putrid stench has decided to make itself known again, and the gagging at my side doesn't help at all. It's worse now, actually. As if whatever it was really just fermented up to high heaven. I've seen and smelt some stink bombs in my time here, but this is practically tinkertech.

Beating back the majority of my disgust, I snatch a handful of masks out of Phúc's hand and reinforce it with a very generous spritz of my perfume before passing the bottle to him. Now that my eyes are no longer watering, I can make out the puddle of suspicious liquid I saw this morning has grown by quite a bit, seeping out from the locker where that girl was locked in. Said locker seems untouched if not for an outward bulge to the bottom half, like someone trying to kick their way out from inside.

Trapped in the dark. Metal all around. Ropes on my legs. Ropes on my arms. They're watching. They're laug-

"Fixer. Pop that locker." He spins to face me, eyes bulging almost comically behind his thick glasses. His mouth opens to protest, but the glare in my eyes snuffs out all arguments, "Do it. I'll make sure to arrange a bonus."

He nods stiffly and sets his bag down on the floor. A moment of rifling later, my lieutenant retrieves a crowbar and grimly strides forth to accomplish his duty. For some reason, despite the stench only intensifying with each step forward, I follow close behind.

Despite lacking in bulk and upper body strength, Phúc wields the tool with obvious proficiency. It takes him less than a second to spot and wedge the crowbar into a gap in the door. Then, bracing one leg against the locker aisle, he throws his entire strength and weight against the locker. The cheap metal barely puts up a second of resistance before coming loose with a pop that has him stumbling back to reveal its horror to me.

The locker was half filled with this semi-solid brown sludge streaked through with red, white, green, and black. Amidst that mass, I spot half-rotten remnants that hint at the origin of this mass: used pads and tampons, wet wipes, toilet paper, the works. Whatever it was, it's an infestation site now. I see maggots, flies, cockroaches, spiders, and all the other assorted crawlies that call the walls of Winslow their home. They burrow freely in that mass of congealed biohazard, piling up higher than me. And the moment light pours in, they surge forth as a solid whole, screeching and screaming and clawin-

Oh…

That's a person.

The black squirming mass upon them explodes outward like a living tidal wave, revealing a tall young girl, with long curly black hair, a wide mouth, and the smashed remnants of a pair of glasses clinging to her face.

Locker Girl collides with me like a manic freight train, and it takes all of my grace and strength to adjust our trajectory so that we would fall away from that pool of horror juice. Unfortunately, that also means the still catatonic, still screeching and clawing girl lands right into my lap and most of my strength is swiftly redirected to keeping her from ruining my damn makeup and also face!

And so, as I sit on my ass trying to contain a teenager-shaped feral cat while hopped up on adrenaline-fueled hyper awareness, I vaguely note Phúc frantically yelling on his phone, the absolute lack of any bugs still clinging to Locker Girl's body, the scattered onlookers starting to gather from the pandemonium, the teeming, seething, living mattress radiating around and away from us, and the flickering of a fluorescent bulb long due for replacement, the only thing that I can really think was…

The fucking quaint shit white trash do to entertain themselves.

_____________________​

Author Note:

I love Compulsions. Lucky's the best.

But seriously, this chapter was a doozy. For one, I had to enlist the help of a theater kid for advises for writing make-up and fashions (that's how I learned Neogoth is a thing and I far prefer it over Goth). For two, Kaida is a social butterfly. A queen bee, that one.

I haven't been in a high school for at least 4 years which is basically 10 years which is basically forever! And even then all I really had to show for it was like I think 3 friends that I don't keep in touch with and an infinite supply exam-themed nightmares. How the fuck do I write a social butterfly?

 

[CaptainCece]

January 4th, 2011

Karma is a conspiracy theory.

No. Really. It is. All conspiracies ultimately boil down to a need to feel special among one's peers and to justify tragic events happening. If the Horrible Thing that happened to me was the result of malicious machinations of shadowy masterminds, then there are still reasons and I'm still important enough to be plotted against. But if there are actually no masterminds? It means the universe is truly indifferent, the Horrible Thing happened for no reason, and I don't matter at all!

Imagine doing that much mental gymnastics just to feel important.

Karma is like that. Why did a Horrible Thing happen to me? Because I was Naughty at some vaguely indeterminate point in the past, anywhere between the dawn of creation and now. I did a Good Thing, why am I not getting a reward? Don't worry, the reward will come at some vaguely indeterminate point in the future, anywhere between the next second and the heat death of the universe. Again, it's all mental gymnastics.

And I know it's fucking bunk because all I got for saving a girl from a literal shitbox was the absolute indignity of having to use Winslow's shower to wash the shit juice off of me. I don't know how anyone can use this thing on a weekly basis: the showerheadshower head doesn't move, the water pressure is a trickle, the temperature has a Stranger rating, the ventilation's so shot I might grow gills from the humidity, and all I got is this travel-sized bottle of two-in-one shampoo and shower gel picked up from a nearby grocery! This is a goddamn tragedy.

And they share this thing! Absolute war crime, that. At least my minions showed the initiative of claiming this entire shower for me because I'd be next in line for the psych ward otherwise.

Once I am done scrubbing myself down with the entire bottle of soap and very pointedly not thinking of what this subpar product is doing to my skin and hair, I wipe myself dry and grumpily put on the emergency clothes I just had bought because my previous set is going straight into the incinerator. Cheap cotton for the shirt, the skirt feels rough, and the shoe's offbrand. Still, resolving to make this whole pauper chic work, I take a deep breath, step out of the conquered shower, and…

"...Wow. Gasp." The sounds of clanking chains accompany the… vocalization as I mentally add 'sassed by Jennifer on my appearance' to the list of indignities I got for trying to be a good person. Gathering all of my power, I send my best side glare at the impudent lieutenant.

Her grin only widens.

"Don't be like that Kaida! It's just the first time I've seen you without makeup!" My eyes narrow further at the statement. And here I am just about to praise her for quick thinking in the face of a crisis. Instead, I just snatch my bag out of her hands and march off, grumbling to myself as I did.

"You're late for class, Chen." As am I. By about thirty minutes or so, but she doesn't care and I would sooner kiss a frog before I show up in class covered in shit juice, "Emergency meeting after school. We need to get our stories straight before the pigs come."

"Damn. That bad?"

"There's a biohazard team here."

Really, it's quite the testament to both Winslow and Brockton Bay that classes are still proceeding business as usual despite what might as well be a bioterrorist attack leaving one student catatonic and probably in toxic shock and another subjected to inhumane conditions.

Regardless, I hold my chin high and scrape all grumpiness off my face until only the facade of serene calmness remain as I return to the classroom and take my seat, ready to confront the rest of this cursed day with nothing less than regal fucking grace.

Luckily for me, the afternoon passes by in uneventful-if-uneasy quiet with all the faculty desperately pretending that nothing is wrong despite the cordoned off locker aisle and the rest of the student body waiting for the other shoe that never came. As for me, I spend the rest of the day doodling ideas down in my notebook, though even that eventually hithits a wall. This notebook is too small to hold my ambitions. So when the bell finally rings one final time, I immediately pack my bag and make a beeline for the roof.

Ostensibly, the roof is off limits to students. In reality, the door has been kicked off its hinges a long time and the school couldn't be bothered to do anything more than propping it back in place and slap on a "Do not Enter" sign, as if under the delusion that Winslow students would actually obey.

I hear the din of rowdy conversations before I ascend the final flight of dank, poorly-lit stairs, most of the troop no doubt already retreated here before the bell like the delinquents they are. Not that I mind that they show up early for the meeting, especially when I can just knock on the rusted metal slat sitting askew against the frame and have someone else drag it aside for me to the teeth-rattling sound of rusted metal grinding against concrete.

I'm not going addgoing to add "perform menial labor" to the indignities. Not today.

I grace the doorman with a small smile and a nod of acknowledgement. He's a rotund Indian boy dressed in baggy clothing, His face dominated by a goofy grin and a teenage stubble that's mostly mustachemostly mustache. It takes me a second to match the face with the relevant corkboard dossier: Ashraf Khan, noted for physical strength combined with an aversion to violence, a rare mix in Winslow. Useful when you want brawn with some built-in brain.

"Kaida! We've been waiting for you!" His goofy grin got wider and goofier as he throws an arm outward. My eyes follow the gesture, sweeping over the gaggles of A-to-Bs here. I see Jennifer Chen cursing up a storm as she tosses a handful of playing cards and a few loose changes to a group of jeering boys before taking a drag from her cancer stick. There, I see Phúc guiding a band of minions, some of which were a class or two above him, through next month's exams. Just beyond that, I see a small crowd forming and hollering at some unseen game. Some of them had broken off to form pairs at the very edge of the excitement, presumably in search of some modicum of privacy to engage in teenager courting rituals. The noise of scraping metal has attracted some attention, and they're starting to abandon their chosen activities.

"Look like they're having fun. I hate to interrupt," I comment, and Ashraf lets out an awkward little 'hehe' noise in response.

Shrugging him off, I make my way toward the lone, unoccupied folding chair at the roof's center. My motions were slow and measured, giving everyone present here a chance to catch on to my arrival and get themselves situated as I settled down onto the chair, crossing one leg over the other and folding my hands across my lap as I did.

"So, in case any of you was not aware, I was involved in a minor situation," I sculpt my own bubbling ire into more of a chagrined-yet-unbothered exasperation and channel that into a smile and was rewarded with a round of laughter, "So let's start with the facts, do we know what happened?"

A round of muttering and whispering passed by the assembled crowd before a hand shot up. A sophomore girl with a thickset build, a crew cut dyed our colors and a leather jacket over otherwise casual clothes. It would seem that Jennifer Chen is a corrupting influence on the youth.

"Yes, you." I can't match the face to a corkboard entry, which means she must be a recent recruit, "What do you have for me?"

"Locker girl's Taylor Hebert." I nod, sending a glance toward Phúc to make sure he is getting this down, "She's like the chew toy of the class. Sophia pushed her in and locked the door. Sophia Hess. On the track team."

"The blonde? The one who thinks Adidas is a personality?"

"No. Tall, dark, and perpetually angry?"

"Ah," I vaguely recall that one decking a couple of Empire goons sometime in recent memories, "Any more detail?"

She shakes her head no, and another hand immediately shot up: John Green, a handsome half-Filipino with blue eyes, a winning smile, and a name so white you'd think he's Alabaster. He's a good dealer, usually ranking in the top file for monthly revenue.

"Yes, John. what do you have for me?"

"Hess hangs out with Emma Barnes and Madison Clement," he pauses, and I make sure to pack all of my non-recognition into the best stare I got, "Right. Barnes is a hot redhead and Madison is a cute brunette. They got like a whole Mean Girls routine going on."

I found myself frowning at that. Someone else playing queen bee beneath my nose is not ideal, but then again I have doubts about how far these girls can go without patronage from a gang.

"Do they have any affiliation?" I narrow my eyes at the freshmen and sophomore boys specifically, "Any favors that I'm not aware of?"

Surprisingly, they answer me with a wave of 'that bitch?', 'fuck no', and 'I don't know what's her problem', and other variations thereof. So I turn my eyes back on John and raise an eyebrow.

"Barnes fucking hates anyone wearing our colors," he says with a shrug, "Take one step in her direction and she starts flaying us with words. Some of the Empires might listen to her, but I'm pretty sure she's fucking He-Ouch!"

I allow myself no more than a small chuckle as a girl swats him upside the head before intervening with a cough to steer this back on topic.

"Alright, alright! Empire doesn't like Hess because they're Empire. Aside from that, the Merchants… maybe? they're Merchants."

"Thank you, John." I nod and take a moment to assess this new complication: decent social sway but minimum to no support then aside from what Hess can bring. This shouldn't be too bad. "I believe this is enough for a plan of action, anything else anyone would like to add?"

No one offers anything, so I press on.

"We are going to take care of ourselves and nothing else," I state firmly, "If you were doing anything worse than underage smoking or drinking, no you didn't. If you were alone, no you weren't. We're not going to scrub it too clean because they will get suspicious, but they won't care for some beers and cigarettes. Beyond that, if they ask, cooperate. Tell the truth. Throw Sophia and her friends under if we have to. Any questions?"

Another hand comes up: A Japanese senior with a sharp face, a trimmed goatee, and pierced ears wearing a gold and green windbreaker. Hitohiro Saito. Good with cracking skulls and locks alike, though he and his circle have a tendency to be resistant to my policies.

"I do!" he speaks without my prompting, and I fight hard to keep my eye from twitching, "Kaida, why the fuck are we singing to the pigs again?"

Murmurs of approval and dissent arise from around him with that question. They're the usual suspects: the seniors, those who are from before my tenure, used to a more barbaric way.

"W-well, trust is currency!" Phúc interjects on my behalf with a nervously raised hand, "We already have to lie to cover our own. We shouldn't lie more than necessary, it makes keeping track of the story harder and… and it erodes our trust too! We might need it.. To direct the police where we want them…"

"I don't remember asking you, ratboy." The senior bites back instantly, "What about respect then? You have any idea how much rep we'll lose if they hear about this?"

"That's enough." I step in, making sure to channel the same steel I hear in dad's Lung Voice, "Hirohito. I will remind you that we take care of our own. That is the heart of the ABB. Our subjects will respect us because we protect them. Beyond that, we shall not let the opinion of common thugs dictate our actions. "

Heavy silence hangs for a second as I finish, broken only by Saito letting out a huff and a noncommittal grunt. He's not happy. He does not press the issue further.

"Good! Now, let's make sure everyone knows their lines."

The next hour or so was spent doing just that: everyone recounted their day as we slowly painted a picture of the day. Then we scrubbed it clean and nailed down a me-approved version of said day. No, you did not sell coke behind the dumpster, you were smoking pot with those two. No, you did not spend the whole morning alone in the toilet, you were playing cards and smoking with the rest of those guys.

It's tedious work, certainly. But at least for me, it's the fun kind of tedious to craft a fictional account of events, to incorporate enough half-truths and false leads into it to throw off the donut munchers. One by one, people filtered out of the rooftop after having been given their script to sing, until it was only me, Phúc, and Jennifer left behind.

"Alright P. Just hand over the earnings," I say, holding out one hand and rubbing my nose with the other. Today has been long, and I can afford to show a little frustration, "I think we'll go through the financials tomorrow."

The envelopes he puts in my hand feel nicely thick as always, though a little bit on the lighter side. Let's hope that that won't be a problem.

"Ah- actually. Kaida. There's something that has been bothering me?"

I look up, raising one inquisitive brow while my free hand motioned in a vague 'go on' gesture. I'm not too thrilled about having more shit pile on top of this pile, but if Phúc thinks it's important, then it should be.

It better be.

Instead of speaking, he adjusts his glasses and sends a furtive glance toward my other lieutenant who is currently leaning an air con unit, her attention fully focused on the phone in her hands. Having noticed the sudden silence, she looks up, catching both of our stares, and responds with a singular "What?"

"Jen Chen, I think we will need a moment of privacy for this report?" I fill in the blank for her.

"Right! More sneaky Yakuza shit again?" Both me and my ratlike lieutenant nod at the same time, and the girl responds with a snort, "Alright Princess, I'll be waiting at the bottom of the stairs."

For all that she lacks in fashion sense, she makes up for it in OpSec sense.

"Right. So, it's… the bugs." He begins after Jennifer has left, and I don't hold back the twitching in my eyebrow this time, "No, I'm serious! Kaida, I've never seen bugs move like that before. And I've seen my fair share of cockroaches!"

I snap up at that, my head immediately starting to conjure vivid images of said bugs as my brows furrow.

"What… Do you mean by that?"

"I saw all kind of shit in there, cockroaches, spiders, maggots. And they all just moved… cohesively? They didn't fight or scatter or anything, they just pour away as a unit!" His speech gets more and more frantic even as I feel a shiver crawl up my spine as I slowly go through the memories, "There was… not a single one left on either of you. Afterward."

"Phúc. What are you saying?"

"I'm saying she had a really bad day, Kaida."

I exhale once, the very last sound either of us heard before leaden silence descended on the rooftop. I can see the gears turning behind his eyes. Hell, I can hear the creaking of my own gears rolling in. We're both coming to the same conclusion, and neither of us like it.

"Soo… Hebert," I begin, because someone has to, "That's German root, isn't it?"

"Yeeeep." P pops that p like a gunshot in the middle of the night.

"And she got put in here by a black girl."

"Sure did. Allegedly."

I let out a long and heavy sigh and bury my face between my palm, all concerns over my persona abandoned for a brief moment. Well, at least it's just bug control. How bad can she be?

[C—--d̵̢̥͍̩̻̔͠E̷̼̦̝̝̦̹̞͘M̵̙̥̯̤̜̩͉̈́͆̉͆͂̑͠n̷͔̞̟̻̽̈͂̒̿͜͝–]​

Right. Superpowers are never simple. Thank you.

"This exchange." I stare at him dead in the eye with all pretense and false persona wiped clean, "It stays between you and me until further notice, understand?"

"N-No I don't. What exchange are you talking about?" Damn. His poker face is decent!

"Perfect." Another deep breath as I recompose myself, putting the smile and the calmness back in place, "Wonderful! What would I ever do without you Fixer? In fact, remember what I said about expanding the demographic?"

Phúc blinks at the sudden shift, the act made even more owlish by his massive glasses. Then the rest of his brain catches up with mine, and he nods once.

"You're thinking of Hebert then?"

"Correct!" I smile. It feels more wooden than usual. "Let's start with gathering information. I want everything you can dig up on her. Every. Thing."

He nods, hands wringing in nervous energy, "Sure. But I might need some extra money for this."

"You'll have it." I don't bother questioning it. He understands this is big, "Remember, I want everything."

Another nod, this one followed by a squeak of confirmation, and then he is gone, leaving me entirely alone.

Fuck. This has been a day.

Jennifer, true to her word, has taken vigil one flight of stairs down with her attention split between her phone and said stairs. I tap her on the shoulder as I pass by and she quickly falls in steps behind me as we walk in companionable, blissful silence.

"Soo… Princess!" Blissful silence has died. "You're gonna tell me if I plan on taking a January dip, right?"

My first instinct is to roll my eyes, but then I remember that she is behind me and won't be able to appreciate that, so I settle for a single sarcasm-packed 'hah' instead.

"Please. I'm not gonna get rid of you, no matter how much it would improve the aesthetics."

"Aaaaww! You doooo love me!" It's impressive how much saccharine sweetness was packed into that sentence without any prompting, "But no, really. I get antsy when you two get up to things behind my back."

"I understand." Maybe I should have tried to ease her worry somehow, but in all honesty, my social battery is thoroughly drained for the day, "But this is a case where the less people know, the less damage we'll have to deal with if things catch fire. I'm not sure me, and Phúc should have known to be honest."

"...Fuck." Jennifer hisses out, and I heard the sound of a fist meeting the wall, "That bad?"

"Or it could be a false alarm." I let out a decidedly graceless snort, "We all can dream. But if things escalate, you'll be the first to know."

She grunts in response and does not speak again until we have descended the last staircase.

"The crew needs to learn how to fight. Actual martial arts." She states matter-of-factly, and my walk comes to halt as I run that through my head

Martial arts was not something that I particularly care about, violence aptitude and tendency are cheap among these hooligans under my care and my goal has always been to steer them toward a subtler and more efficient way of operation. But it's true that they lack formal training despite their zeal.

If I could fight. Physically fight. Then I wouldn't have been…

I clamp down on that worming, biting apprehension and stuff it into a nice little box for later unpacking before turning around to give my lieutenant a nod and continue walking

"Good thinking Chen. Do you have lead?"

She responds with a noncommittal grunt, blowing a few stray strands of dyed hair out of her face as she does.

"Maybe. One. I'll let you know," I didn't need all of my mental faculty running to see that this supposed lead bothers her greatly. I also, however, don't have enough mental faculty running to pursue this any further when she emphatically did not elaborate.

"I trust your judgment, Chen." I offer, giving her a pat on the shoulder as we left the drab, crumbling icon of urban and educational decay behind us and step out onto the streets, "If you need any resource, you know what to-."

And then a black car with black tinted windows pulls up in front of me, the door opening with a click. Inside, the driver is a thin and nondescript Asian man with rough stubble and a thin scar crossing his nose. He meets my eyes, nods, and speaks in slightly accented Japanese.

"Kaida-sama. Get in."

And while I still struggle to process the sight of Uncle Lee without his mask, Jennifer acts immediately, shoving me behind her with one strong hand as she steps between me and maskless Oni fucking Lee.

"Haaang on buddy," She snarls at maskless Oni fucking Lee, and I silently make a note to give her a raise, "The fuck is this supposed to be?"

"O-Oji-san?" I squeak, and Jennifer sends me an uncomprehending look because she doesn't speak Japanese while Oni Lee doesn't respond much beyond a tilt of his head because he is Oni Lee. So, instead, I tug on my overly eager escort's jacket before she could commit suicide by Oni Lee, "Chen. Jen Chen. That's my uncle! It's fine! He's fine!"

She looks over her shoulders at me, then back at Uncle Lee, then back at me, and finally says, "Why do you have a creepy pedo kidnapper for an uncle?"

"He's not a pedophile!" I squeak in protest before burying my face in my palms, "Chen. Please stand down. I'm just surprised is all. He usually doesn't pick me up."

"Your father heard." Uncle Lee elaborates in English, apparently having picked up some social awareness on the way here, "He wants to talk. At your place."

Jennifer sends an uneasy glance toward me at the mention of my mysterious patriarch. Everyone knows I have blood ties within the greater ABB, but no one knows who. The mystique is part of the image and something that I intentionally cultivate. I'm sure I can put on some mysterious air and spin this into the seed of some wonderful rumors.

But I'm just too out of it, so instead I just helplessly stumble into the car and shoot her a spliting grin through half-lidded eyes as I begin to sink down as if my bones have liquidated, "Seriously Chen, I'm not being fucking kidnapped. It's fine. I'll see you tomorrow!"

That seems to have caught her off-balance, so I blearily wave her goodbye before closing the door. Uncle Lee took that as a signal to start driving away. Instinctively, I reach into my pocket to retrieve my phone and put on some music, but then I remember that I still don't have a phone. So instead, and through great effort, I reach for the dashboard and start cycling through the radio,

"Soo… Oji-san. When you said at my place…"

"Lung-sama is waiting for you at your workshop."

"Ah."

Honestly, going to meet my supervillain dad at my mad scientist lair sounds like a vacation after today.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*​

Without my full temporary costume, we had to go in through the backdoor with only a baggy hoodie and a scarf to protect my identity. Once again, I feel like a peasant. I am used to it at this point honestly.

From the backdoor, we take a narrow, unused corridor that takes me directly to my main office. There is potential here to turn this into an emergency escape tunnel, if only because every supervillain's lair should have an emergency escape tunnel. Granted, this isn't actually a tunnel, but-

My stream of consciousness was cut short as I walk face-first into a steel post masquerading as a man that has suddenly decided to stop walking without warning. And though I still fell on my ass, this time I can say that I fell with grace.

"We're here. He is waiting inside." Uncle Lee says flatly as I pick myself up, showing no acknowledgment whatsoever of what he has done to my face and backside as he walks off with an "I must go."

Instead of dwelling on my weird uncle any more than I already have done, I just push the door open to enter my own inner sanctum, and then I realized that school is still in session.

The entire room was illuminated solely by the harsh glare of nine LCD screens behind my desk that were not here yesterday, their low angle casting long and ominous shadows that stretches the room out longer than it is. At the heart of the shadow slouches dad himself, his entire body cloaked in darkness save for the gleam of his draconic visage peering from the gloom. And slouch is the operative word. Not sitting, not leaning forward with steepled fingers, but a proper villainous slouch, as if proper posture is something only lesser people do.

It's about the chair, I realize. The chair doesn't swivel, so he's treating it as a throne.

I squee'd.

"Come." His voice rumbles across the room, one hand gesturing toward a decidedly much smaller and much less impressive chair across from the table, "Let's talk"

I know exactly what Dad's doing. Anyone with a lick of sense can. He has summoned me to my own office, made a huge modification to it without my knowledge, and now he's telling me to sit in the guest spot. This is a test.

I hold my head high and stride forward, mentally putting together a plan of attack. There is no way I am going to be matching The Lung in a battle of posturing. That doesn't happen. No, instead, I have a different plan.

I briefly entertain the idea of vaulting over the table as part of said plan, but I lack the athleticism to make that look good, so instead, I circle around and, before Dad could catch on to my intention, drop myself into his lap like I always would when we watch scary movies together. Then all of the day's frustration and posturing left me like air from a balloon, and I deflate.

And, while I'm at it, I also tap the switch beneath the table, turning the light back on and dispelling the mystique.

A moment of pregnant silence stretches out between us, then I hear a bear-like exhale, followed by a bear-like hand combing through my hair.

"I've heard what happened at school," He says, now entirely in Dad mode. "Is there any problem?"

"'Mmmfinnne," I reply eloquently, before summoning a few last dredges of strength to push myself up and continue in more coherent words, "Civilians fucking each other over. I came to the rescue because I'm amazing and selfless. The victim might have triggered. Mess under control for now."

The head-scritching comes to a halt at that statement despite my mewl of protest, Dad's fingers tensing and digging into my scalp in a way that is momentarily painful before finally relaxing, "A cape?"

"She had one of those days," I elaborate with a shrug, "I got my best man on her, we'll bring her in if she is, tou-chan. Don't worry, I got this."

Dad is… not satisfied still. I can tell by the tiny tension in his arm and his fingers. But the vaguely affirmative grunt as he returns to patting my head tells me that he isn't going to start sending hit-squad through Winslow,

"Is she Asian?" He asks, not accusingly. A genuine question, as if he thinks I would let that happen.

"Yes, tou-chan." I huff, puffing myself up again to cross my arms and glare at nothing, "I tossed out the entire point of your stupid ABB and let one of ours be run over until she broke! Of course not!"

Throaty, rumbling chuckles meet my snarks, packed with that unbearably smug, parental superiority that he knows something I don't and he's not telling because figuring it out myself is supposed to build character or something.

He pats my head and ruffles my hair. I keep sulking, so he keeps doing it until I ran out of bravado and deflate again.

"She'll be Asian if we say she's Asian. Who's gonna object?" I mumble, earning another round of smug chuckling from him, "That's about it, really. I made sure to coach everyone on the correct story when the cops come asking, and that's done for the day. Business is still good. People are happy."

I retrieve the earning envelope and push it into his hand. He weighs it briefly before shrugging and setting it aside.

"I will review it later." He says, "For now, I want to know what you've been doing here."

"Huh?" I turn my head around, brows furrowing, "Didn't oji-san tell you?"

"He did. And he's right. You shouldn't monologue in a fight." I sulk again. He pats my head again, "You want a healer's reputation. To be seen as an indispensable asset for the PRT. What does this accomplish?"

"Right… hold on," I lean down to press the power button of my computer and immediately have to beat back annoyance; roughly two seconds to fully boot up, way below par for a tinker of my caliber. This is embarrassing me in front of Dad! "Right! So… wait did you hook up the new screens?"

He shrugs. I would call it sheepish, except Dad is Lung and he doesn't do sheepish.

"I was going to let you do it," He says, "Seems like you would know better."

"Figures. You're a fooossiiiil tou-chan!" I tease, clicking through the folders to pull up the PowerPoint that I prepared for this exact moment as I do so. I very briefly considered getting up and getting the big screen plugged in, but that would involve getting up, and I am too comfortable right now.

"Cheeky brat." He retorts with a voice as dry as desert sand, so I added some moisture back in by blowing a raspberry at him.

"Well, the idea is to secure a source of income that both avoids cannibalizing our existing stream and strengthens our foundation," I point toward the graphs compiling the result of my survey as well as figures on Brockton Bay healthcare costs. "My hunch was right! Most of ours don't trust or can't afford modern healthcare or both! There's money to be made, loyalty to be built, all while putting the PRT in a difficult spot!"

The next slide is just a crude doodling of me and Dad sitting atop a giant pile of dollars amidst cheering stick figures while Armsmater scratched his helmet on the side.

"And with that funding… I can do anything! Just tell me what you need, and…" A huge grin splits my face as possibilities flood my head. "I can build an army of killer robots for you! Fusion generators powering our own territories! We can vat-grow anything we want! Like Wagyu! We can-"

We can be safe and comfortable! We won't just survive the end of the world, we'll thrive.

"Kaida," Dad cuts me off with a raised hand. I couldn't read his face through the mask, but he sounds… pensive? Wary? I'm not sure, "You're getting carried away. First, can you manage all of this?"

I blink in momentary incomprehension, my mind struggling to even understand where Dad is coming from with the question. Then, I remember the difficulty that plagues most tinkers.

"I'm gonna delegate some of it!" I chirp as smugly as humanly possible, "I'm not like the other tinkers, tou-chan. I don't have to personally oversee everything. I know it."

He nods slowly. Obviously skeptical, but I know he trusts me, and that's all I'm asking for.

"And what do you have now?"

"Oh. Yes. Well." I smile awkwardly as I pull up another program, this one showing a constant stream of updating logs in a console window on one side and a chess match playing automatically by itself. My corkboard 2.0, "This is my… uh… pattern recognition and prediction software. It's self-refining, using genetic algorithms! I'm using chess as a training tool, but once it's done, it would be a fantastic basis for all other software! First thing I'll do is to turn a copy of it into a web crawler and gather up everything on people in Winslow then build psych profiles for them!"

The dragon mask stares at me blankly.

"You'll use your tinkertech software… to cyberstalk high school students."

"N-no!" My voice was much more defensive than I'd care to admit. How does he even know that cyberstalking is? "It'll just gather information, and it won't be just the students! Eventually, it will compile information on every person of interest, but the school is for… beta testing. It's for optimizing my decisions and policies!"

He grunts affirmatively, his hand gesturing for me to continue.

"For healing, it's a lot of work. A lot of ways to approach the issue. Diagnostic machines, automated surgeons, procedures and drugs for every issue." A hospital is, after all, an institution. Building one from the ground up without pulling from existing resources is a lot of work. "But I have the basis for everything! Come on, I'll show you!"

Still riding high on the possibilities, I hop off Dad's lap and tug on his hand. He obliges, letting me lead him out of the inner sanctum, down a floor, and toward the chemical lab. The workshop's interior is mostly unstaffed and unguarded, mostly out of a need for secrecy and also because I simply hadn't needed helpers yet, so I did not have to worry about keeping up secrecy.

The chem lab is… subpar, being primarily made of commercially available machines and whatever we could use from cannibalizing one of our meth labs. But it's good enough to churn out that beautiful vial of viscous colorless liquid now sitting as the lab's centerpiece.

"This. Is the Cellular Rejuvenation Gel! Mark 1!" Derived from my recollections of an alien race with remarkably reptilian-like traits. Before they were snuffed out by the gold-and-silver light, they had a deeply martial culture that focuses on ritualized combat and scarification, and the CR Gel is one of the results of said culture, though obviously I had to modify it heavily for terrestrial use. "It vastly accelerates the natural healing process. If a wound can heal naturally, this will make sure it does so in seconds and without long-term damage!"

I hold it out to him in two hands. He picks up the vial with two fingers, holding it up to the light and peering closer before finally letting out a satisfied grunt.

"Impressive. But I assume this will need intervention to treat it first?"

I nod rapidly, not bothering to hide my sheer excitement, "Yep! It's good for treating cuts and lacerations and for surgery aid. I can do more with more resources though! Anything Panacea can, I can-"

"Can you do brains?" He asks, his firm but unmistakably forceful voice causing me to stop and ponder the possibility.

Can I?

[cONnconD-CONCOND—-Ņ̶͖̇Å̷̳̻̦̀T̸͚̚I̵͎͗O̸̜͕̾́̚Ǹ̸͓͎͋͝]​

Yeah. Of course it's in there. I nod again, as earnestly as I can.

"Good. Panacea can't. That will set you apart." There's more to it. I know it. Dad's not exactly subtle in anything that he does, but if he wants it, I'll make sure he gets it.

"I'll give you a report on it!" I state, eliciting an amused grunt from him for some reason.

"I expect nothing less." He passes the vial back to me, and I gingerly take it with both hands and return it to its position, "Anway, has this been tested?"

"Mostly on animals. Rats and such! Works great! It should work fine on people too, here let me show you!" The next thing I know, I have the vial in one hand while the other brandishes a boxcutter. Dad's hand has clamped down on my knife-wielding wrist at some point, preventing me from demonstrating.

"You. Will not. Slice yourself. For untested tinkertech." Had he not used his Lung Voice, I would protest that it isn't untested. But he has. So I can only let out a little squeak in response.

Dad huffs, plucking the box cutter out of my hand and stowing it away in his pants pocket, followed by taking the vial of CR Gel and returning it to its perch. Then, he pats my head and ruffles my hair.

"Let's go home. Rest. It's Tuesday." Now he's not though, so that means…

"I… want to get some tinkering in. Please? I'll be home by eight!"

"Fine. But you're grounded if I don't see you home by eight." I snort at that empty threat; he has never grounded me before, "And I'll eat your pizza and drink your boba tea."

Damnit.

_____________________​

Author Note:

Wooo! Really big long chapter. With this chapter, I also went back and make some edits to previous chapters. It's mostly adding the date, but also a little flair based on the suggestion of my wonderful editor Chibikat (you can find her on SB). Also, I'm aware that it's like 15k in and MC hasn't punched anyone or do much exciting caping yet. Pacing is... haaard. Especially for writing a tinker. I want to paint a clear foundation for the story first, but obviously I don't want to be lost in the sauce painting out tiny little flowers on the pavements.

I promise Kaida is gonna get into some real excitement Soon (TM)

 

[Relent26]

"She'll be Asian if we say she's Asian."

Click to shrink...

I was waiting for either Kenta or Kaida to utter this (Taylor mayhaps receives this in the future? Even if in jest).

I like the pacing so far, setting the scene, building the characters, etc. On punching people, it's been made clear Kaida is not yet a fighter (her skill with exerting soft power has been presented very clearly), and setting up the right expectations is important for the future, "not a Fighter yet but has motivations and aspirations to learn." Just more to look forward too.

 

[CaptainCece]

I was waiting for either Kenta or Kaida to utter this (Taylor mayhaps receives this in the future? Even if in jest).

Click to shrink...

It's inevitable! If someone manage to get convince Asians to get along to the tune of a Pan-Asiatic Agenda(TM), then gaslight gatekeep girlbossing a white girl into becoming Asian isn't even that much of a step up!

I like the pacing so far, setting the scene, building the characters, etc. On punching people, it's been made clear Kaida is not yet a fighter (her skill with exerting soft power has been presented very clearly), and setting up the right expectations is important for the future, "not a Fighter yet but has motivations and aspirations to learn." Just more to look forward too.

Click to shrink...

Thank you! I definitely love setting the scene before reving up the conflict engine. I think it's important for tinkers and even moreso for when it's an OC who introduces a new aspect of Winslow that Taylor never explored before!

 

[CaptainCece]

A while ago, I used Picrew to make the two faces of Kaida for reference purposes. I think I'm putting it here if people want to have a better look of what the character is like

Spoiler: The Kaida that Winslow see

Spoiler: The Kaida that Lung see

 

[MrTwistr]

I like Kaida, she's not a good person nor is she deluding herself into thinking she's a good person (like Taylor). But she IS a pragmatic person and those types always make the most interesting villains.

 

[Fried_Chicken]

"And I'll eat your pizza and drink your boba tea."
Love it, this dynamic is hilarious! Hope u keep going w/this!

 

[CaptainCece]

WARNING: This chapter brushes on the subject of suicide.

_____________________​

January 5th, 2011

I want you to imagine, if you will, an orc. No, not Tolkien's orcs with their huge, well-defined emerald muscles. I want you to imagine an anime orc: a bipedal green pig about just as tall, but replace all those muscles with a copious amount of jiggling fat. Now paint it a pasty white and overlay human features on it, put it in a police uniform, cover it in cheap cologne, and sit it down in the middle of an empty classroom, and you have Officer Bertrand, one of the cops who showed up this morning to "investigate Tuesday's incident."

"Come in! Come in!" He oinks at me through a half-chewed donut before chasing it down with a gulp of coffee – A reminder that all stereotypes are rooted in something – before gesturing for me to take a seat.

"Good morning, officer-san," I greet him with a full saikeirei, bowing 45 degrees with both arms clasping in front of my abdomen. The accent in my voice has been turned up, taking pointers specifically from how Dad speaks. Leaning into the stereotype is a gamble when dealing with white cops, but they're already segregating the students of color into a separate interrogation queue anyway.

He laughs heartily and… jiggily, dismissing my aisatsu with an insultingly casual wave, "Oh there's no need for that, we're in America here! You're… Yang, right? I'll just be asking a few questions about yesterday."

I comply, keeping my back straight, arms across my laps, and eyes forward. My smile is firmly polite, not icy. Officer Bertrand is, after all, not a teenaged hooligan that needs to be glared into submission.

"Now, Yang. Can I call you Yang?"

I blink.

It takes me a long moment to parse that.

"Now, Yang. Can I call you Yang?" He was a bit like officer Bertrand here, actually. Same uniform, though his was dappled in the Brockton rain, his smile was a lot wider and sharper, and he was so tall and thin.

I blink again, this time because of the sharp pain of my nails digging into my palms.

"Miss! Are you alright?"

"I… there is no need for you to worry, officer-san." I say, injecting a little bit of that sick-girl-putting-on-brave-face energy into my voice, "I've only… been feeling a little under the weather since…yesterday."

His face falls just like that, and I silently bask in that delicious sympathy like a dragon bathing in gold. Salvaged perfectly. Good job Kaida. Thanks, Kaida!

"Yes… I see. Well dear… that's what I am here for. Can you tell us what happened? I understand you were personally involved in the incident?"

I nod, letting some uncertainty bleed into my face as I speak with a slight quiver,

"Well sir… that morning, I saw this tall black girl, I believe her name is Sophia Hess… "

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*​

January 7th, 2011

Jennifer greets me at the gate on Thursday, leaning against the frame in that Rebel Relaxation pose with a smoking cigarette hanging loosely between her lips. The chain around her right arm has been unhooked and is currently being twirled around in a casual yet unmistakably threatening manner.

It is kinda – and not even the Simurgh can pry this confession from my lips – cool. Though also worrying. Because this is posturing. We don't usually stand around all day posturing unless there's a reason to posture. Normally, we have better things to do. Like scheming.

"Oh… that's not… good." Phúc vocalizes my unspoken concerns from his place at my side as we approach. I nod.

Seeing us, Jennifer catches the spinning chain in her palm and preempts my question by jabbing a thumb over her shoulder. My eyes follow the digit to find half of the stair leading to the main school building infested by the local Hitler Youth in their full jackbooted glory. They are not really… doing anything, just standing there, posing and flexing and boasting.

It's rather homoerotic.

And on the opposite end of that is presumably the reason they haven't turned the entire stair into a klan gathering: a contingent of my own soldiers led by Hirohito Saito have claimed the other half of the stair. They are posturing too, though they're going for a more relaxed and effortlessly intimidating kind of vibe. Which is better overall, in my opinion,

Why yes, I am biased. But my opinion is also literally the only one that matters.

"Shit's tense." Jennifer explains, taking a drag of her cigarette as she did, "Lung got everyone on edge. The Merchants already crawled into their hole, but the Nazis can't let things be easy."

I nod, my eyes drifting toward another great pillar of black smoke on the horizon, the third or fourth one this week. Dad is… pissed. He doesn't like showing that side to me; he's never been really angry at me. But mom… well… she loved to use him as a case study for when she taught me how to spot emotions in others. Then I shake my head and turn my attention back to the assembled skinheads. Only a few faces I recognize from the corkboard, all low on their command chain. This was either spontaneous on their part, or their Big Brothers and Sisters didn't bother standing in solidarity with the goons.

"We'll go through." I state, the decree was met with a long, resigned sigh from Phúc and a resolute nod from Jennifer, the former taking another deep drag of her cancer stick before tossing it to the ground and stomping it out with her boots.

"Well…uh… l-ladies first?" The rat-boy says, hands wringing. Jen swats him over the head with a palm while I stride forward.

The E88s puff up at our approach, their chatter becoming rowdiers and the muttered slurs louder. My own retinue responds in kind, their postures shifting, readying to pounce. They're not quite rising to the bait – doing so would be unbecoming of our images – but the forms promise swift answers to any escalation.

Phúc titters nervously at my side and unslung his too-big backpack, clutching it in one hand like a shield. Jennifer Chen rolls her neck and cracks her knuckles, each pop is like a firework. And me, I made sure to give the assembled nazis no more acknowledgement than a half of a glance, with nose turned skyward in ever so understated disgust. Anything more would be unbecoming of Yang Kaida.

There is muttering and snarling from the white pride parade to my right as we approach, a number of them are even brazen enough to step forward, their leather jackets parting to reveal the toys they carry underneath. I hear shuffling from my left as my own men rise and ready themselves.

And then Jen Chen yawns loudly, drawing all eyes onto herself as a Jen Chen does. And then she stretches, and the clicking of meter-long heavy chains unfurling evoke memories of shattered bones and a grinning devil with green and gold hair merrily skipping off for her detention.

And none dare to stop us as we pass through.

I spare the assembled Hitler Youth a quarter of one eye and a single sentence.

"If you cannot bear this shame, there is always the option to copy your idol one last time."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*​

January 7th, 2011

Friday is not better.

It isn't worse either for the most part. More competitive posturing all across Winslow. Some aren't even bothering to hide their weapons anymore. At least there's no firearms being waved around. Not yet, but it will soon. Something will eventually boil over, and when that happens, I want them prepared. And that means stepping up production and rolling out care packages for the ABB at large, else their early access to my own technology would raise eyebrows.

"Something wrong Kaida? You've hardly even touched your rabbit food love." The familiar voice –poshly British but with a vague Filipino ring– yanks me back to Winslow's cafeteria. I look up from my bowl of takeout mediterranean salad at the speaker; a girl with short-cropped black hair highlighted with sandy streaks and sharp, angular features contrasted by round, pink glasses. Blessica, a girlfriend of one of our dealers. Her name isn't on corkboard-san. I just remember it because it's Blessica.

"Oh, nothing much, just scheming." I reply with a mischievous wink before tearing off a chunk of the salmon filet with my chopsticks and bringing to my mouth, my gaze pointedly lingering on her plastic-wrapped tuna egg sandwich.

"..heh. Well…" She pulls back, her eyes avoiding mine as her hands fumble with the wrapping as giggling and chuckling rises from around the table. I savor the victory for a brief second before reaching over, my hand delicately undoing the remnant of the wrapping and tearing off a chunk of her sandwich.

"Mmm… not bad!" I say brightly and, because being magnanimous in victory and giving face to the defeated is key to not fighting the same battle twice, I deposit a nice large chunk of salmon on her sandwich with a cheery little "It's a trade!"

"Oh! Uh… Thanks!" Smart girl takes the exit I put down with an easy smile, "Have you heard about the latest regarding you on the rumor mill?"

I lean forward, imperiously laying a chin on one hand while cocking an eyebrow and gesturing for her to continue.

"Word from the local wonderbread is that you'd make a great janitor because, and I quote, 'how good you are at sweeping up trash in your arms'." She nods toward a table on the far side of the cafeteria where Winslow's pettiest court is currently in session around three girls: one petite brunette, one well-developed redhead, and one tall black girl with her dark hair in a ponytail.

"Hm. Classist." I comment even as Jennifer breaks rank and starts cackling openly. Oh how I dearly wish my public image would allow me to start flicking avocado chunks at my traitorous bodyguard.

"Well I think that's amazing!" Jennifer concludes despite my best unamused glare, "Come on, that's an awesome cape name. Meet the Janitor. She keeps Winslow clean."

The last part was whispered in a throaty growl, and even I found myself involuntarily exhaling. Well, I am now amused, at least

"I'll consider it if I ever became a cape." I won't. I already have a name. "But really, do they have any other comments on my career prospect?"

My informant ponders on it for a moment before shrugging and shaking her head.

"Well then I think we just let those poor things be." I chuckle, my hand flicking imperiously, "We have work to do, after all. Not everyone can be born with the truly enviable privilege of living in a teen drama."

Another round of laughter sweeps across the table as I turn eyes back toward the other table just in time to catch Barnes' own green orbs boring into my eyes. We hold each other's gazes for a brief moment, and then my lips pull back into a smile: serene, friendly, and all teeth.

She flinches first and turns away. I take a sip from my latte.

Throughout the day, I had expected another swing from them, an attempt to escalate this to the point where I must respond. What I received was muttered whispers and furtive glances, petty and inconsequential little things that everyone knows are beneath the attention of Yang Kaida. And yet they never challenge me directly, and conversely that robs me of a proper casus belli.

At least between the new phone and my app, I can remotely put in design work on the manufacturing line to make the monotony more bearable. Still, when the last bell rings and I leave the school entirely unopposed, it feels rather anticlimactic.

"I know that face," Jennifer Chen comments from her place behind me, taking a very audible drag on her cancer stick, "Someone's blue-balled?"

I make a noise between a scoff, not deigning to entertain her vulgarity anymore beyond that. Unfortunately, Chen is not one to relent that easily.

"Oh come on!" She presses on , and I could hear the grin in her voice, "You're not holding court out here, princess!"

I turn to give her a nonplussed stare over my shoulders before dropping myself down on a bench to wait for my ride. My bodyguard, being the animal that she is, immediately decides that the backrest is really the seat and the actual seat is more like a footrest. I glare up at her for the absolute impertinence. She grins down at me impertinently.

"I was hoping for a… duel, yes." I concede with a sigh

Some fights are not worth fighting.

"You know, I'll never get your fetish for verbal fucking jiu-jitsu." Jen chuffs, preening in her victory of sheer obstinacy.

"That's because you don't get jiu-jitsu. In general," I fire back, placing my shot where I know it would hurt, "And I don't get your insistence on clogging your, mine, and everyone's lungs with soot either, but here we are."

She has the decency to look sheepish as she flicks the cigarette away and stomp on it with her boots.

I turn my eyes back to my phone, content to bask in my own victory as blissful, companionable silence descends on us. Even Jen doesn't seem to mind it that much, having already turned her attention away from needling me to… staring into the contents of her own bag and biting her lips?

Odd. But I won't pry.

"So… Kaida! Is your creepy serial killer pedo uncle coming today as well?"

"He's not a pedophile," I parry rotely, not even looking up from my own phone. It has caught me off-guard the first few times, but is gone by the third or fourth time she repeats the same slander, "And yes, he will be here."

"Hey… if he picks you up everyday, that must mean he's pretty badass, right?." I look up at her, not bothering to hide the way my eyes squint up in suspicion. I do not answer. Not yet.

"Oh, don't give me that!" Her voice hitches a little as she raises her hands in defense, "I don't know what makes you a princess, princess, and I'm not gonna dig it up either! But you have to be a big deal! They're not going to send any random fart who can make a fist and a mean face to pick you up everyday!?"

"He is, yes." I nod tentatively. Her train of thought is sound and, more importantly, aware of the danger of digging too deep, "What do you want?"

She is being… unusually serious. It's not necessarily a good thing, but it's not business as usual.

"I want to… talk to him. Just for a moment. Is that okay?" Her attention is back upon whatever it is inside her bag. I briefly entertain the idea of prying further before deciding against it.

"Alright. I think that can be arranged." Whatever it is, I will know soon enough.

She nods, and silence is once again reinstated upon its throne, ruling for many uneventful minutes until a familiar black sedan rounds the corner before coming to a stop before us. I rise to my feet as the door opens for me.

"Oji-san. There is someone who wishes to speak to you." I relay and watch as his head tilts a degree or two before nodding toward Jen Chen standing ramrod straight on the sidewalk, "Please do not kill her."

Uncle Lee nods and steps outside, his movement as deliberate and his expression as unreadably blank as it has ever been, in the decade that I have known him. From inside, I watch as he rounds the hood of the car and approaches my lieutenant and body.

"xiānsheng!" Jen Chen greets him in slightly accented Chinese – the first time I've heard her speak Chinese – as her right fist slams into an open right palm in a textbook martial art salute. And before my very eyes, ABB's merciless demon freezes in place, his entire body going rigid in a way that sends a cold chill down my spine. "This… this junior begs for you to hear her out!"

Why is she talking like an old movie? What is happening? I have never heard her stuttering before!

I can't see Uncle Lee's face, but I can imagine his trademark blank, unblinking stare boring into Jen. And then, with a slow hesitancy as if he is acting upon half-remembered instinct, Oni Lee returns the salute.

"...Speak. I shall listen." There's an odd, trembling note running beneath his usually curtness, one that I cannot identify.

And then Jen Chen reaches into her bag and pull out a honest-to-god, straight-from-movie wine gourd, complete with red ribbons.

"Xiānsheng, I wish to improve my own martial prowess. Please accept this gift as proof of my dedication and let me call you shīfù!"

I can't see Uncle Lee's face.

I don't know what he's thinking. I have never been able to read him.

Every second of silence stretches out into an eternity as Oni Lee uncorks the gourd with movement so methodical and precise, it evokes the image of an automaton following pre-written instructions. Even his swigs and swallows are uniform.

"This is acceptable."

Joy blooms upon my lieutenant's face like a sun rising and her lip splits open into a massive, stupid grin.

"Shīfù! Then when can we start?"

"Right now."

I see the blur where his hand was. And then I see the edge of his palm depressing my right hand woman's neck with as deceptive gentleness, as if it has not just lashed out faster than the eyes can follow

Jen Chen looks like she's caught between a squeal of joy and a gulp of terror.

"Lesson 1: You have let your guard down. Meditate on this until our next meeting."

His freshly-adopted apprentice nods vigorously as Uncle Lee's hand retreats from her neck to reseal the wine gord. Then he turns around, returns to the car, and step on the gas

An awkward silence hangs over the entire ride. More awkward than usual, that is. Hanging out with Uncle has always felt like trying to make conversations with a robot that can only make random affirmative grunts at set intervals. Today, he is a brick wall, and I was left with only Brockton Bay's breathtaking scenery to accompany me.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*​

"Your costume has arrived." The brick wall behind the wheel says suddenly just as we round a sharp turn into the covert garage. Shock and Newton's First acting in tandem have me very indignantly squishing my cheek against the windshield.

I glare at the back of Uncle Lee's head. I know he can see me in the rearview mirror. He does not respond.

"That's pretty early." I observe, stepping out of the sedan into the empty garage. The workshop has been getting busier throughout the week as more and more minions are vetted to be brought into the workshop, but this garage is always empty unless specifically noted otherwise because it's the one linked directly to my office.

"They put it on the highest priority possible." He explains, opening the door for me, "Said that they hope we will keep them in mind."

I giggle, pause, clear my throat, and give my best ominous chuckles.

When I step through the backdoor into my sanctum, I find my costume already laid out for inspection in a transparent case behind my desk, exactly as I'd demanded. It starts from the basis of hanfu – like something worn by a great empress – before deviating wildly as I add my own aesthetic to it. It is cut from golden cloth with emerald trimmings and embroidered with black silhouettes of sweeping crows. Pauldrons of black feathers sit upon the shoulders, and connected to them is a cape of the same feathers that would frame my form. I've taken even greater liberty from the waist down, being spareser on fabric than traditions would dictate and incorporating slits to the side, all in the name of minimizing constraints on my legs. And also to show off. Because I can.

The literal crowning piece is the headgear, a crow-faced headgear ripped directly off the European plague doctor, with fashionable feathery plumage to cover the neck. It has three eye sockets, all empty and waiting for my technological addition.

The three eyes have no mythological basis for this particular theme and are entirely made up. I would have cared, but I'm a villain.

At a glance, this is wonderfully done. If it passes a deeper inspection, then I definitely need to reward them handsomely for good work and a little extra on top for their initiative. But not now, because I'm not going to wear that in a lab of any kind. Not before I can have robot servants doing the greasy, splattery heavy lifting for me.

I throw on my more modest costume and emerge from my inner sanctum into the din of my minions carting pallets of CRGs into storage while others load and operate the great tinkertech behemoth of smoking stills, steaming vats, and hissing pipes that dominated the central room as it pumps out tinkertech chemical by the batch.

It has taken me way too much effort to get it to work right without me hovering and directing the workers every second, yes. But I got there. And I will only get better. And it will be perfect.

The minions turn and stare as I make the round and inspect their work, their eyes full of fear, uncertainty, and a little dash of curiosity. A few of them hurry to offer empty exaltation as I pass by while others shrink and make themselves as small as they could. And there would always be this palpable relief as I leave

Not quite the reaction I'd wish to be greeted with, but it will have to do.

Satisfied with my inspection, I return to the second level of the renovated building, the labs-and-sanctum level and made my way toward the biolab on the far side, one built with additional insulations and ordered to keep cold. There's no guard on this floor save for the pair posted on the stair. Convincing people to work in a tinker's workshop is already hard, convincing them to stand guard around a tinker's lab all day? Anyone who'd take that job isn't qualified to guard a lollipop. Not that I'd want any civilian poking around in there, anyway.

Especially today, when I'm expecting a… delivery.

I've been trying very hard all day, not thinking about the delivery.

You see, as much as I'd love to, I cannot just rub magical tinkertech healing paste on everyone and fix everything. I'm not on that tech level.

[̵̧̰͔͝C̴̥̙̎̀O̶͎͚̝͋̇_̵͍̆̉͐_̴̛̖͛̀E̸̢̱̜̽͑͗M̸̪͋̋͂_̸̙̚_̴̭͎̻̾_̴͕̂͒Ǐ̴̱Ő̶͇̪̜̌̑N̸͙͕̼͑͝͠]̷̧̞̐̓​

̷͙̟̂͘͝​

Yes. Not yet.

If I want to be a healer, eventually I'll have to put people under the knife. So I've been working on a device to assist in that procedure. As tinkers do.

It is an ugly tube of metal the size of a body pillow, one end blooming into eighty nine independently articulating tool-tipped manipulators. The other end tapered off into a padded arm-sized opening, built to my measurements. The entire contraption is so large and unwieldy that I had built for it a mechanical arm mounted atop a dolly just so it can maneuver around. But that's still better than fussing over building the prototype small and efficiently now before the technology is even tested.

The technology needs to be tested on cadavers.

Finding corpses in Brockton Bay is not a hard task.

I have three of them, each lying on their own operation table. They're pristine, for the most part. I've specified that much, and the room is kept cold for preservation.

One of them is a girl, perhaps two to four years older than me, with black hair highlighted with blonde streaks, the tag on her chest says 'prostitute. OD." Next is an older man with swarthy skin and cloth covering his face, and what strings of hair peeking out underneath was gray. His tag reads "Soldier. Brained". The third is skinhead through and through: pale, shaved head, with two 8s tattooed on his neck right over the ropeburn, the tag reads "Nazi. Hung himself 😂".

The Winslow crew has more professionalism than this.

I push the dolly over to the first table with an undignified grunt and lock the wheels, then insert my hand into the opening. It fits snugly for the most part, though there are the parts where cold metal and circuitry press against my bare skin is far from comfortable, nor is that little jolt as they connect.

Eighty nine appendages twitch and writhe upon my slightest impulse, unfurling themselves into a Scyllean bloom that is only all too eager to unravel flesh. I take a moment to breathe, to center myself and focus. Tinkertech or not, there's only so much I can do to analogously map five human fingers onto eighty-nine discrete surgical tools. A bad muscle twitch right now would not be pretty.

It takes me a moment to get acclimated to the apparatus, to be reasonably sure that I will not twitch. So I maneuver the arm over the first patient, suck in a deep breath…

And then do nothing.

Another breath to calm and center myself, the metal fingers twitching and flexing as I pour my nervous energy into them. I turn my eyes upon the cadaver before me and steel my resolve, and push my hand forward…

And Yang Kaida can't do it.

[̵͙̽͆_̵̡͇̂_̸̹̤̐E̵̐̕ͅM̴̮̌_̶͎̬̅A̶̱̋̇T̸̺̹͘̕_̵̹͐̇_̶̢̋Ṅ̸̡͚͝]̵̖̎͠​

It doesn't really make sense, does it? What care should a villain have over the sanctity of the dead? They're dead. Being used as test subjects for my surgical device is one of the few ways they could possibly make a positive contribution to the course of human history in this state. And have I mentioned that I'm a villain?

I withdraw my hands and kick the dolly away, except the wheels are locked and the floor's slip-proof. I want to say it teeters under the kick, but that's giving my lower body strength too much credit.

With a final huff, I spin on my heel, stride over to the intercom and-

And then the explosions start.

The biolab's wall dampens the sound down to a deep, almost distant rumbling, yet I could feel very brickwork shaking, and my bones along with it. A half-formed breath turns into a solid lump in my throat as I stumble for the intercom.

The com buzzes before I can touch it. My chest feels too tight for the thundering within it. I feel the arteries writhing upon my skull like blood-engorged leeches.

"We're under attack." Uncle Lee's voice comes through the buzzing. "Stay whe-"

Gunfire and scream drowns out the last of his sentence, and the intercom goes silent. I reach for the door, the part of me that is Yang Kaida, ABB Princess of Winslow screams to go out there and take charge, to fulfill that noblesse oblige of my station. The rest of me shut her down.

To be a general, one needs to know her soldiers, her enemies, her battle. I know nothing and no one here.

I lock the door and turn back around. There is nothing I can do here but to stay put, stay safe, and…

[̷̡̺͍̝̈́̆̉͒̏͝C̵̤̣̼͕͛͌͜Ờ̷̯͉͚͎̳̪̒_̶̢̛͉͋̈́_̵̧͙͍͔̖̩̆͌̍_̵̬͒̕Ȇ̵̡̝̹̱̺͚͗͊̔̚M̷̛͖̬͚̩̖̂̈̍̃ͅN̵̼̳̋́̓̇_̵̐́̃͊͜_̸̣͆̐T̶͇̘͈̤̬̋͂͝I̶͖̯̝̋ͅ_̸͕͍͉̠͖̄̈́̇͋͋N̷̡̛̰͈̮̱͖̂̏͌̃͝]̴̭̖̌̆̽͠ͅ​

My eyes run over everything inside this room, noting the cleaning fluids, the bottle of WD40 and sealant I've used for the prototype, the disinfectant spray…

Perhaps, just perhaps, a way to fight back. To end this.

I feel it coming. That blurry rush of a full tinker fugue, when the world is not the world but merely a collection of components to be assembled, when the chalice of otherworldly knowledge floweth over and drowns me beneath eldritch truth that comes to me as instinctually as breathing. The waves have taken me. My body is a vessel for the fugue, to bring forth-

A hand grabs me and shakes, and my world come apart like glass before Shatterbird

"-inker! Lady Tinker! We have to-"

I hiss, my hand instinctively reaching around to find something to brain this interloper before the rest of me catches up. He's a tall man wearing our color. His face is pale, and his left arm is clutching a welling splotch of red on his side. His right hand clutches a sawn-off.

Also, my lab's door has been kicked off its hinges

There's also another man here, slumped against one wall. Black, with buzz cut hair and filthy, ragged clothes, a good chunk of his abdomen is nothing more than crimson ribbons.

"You're wounded." I observe, head burning with how I can possibly fix him with what in the room.

"Please, Lady Tinker!" He pleads in accented Chinese, though I cannot place the exact accent, "We… We have no-"

Thunder cracks within my hall. a liquid scorching-hot splatters against my legs. The man goes down with a pitiful croak and his right leg explodes from beneath him. There's another standing at the door now. A walking corpse of a man with a gravely complexion and long matted hair framing a sunken, haggard face. The cleanest thing on him is the huge, smoking revolver in his hand.

"Ah, there you are…" His face twists into an ugly leer as he strides into my own lab as if his conquest is already done, his gun hand lax and gesticulating, "Knew that squint-eyed fuck's good. C'mon. You're my meal ticket for the next year and a half."

I'm only half-listening, my attention divided between the wildly waving gun and my own ongoing impromptu chem lab. I was nowhere near done with my planned sleep gas, but at this stage I still have a highly corrosive intermediate product…

"Nah nah nah! Don't even think about it!" My throat seizes as the gun suddenly snaps up at me, "Hand in the air where I can see them. I don't want no tinker tri-aRGHA"

His words devolve into screeching obscenities as my too-brave-for-his-own-good soldier drove a knife into his foot. I spin around and lunge for the erlenmeyer flask filled with a frothing blue liquid, taking a moment to cork it shut lest any sudden movement would splatter it on me even as the sound of a boot crunching through ribs filled the room.

When I look again, I see my soldier curled up in a fetal position a few feet away from where he was and the corpse-man still pinned to the ground with a knife through his right foot. Gritting my teeth, I summon forth every last ounce of strength within me, pour it into my hand, and make sure my man's sacrifice would not be in vain.

I miss.

The flask splatters onto the ground a good feet or two from where my completely immobile target was pinned to the floor. The liquid within breaks free with a sound like damned souls escaping hell as a chunk of the floor a foot across turns to slag and fumes.

"Dumb fucking whore!"

Corpse-man rips himself free and stumbles forward while I'm still too transfixed with my own fuck-up to do anything. His knee drives itself into my stomach and folds me in half over his leg, forcing half-digested lunch into my throat as he did. I swallow it back down. It would be terribly unbecoming of me to vomit now.

"Now you fucking listen to me." A greasy, calloused hand seizes me by the collar and pulls. I do not resist. I let the momentum carry me. I lean into it, desperation driving my head forward, "You-AAAAHRG!!"

Scream of pain and anger symphonizes beautifully with the sound of ceramic cracking apart against cartilages. The gunman stumbles backward. One step, two, and his foot falls into the gaping hole left by my failure. And where his thigh touches the leftover residue, the jean combusts into blue flame as flesh turns to liquid and boils away in black smoke.

I dive for the discarded shotgun just as the man decided that I am no longer worth it as a meal ticket. He shoots first, but agony and anger clouds his aim. And then I answer, and it is hard to miss with a buckshot.

Crimson trenches explode over this face, neck, and shoulders even as I toss the shotgun aside and focus my attention onto my soldier. He's still breathing, still conscious, if barely. My power whispers to me that if he is to have any chance of living at all, he needs the hole in his side patched up.

Because I still can do that, if nothing else.

There's no rejuvenation gel here. Not even a basic first aid kit. Who organized this place? Me, that's who.

There's no clean fabric here that's suitable for a bandage either. His clothes were stained with blood and smoke, and the two gangbangers… Perhaps rather predictably, the cleanest in the room right now is me, therefore…

I shiver as the cold air hits my bare skin, but every second of me struggling with the fabric of my kimono top right now is a second of him gushing blood. Besides, this is a placeholder costume. It's meant to be trashed anyway. And once the external bleeding is stemmed, I turn attention back to the room, searching for something, anything I can-

"You've done all that you can." The familiar dead voice cuts through the beginning of another fugue, and I whip my head around to find Uncle Lee standing at my side. When did he even get there? How does he do that? "We need to get you to the sanctum."

[̷̡̓̔_̵̠̮͎͑̂͊_̵̼͉̎O̴̺̞̚͜N̶̮̄͛_̷̡͔͘_̸͕̳̯̇̓̽Ṅ̴̟̮̯͝Á̴̘͔͜T̶͈͛͜_̸̧̛̼̲Ň̶̫͉]̸͎̜̌͝​

He is right.

I hate that he is right. I hate that there is nothing more that I could do, but he is right. This is the extent of me. The limit of the greatest tinker ever.

"Listen to me. Do you hear me?" I turn to the brave man and grip him by his chin. His eyes are open but unfocused, and he's muttering something in Korean that I do not understand, "You're not going to die. You do not have my permission to die, do you hear me? That's an order! I will see to it!"

With my order given, I rise to my feet and let myself be led away. I close my senses to the chaos unfolding outside all around us, telling myself there is nothing I could do to help them now. Occasionally, someone would slip out of the melee and try to intercept us, most of them bigger and better armed than that walking corpse that had accosted me in the biolab.

None of them last beyond the split second that it takes for The Oni Lee to plant a foot-long dagger between their temples from a dozen paces away, the weapon traveling so fast and so precisely it might as well have been teleported into their skull. Sometime, he would be upon them in the next breath and calmly retrieve his blade as if from a knife stand. Other times, he would unsheathe a new one.

He has so many knives.

Once we safely enter my office sanctum, he stays by my side when the heavy pneumatic door slam shut behind us. He does not move, does not say even a single word. He just stands there, like a statue.

And so am I.

"Why are you here?" I finally ask, and that at least gets him to turn and look at me quizzically, as if I just asked him why the sun rises in the morning, "We need you out there, fighting. Our men are dying outside!"

He's still standing there like a human statue, saying nothing, staring at nothing.

I grit my teeth and draw myself up. I reach deep into myself and find the part of me that is my father. I put all the steel I can muster into my voice and says

"Oni Lee. I order you to go out there and help drive off the aggressor. I do not need your protection right now."

That got something out of him. Not the immediate compliance that I wanted, but more of a full-body shudder. Slowly, as if he's submerged in molasses, Oni Lee turns toward me and drops to one knee. And when he places a hand on my cheek, he does so with an alien gentleness

"I'm… sorry Kaida. I… cannot do… that." His words are slow and deliberate, much like the way I remember some martial artist would move through an unfamiliar kata, "But I've… made a promise to Kenta… to Masako… and to you… and I cannot go back on that."

I glare at him. I glare through him. I glare at those dark eyes behind the Oni mask. The eyes of the man who has been with me since as long as I could remember. The eyes of a man who I call Uncle Lee. The eyes of a man who is, practically speaking, my second father.

And I deflate again, knowing that this will be another battle I will lose today.

So instead I pace. I seethe. I fume. I walk in circles, trying to bleed my own energy dry. And then I notice my own reflection in the glass of the display case.

The shivering little thing in the reflection reaches up with her right hand and removes the cracked and broken porcelain that she hid her face behind, the mask crumbling apart between her delicate fingers as she does. Underneath, her face is unmarred and beautiful still. It is the face of Yang Kaida. The face of a princess.

I open the case and pick up the mask of the three-eyed crow, taking a moment to admire the exquisite craftsmanship delivered on a tight schedule before placing it over the princess' face. And I liked it.

"Oj-Oni Lee. Turn around, please." I ask. He comply

I don't really have that much problem changing clothes in the same room as Uncle Lee. As far as I'm concerned, it really is not that much different from getting changed in the same room as Dad. Awkward? Extremely so. Though given the situation, I can make a few small sacrifices.

Honestly, it's less awkward, given how easy it is to just think of him as a particularly bloody, well-armed pillar.

It took me a few minutes to get into the new costume, and while there is no mirror in my sanctum – an inexcusable design flaw – I like what I see in the display glass. The woman in the reflection is foreboding and imposing, her plumages cutting an overwhelming silhouette of power and surety. Her beaked mask is sharp as Death's scythe, and her eyes…

They're still Yang Kaida's eyes. For now. Not for long.

[̸͔͒͛Ç̶͑_̶̳̥̜͐_̸̺̪̹̹͆́̈́͛̚D̷͓̠̖̘̟͐̕)̵̬̘̬̒̿M̵̖͇̩̆̂̿̉͌N̶̛̯̺̖̞̜̍̉̀_̷͙̑̋͐̈́͆_̷͚̩͋̂̈́̇̀I̶͎̮̯̯͓͝O̶̢͎̣̺̺̓̇̄N̷͎̣̂̑͝]̷͇̈̊̋͜​

̵̕̚​

I walk toward my workstation and power it on, the monstrous, tinkertech-augmented rig comes to life in a fraction of a second, and I immediately pull up the CCTV feed before collapsing into my chair.

[̸͎̖͝͝C̴̩̆͘Ȯ̴̢̻̪N̴̫̜̖̿̆͠D̷̗̐̂͛_̴̩̈́̈́_̷̛̳̑͝Ṅ̶̪̤͌̈́A̸̗͔̱͂̓͂_̵̘̘̒̾O̷͔̊̌͠N̸̛͇]̵̺̓​

Our attackers, whoever they are, obviously did not consider taking out the cameras to be anywhere near the top priority of this raid, and so I was treated with dozens of high-definition bird-eye angles of the chaos unfolding outside.

Because Yang Kaida is not good enough, and there is nothing Yang Kaida can do now except to sit in her hidey hole, waiting for her daddy to come and bail her out again. But she can witness. And she can remember

And The Yatagarasu will make sure this never happens again.

[̵͓̓C̸̡͘O̴̞͘N̸̈́͜D̸̡̔E̷̺͘M̷̦͗N̴̘͠A̷̙͆T̴͖̈I̸̠̎O̵̻̾N̷̞͌]̷̡͋​

_____________________​

Author's Note:
Yeah... so let's address the elephant in the room. This chapter took 7 month to bake. Most of you most likely thought the story/me/both just flat out died. The truth is just more that... the chapter ran away from me and up into a forested mountain. It's just... way too long, with way too many plot threads I'm trying to beat out, and also writing a socially competent character is hell. Regardless, it's back! Though I'll back an effort to *not* disappear for the better part of a year in the future again.

Lastly, huge huge huge thanks to anyone who left a comment. I wasn't as active in the comment as I wanted to be but genuinely every comment you give is a shot of dopamine directly into my brain!

Also I just realized I ended my last chapter with a Soon(TM). So... That's cursed as all fuck!

 

[CaptainCece]

Seven month late replies but I feel like this is warrented. Let's go!

I like Kaida, she's not a good person nor is she deluding herself into thinking she's a good person (like Taylor). But she IS a pragmatic person and those types always make the most interesting villains.

Click to shrink...

Thank you! I'll have to go dig the old character concept notes up but, Kaida is definitely someone who has taken to the label of "villain" as a badge of honor. Whether she's fully pragmatic though is up for judgement

"And I'll eat your pizza and drink your boba tea."
Love it, this dynamic is hilarious! Hope u keep going w/this!

Click to shrink...

Thanks lol. I love inserting cute little moments to give a better texture (i think is the word) for both Kaida and Lung. They're honest is just this

 

[The Lazy One 02]

I might be wrong but I remember the yatagarasu having three eyes and legs, so the three eyed mask is fitting

 

[CaptainCece]

I might be wrong but I remember the yatagarasu having three eyes and legs, so the three eyed mask is fitting

Click to shrink...

So my research on this turns up is that the Yatagarasu or its Chinese counterpart the three-legged crow only have three legs and a presumably ordinary amount of eyes.



Each of its legs is supposed to represent each of the three pillars of a prosperous dynasty: heaven (good luck), earth (good geography), and men (don't piss of the peasants less they shank you). Which kinda make sense why there are legs and not eyes. They're the legs of your kingdom, basically.

Now history and symbolism is all cool and good but the ultimate truth unfortunately is that it is one of the dorkiest-looking mythological bird ever, so Kaida ultimately had to take some artistic liberty there for the sake of PR.

 

[Great Greedy Guts]

I'm wondering who it is that's trying to get at her this time. Is this still the Yangban? A deniable squad from Coil in a timeline being kept for some reason? Random folks looking for a payday? Doubt it's the Empire, with the focus on capture...

Either way, I hope Yatagarasu is able to achieve some success where Kaida wasn't. I know being able to save that soldier is unlikely, but I also hope he's able to follow those orders she gave him.

 

[CaptainCece]

I'm wondering who it is that's trying to get at her this time. Is this still the Yangban? A deniable squad from Coil in a timeline being kept for some reason? Random folks looking for a payday? Doubt it's the Empire, with the focus on capture...

Either way, I hope Yatagarasu is able to achieve some success where Kaida wasn't. I know being able to save that soldier is unlikely, but I also hope he's able to follow those orders she gave him.

Click to shrink...

"Ah, there you are…" His face twists into an ugly leer as he strides into my own lab as if his conquest is already done, his gun hand lax and gesticulating, "Knew that squint-eyed fuck's good. C'mon. You're my meal ticket for the next year and a half."

Click to shrink...

 

[CaptainCece]

The Dragon

Yang Kenta is not a very subtle man. Even before he had his face shoved into a mountain of cocaine and turned into a rage-powered, fire-spewing dragon, he has always felt strongly, always wore his heart on his sleeves.

Once, long ago, when he had stepped off an oversized bathtub that smelled of salt, rust, and machine oil with his family by his side and a mewling babe in his arms, Lung had promised to try. To retire and leave death and violence behind to live a peaceful quiet life for his child and the two people he loved.

Once, long ago, sitting at the corner of an intersection with broken traffic lights on Brockton's northside was The Farm. On the outside, it was an unassuming block of faded paint, rotten concrete, and layered graffiti. On the inside, it was a place of nightmare where a sick little thing calling himself the Shepherd and his sick little flock of Farmers made a commodity out of men, women, and children.

Kenta was content to ignore them. Masako was not, because a woman who tames dragons wouldn't be happy with an eyesore like that in her vicinity. The man who would become Oni Lee was indifferent, and they should have taken that as a sign of what was to come.

But the Shepherd wanted a dragon and a demon for a pet, so they would help him expand his reach and build more farms all over Brockton Bay. And for that, Shepherd took away the two things they treasured most in this world.

Kenta understood then that his peace died long ago in that mound of cocaine where he was born. And the only retirement there was for his kind would be built atop fire and blood.

Today, sitting at the corner of an intersection with broken traffic lights on Brockton's northside is the Pyre; a ruin of charred concrete and half-molten rebar burned a hundred times over by dragon fire. Lung has made sure that it would never be redeveloped. It is a bonfire, a light lit in the night to make sure darkness would never touch his family.

And sometimes, the darkness needs a reminder.

The ABB has gathered here at his call. Not all of them; that would have been logistically unsound. But enough to witness. Enough for words to spread. He walks through them with dragon mask held high and arms folded across his broad chest, his steps ponderous and majestic. Three enforcers trail at his heel, each one keeping the rein on the firewood for tonight.

There are downfalls to being so lacking in finesse. Both Masako and the man who would become Oni Lee had always been quick to remind him of that. Because lighting a fire to chase away darkness means that you'll be standing in its glow and your enemy in the shadow-

"Please Lord Lung! I told you everything I know! I have a fam-MRPHPPHMMMM!" One of the firewood babbles as the gag slips from his mouth. Then his words turn to muffled screaming as Lung seizes him by the mouth. He calls on the beast's might and feels the savage satisfaction of jawbone splintering in his grip. He calls on its fire and sears the offending mouth shut.

It has been exceptionally easy to call on the beast and its fire in this past week. Too easy, if anything. It strains his control to keep it at heel sometimes.

That is true; this one has told him everything. Every single BBPD officer he had sold intel to. Lung could look into his eyes and see the absolute terror of a man with no secret left to save himself. He has no ties or dealings with the Yangban rat still hounding the dragon. Still hounding Kaida.

But that's not the point.

Lung shifts his grip and hoists the traitor over his shoulders just as his enforcer lets go and steps away. His eyes scan the scorched ruin of the Pyre before settling on a familiar length of rebar, bent and malformed from past uses as it was, it would serve for now.

The traitor kicks with every last dregs of his puny strength and screams through his broken and seared-shut mouth even as Lung drives him onto the metal rod. The makeshift spear rips into his thigh, straightens out his torso, and then emerges out the back between his right shoulder blade.

Lung has never been known for finesse, either.

The skewered meat twitches, limbs swiping at nothing as if to grasp the last dreg of life leaving its flesh even as Lung turns around and repeats the procedure twice more. One of them has been embezzling far too much for his station, and the other has sold information on a shipment of chemicals heading to a new tinker's workshop to a local broker. That one will lives for the flame. Lung makes sure of that.

The broker, unfortunately, has made flight to Australia, away from his reach.

The point is terror. Because while his true enemies are still hidden in the night beyond his reach, Kenta can still make sure his ABB would be reminded of the fate that awaits those who break rank.

Taking an offered canister of gasoline from one of his men, Lung doused the three traitors thoroughly before calling upon a spark of his fire.

Roaring flame tinged with the sickly-sweet scent of gasoline illuminated the Brockton night and chased away coastal chill. The screaming of the freshly-damned broke the silence, and his enhanced nose can pick up the faintest whiff of cooked flesh rapidly turning to charcoal.

He walks among his ABB. Many cheer for him, their elation driven by some cocktail of primal bloodlust and tribal loyalty. Just as many shy away with horror written plainly upon every movement. Both are acceptable responses.

Taking the offered towel, Lung calmly wiped the blood splatter off of himself before stepping into his ride. The heroes would be here soonish. The Pyre is too far from their territory and the guarantee on his presence has always deterred them from confrontation, especially not when all he's doing most of the time is burning criminals and not real people. Tonight, Kenta has no desire for any unnecessary posturing.

He also has unread messages that he has been putting off.

Spoiler

​

Kaida.

The last ray of sunshine in his world. The one thing this world has not been able to take from him.

Because of his fallings, she is not untouched. Because of his fallings, she has been brought to her lowest and triggered. But she is unbroken, because she's simply the most wonderful thing in the world.

But that most wonderful thing is a cape now, the most wonderful cape in the world, and she's dead set on making mistakes of her own.

Spoiler

​

Contrary to popular narrative, Kenta isn't stupid. He knows a losing battle when he sees one. And his TiaoTiao? She has too much of her mother and too much of her father inside her. So when she's determined to make mistakes of her own, Kenta knows that the only choice he has here is whether she makes them in his sight or behind his back. To make sure she sinks-or-swims in the shallows and not the deeps.

If only there was no shark in the shallows.

They've nipped at her twice now, and yet that girl would sooner look up how to punch sharks in the nose before she would consider getting out of the pool. There's too much of her mother and too much of her father. And what is he to do?

There's one part of him that tells him to sit her down and tell her to take it slow, tell her that there are things in the water he can't protect her against. The parts of him that were a father and a dragon rages against the very notion that there is anything at all he could not give his perfect princess.

"Take me to a tea house."

And so, the dragon ponders his treasure..

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*​

The Ox

The setting sun paints a flame-like hue over the bay as it makes its journey westward beneath the horizon. The fingers of darkness creep in as long shadows, eager to establish its reign over the city in the coming night.

"Uhh… shīfu? Are we gonna… start?"

Oni Lee breathes in through his mouth. The cold air dampens the wine's burn. He seals the bottle and sets it to his side. He turns to look at his student sitting cross-legged next to him..

She is tall. She wears a dark tracksuit with visibility lining. Her hair is dyed the ABB colors. Her fingers are playing with the chains wrapped around her arms. They clink.

Her eyes are squeezed shut. She is trying to force tranquility through force of will. It is familiar.

"We have already started." He says. Her frowns deepen.

"...shīfu, we've just been sitting here. What's the point of all this?"

Oni Lee does not answer. He does not remember the point of this. But the man who has become Oni Lee finds this to be familiar. He knows it to be good.

He rises. He motions for her to rise. She rises and stretches. Her chains clink like birdsongs.

"Show me what you know." He commands, "Come at me with the intent to kill."

Jennifer Chen frowns. She unclasps the chains on her forearms. She does not attack.

"Wouldn't Kaida be upset?" She asks.

"Yes. If you succeed."

Chen growls. She steps forward and flicks her hand. Her chain lunges forward as a snake would, as if in vengeance. Oni Lee moves his head and lets the metal snake bite down on thin air before seizing it by the neck.

He yanks, and she lets the momentum carry her. Her other chain folds in half to become a bludgeon scything for his shin and traps the beast's jaw open. He feels the tension changing in the chains before he sees her stance shifting for a kick. But his fist is faster, and her side is defenseless.

At the last second, the spear to her kidney turns to a shove as the man who has become Oni Lee remembers something he could not name as the girl stumbles away.

"Again."

She comes at him this time as a bastard storm. Her entire body controls the howling fury of her twin chains as a shaolin disciple would their nine-section whip, yet her footwork is wide and ponderous as a lava flow. Oni Lee retreats as she advances, his stride long and unburdened by howling metal. So Chen turns the storm horizontal and lets herself be carried away with it in a flurry of alternating low sweeps and high-flying butterfly kicks in an objectively skillful display of momentum.

And momentum is predictable, and a fight is not a display.

Someone has told him that once.

On her third pass, in that white space where her chain has bled itself dry and her leg is high and extended, he slips in underneath and catches a descending leg and turns.

And he makes sure that she will not break her spine on the landing, as he remembers that is not the point.

Already, she has conjured momentum from nothingness to roll away from him and get her arms under her. But before she rises, Oni Lee crosses the distance in one long stride and plants a knee between her shoulders.

"Why do you fight?" He asks.

She struggles still. And when her eyes meet his, it burns.

"If I… don't," She forces the words out through gritted teeth, "Who will?"

Her words are nonsense, but the man who has become Oni Lee recognizes the flame.

"Rise." He commands. He removes his knee from her back, "We will begin with your foundation."

His student sulks. Yet she listens and follows.

And he finds this familiar.

And so, the Ox ponders why it tolls.

_____________________

​

Author Note: This update is dedicated to the one user who hoped to see an update before 2024. This one's for you. Honestly, this is only about one half/two-fifth of the POVs I wanted to cover. I might still cover the other PoVs, but I noticed it was getting over the 2k mark and I didn't want a repeat of last time.
Lore-heads among you might have noticed that Lung's power doesn't work exactly one-to-one as in canon. I know. Let just say different circumstances and mentality at the moment of trigger result in a subtly different expression of power.

Lastly, the Oni Lee segment was H A R D. Not only because trying to get into his head feel like trying to squeeze into a casket filled with rusty nails, but also because I have to write a fight scene between two people who actually know what they're doing in a fight as someone who would lose a fight to a house plant. So I fell down a martial art-shaped rabbit hole and came out more confused.

So next chapter, whether it be back to our princess or the other PoVs, will probably take a decade or five after I learn at least three martial arts and win one MMA title.

Lastly and most importantly: Tiaotiao means PickyPicky. This is extremely important information.

 

[Radical Sway]

And so, the Ox ponders why it tolls.

Click to shrink...

Is it perhaps meant to be toils instead of tolls?

 

[CaptainCece]

Is it perhaps meant to be toils instead of tolls?

Click to shrink...

Fuck you're right...

Alright i need to edit this across the four sites lmao