A/N: A few clarifications to be made at this time. For those unfamiliar with my other works, I've always found that short, alternate POVs are very useful tools for developing narratives. Rather than a small number of large Interludes, I find that a larger number of small Interludes helps expand the world. A bit out of character for most Worm fics, I know.
POVs will always be identified by centered, bolded names. Most likely, for this fic, I'll be trying to keep to one-POV-per-chapter and not overuse Interludes, but they'll crop up now and then when they're useful.
This seems a prudent time to explain how Interludes interact with the Forge, as well. For the time being, I'm allowing Interludes to grant CP at the same rate as normal chapters, with two restrictions:
They must progress the story, and they must not retread ground. No progress for reaction Interludes of events that have already happened on-screen, and no progress for Interludes that only develop a character but don't actually have any plot progress involved, and so on.
The actual rolls and perk acquisition will be done after the Interlude ends, for simplicity.
Also, no progress for PHO Interludes (if I even do one) – too much formatting and other messy stuff that would make it a headache to keep track of.
The rain pattered unevenly against the walls and ceiling. Normally, I enjoyed the sound of the rain, but there'd always been something about the sound of it pounding against metal roofs that made me uncomfortable. On the other hand, it gave me something to focus on while my hands mindlessly disassembled the machinery for components.
I had some basic workstations in my Workshop, but nothing that would let me make electronics from scratch. Repurpose them, absolutely, but not build them – and that made circuit boards, copper wiring, and computer chips extremely valuable salvage for me. Fortunately, it seemed this building wasn't so much a warehouse as a factory of some kind. I didn't have the knowledge base needed to figure out exactly what was made here, but it didn't make a difference to me regardless. Just another looming husk of industry in Brockton.
Disassembling a decrepit, abandoned building for parts was... shockingly easy with the mote the Forge had provided. I had no idea what I was going to
use these parts for, exactly – I wasn't exactly swimming in options for helping the city yet. Guns, lasers, and explosives weren't exactly a package for
fixing things. The Stimpaks were useful, but even if I made enough of them to distribute – that kind of healing could have consequences. If I just sold them, or handed them out, they'd wind up in a lot of places... but mostly, they'd be hoarded by people who expected to get into fights. And in Brockton, that meant one of the gangs.
If I gave them to the Protectorate and PRT, they'd make use of them... but that alone wouldn't affect the city. Even armed with that kind of healing, they'd never make the kind of push needed to fix a city teetering on the edge like Brockton. Even if the local branch wanted to... with the benefit of outside perspective, I knew that there were hands that wanted the city broken like this.
When I heard someone stumble into the building on the tail of that thought, a part of me was convinced that the Boogeyman was about to either put a bullet in my brain or put me in a cage somewhere, regardless of how stupid that thought was in hindsight.
"Oh,
fuck," said a gravelly voice as I turned around. An older man, with a thick salt-and-pepper beard and wrapped in a thick, unwashed coat, his eyes rapidly darting from me to my toolbox, then to the several disassembled machines, and finally settling on my face. "Listen... I'm sorry; it's rainin' outside, an' I was just looking for a place..." He took a step back.
I shrugged once. "Yeah. I get it. There's some old cardboard boxes in the back over there, if you want to make a mat or something." I turned back to the machine. "Just... if you could try not to get any of these parts wet, I'd appreciate it. If I had a heater, I'd offer to help you dry off, but I've got nothing."
I watched him in my peripheral vision, just in case – Brockton was Brockton, I wasn't stupid. But he just stood there staring at me for a couple of seconds.
"Huh?" He eloquently grunted.
"There's not a lot of places out of the rain in this part of town. I get it; I've been there." After a few more seconds of staring, he disappeared further into the warehouse and I could hear him rummaging at the boxes I'd mentioned.
I wouldn't want to sit on the concrete either.
Edward Jameson
I'd hung my coat up to dry.
Away from the Tinker, just in case. Set myself up a mat and sat down, trying not to stare at the cape working a dozen feet away.
... Could you call them a cape if they were just in normal street clothes? I scratched my beard, thinking about it. I guess it was just another way of referring to someone with powers, so...
Actually, that was bothering me a lot more than I thought. And the guy hadn't been aggressive at all when I'd come in; even when he looked at me there wasn't hostility in his eyes. Really, he mostly looked like...
... I squinted at him. Dark hair, in need of a trim, check. Uneven goatee, check. Dark circles under the eyes... definitely check.
Same signs as... I cleared my throat, and for just a second his eyes flicked towards me.
Good sign.
"So, aren't you types supposed to wear masks?" I asked disinterestedly.
The kid –
yes, people in the late twenties are still kids, fuck off – didn't answer for a couple of seconds, mouth moving like he was chewing on his words. After a few more, he sighed them out. "That's mostly for people with something to protect. So they can stop once they're done pretending."
I blinked.
Bad sign. "Pretending, huh." The kid nodded but didn't elaborate. "Not entirely sure what you mean there."
"Born in Brockton?"
"Huh?" The non-sequitur threw me off. "Yeah. Lived here my whole life."
"Then you probably do know, it's just easier not to think about it." With a grunt, he pulled a circuit board out of the guts of the machine and set it in his bag. "Somebody in a flashy costume shows up, and either makes things worse or does some surface-level service before they go home, take off the costume, and feel good about themselves."
"Not a charitable view," I pointed out. He turned and
looked at me with a sarcasm I hadn't felt in a few years at least.
"I'm a native, too," he said like that explained everything.
And it kind of did.
"So not a fan of capes, then."
"Nope," he said with a popped 'p.' "Hence my costume."
That startled a laugh out of me, and a tiny smile flashed across his face. He pulled some wiring out from the bag, dusted off his pants, and stood up. "Well. I got what I came for. I'd offer you a ride, but... I walked here." He shrugged.
I glanced towards the door, noting the rain I could still hear falling. "You're goin' out in
this?"
He smiled wistfully. "Yeah. Got more stuff I have to do, you know." He shook the bag of electronics vaguely before waving sarcastically and heading for the door.
I had a sinking feeling, and I wanted to say something... but what was I even supposed to say? Nothing had gotten through to my son, either, and I'd known him a hell of a lot better.
Just before he left, he glanced back at me. "Feels awkward just walking off." He turned back and gave me a vague salute. "I'm Michael. It was... nice talking," he finished with awkwardness before swiftly turning around.
"Ed," I managed to get out before he left. He glanced back, as if surprised I'd answered. Then he nodded.
"Nice talking, Ed," he repeated, and disappeared.
I sat on the floor for a bit, thinking.
Eventually, I got up and grabbed my coat again. It wasn't totally dry... but it was better than just lying exposed in the cold. I'd done that before, and I probably wouldn't make it a second time.
Eventually, I drifted off.
. . .
I woke up warmer than I'd expected to a soft, droning hum. I glanced around, panic rising in my chest –
– and laid eyes on a small metal box with a mesh on one side and some glowing wire inside.
It was warm.
... Well, Ed? Good sign or bad sign?
