- Location
- The Howling
Out of curiosity are you planning for him to stay with the PRT after he joins up?
-
Going forward, links to content from Twitter (now X) will no longer be embedded. Pre-existing links should not be affected.
Greatness Not Wasted! (Worm, SI/OC, Celestial Forge)
- Thread starter Sarius
- Start date
3: Moving Quickly
3: Moving Quickly
The horrible, chainsaw-like sound, alongside spine tinglingly bad beeps, tore me from my troubled sleep. Without a moment's pause I rolled out of my bed, clumsily stumbling over to slam my palm down onto the plastic button of the demonic thing, then yanked its cord from the wall maliciously, as though the clock had any preference to being on or off.
Didn't matter, I hated it right now. I could anthropomorphise a shitty alarm clock if it made me feel better about ending its pathetic, digital life.
"Oooh shit," I groaned as the world quickly dissolved into static, dropping to my hands and knees to stop myself from passing out, "stood up too damn fast."
Just as the split second of darkness took my vision entirely, I was pulled into my mind by my power on a moment's notice, distancing myself from the unpleasant recovery from the bout of faintness. Like hell I was going to complain about that.
My power reached out towards the constellations, a scene I'd witnessed enough times for it to have lost a little of its lustre, but this time the connection was almost instant. Instead of the far off, massive stars littering the swirling mess of constellations, it seems my power had reached for a smaller meal this time.
My excitement rose as the star poured its essence into my head and… hmm.
That's odd. There's something there, just not readily apparent.
I left the recesses of my mind and regathered myself from the floor. After my power connecting with something, I felt awake enough that going back to bed would be ill advised. Even though exhaustion practically poured off of me, I worked past it. I was already burnt from the… experience I'd had yesterday and pushing past the exhaustion would only send me further down, but I didn't have much of a choice for now. More immediate concerns.
I scoured my mind, trying to find an easy answer for what'd just been put in my head. My guess for the moment was that the star hadn't been as knowledge focused as some of the others I'd gotten my hands on so far. It was on the tip of my tongue, I knew it, but I just couldn't find exactly what I was looking for.
Scrubbing at my face, wincing at pressing too hard against the cheekbones of my too-gaunt features, I stumbled out into my living room and kitchen to find a baffling sight.
The couch had a set of sheets and a pillow I hadn't used for years folded and placed neatly on one side of it, having been used as an impromptu bed, and the kitchen countertop had food on it.
Like, a few small grocery bags full of food. Nothing special, really—some bread, milk, cereal, a few different types of sandwich spread, coffee, a big-ass thing of water, some assorted treats I hadn't had the money to splurge on for years…
And a note:
Hey James,
You passed out there after a bit, thought I'd leave you to rest. I was a bit too tired to make the trek home, so I crashed on your couch for a few hours before heading out and grabbing you some essentials after I realised you barely had any soap left in the shower. I hope you don't mind me staying or using your bathroom, I made sure to pack everything up and wipe things down!
Other than that, I wanted to say thank you for your company last night, it made me realise how little I talk with people outside of work anymore. It was fun, in a way. Maybe we could do it again sometime, preferably when we're not both mad as hatters?
-Steph
What followed was a scrawled string of numbers, clearly a phone number, that I stared at for a moment before rubbing my brow with a sigh, trying to ignore the flush creeping up the back of my neck.
Holy shit this was so fucking embarrassing.
If I were to be perfectly honest, my recollection of events of the past day was academic at best. Most of my memories were shrouded in a haze of exhaustion, conflicted emotions; both elated and depressed, and sheer confusion. Exhaustion has a way of just making you feel terrible about anything and everything. Dark thoughts start to persistently come to you even as you forcibly push them away, regardless of how little an effect they usually might have on you.
I clicked my tongue, placing the note back on the bench for the moment, and returning to the food I'd been gifted, kicking my mind into gear to start preparing a meal.
I'd, frankly, made a mopey ass of myself yesterday. I had been walking a tightrope of emotions between bursting out laughing and breaking down into sobs the whole day. I didn't really like having those sorts of days, even if I had good reasons for it. I liked to keep my mind somewhat orderly—and liked to at least think I had a good handle on my own emotions.
But every now and then, it pays off to have a day like that. I still didn't feel great—felt awful really—but emotionally I'd come to find myself in a neutral space. Whether that was because I'd processed those emotions, or because I'd just released the pressure in the valves to non-critical levels, I couldn't tell. I felt better, more stable, so I'd take it as a win.
The sandwich came together quickly, not in good enough health to stand around cooking eggs—of which there was a half-carton. Eggs were really the only thing I could cook at all, what I'd once wanted to use as the starting line for learning more meals, but out of practicality I'd chosen conserving my health and energy over cooked meals.
Sitting on my kitchen stool, I dug around in the plastic bags, bringing each item out and placing them in a meticulously organised fashion, reading each for their ingredients and any other nutritional information I could glean from them. There were quite a few that were contained in vessels that could be useful for storage and preservation of varying elements—reuse of available materials and tools was a greatly efficient practice.
One item that Steph had bought me was coffee, as well as a handful of different sodas that I'd absolutely savour the treat of. Coffee wasn't really my thing. It smelled wonderful if I was in the right mood, but the taste had always been a mixed bag or just straight unpleasant, though I hadn't exactly thoroughly tested for the tastes of different coffees and preparations methods.
Now that I think about it, much of the bitterness of the coffee itself could be alleviated by adding sugar to counteract it, but I wasn't really a fan of adding too much sugar if I didn't need it. Lessening the amount of coffee grounds used is a possible solution, diluting it with more milk or adding other resources such as honeys or possibly even the juices of a citrus fruit. A coffee still didn't sound entirely pleasant, however, and I think I could probably put better use to the honey in a handy mixture that would likely alleviate some of the brain fog that I struggle with—I wouldn't even need the specialised tools, decanters, and other precision laboratory equipment. It's perfectly doable with just a stovetop and a metal saucepan, even if the effectiveness might take a bit of a hit.
Now where would I get my hands on some of the dried herbs I'd need…
I stopped myself dead still, arm stuck deep inside a cupboard I haven't pulled anything from in months, hand grasping the handle of a cheap saucepan I only used a few times maximum.
What the fuck?
I sighed, pulling the saucepan free and placing it on the stovetop, then returning to my seat, grumpily stuffing an edge of my chocolate spread sandwich into my mouth and started chewing.
Well, I guess I figured out what my new star contained. It was like pulling a thread in a blanket, watching as it all started to unravel from there. I was right, in some senses, when I'd thought the new star to not have as much knowledge as some of the others. I didn't have a textbook of recipes and theory stuffed into my noggin', but I did have an eye for things now.
Just looking at how I'd set my grocery items on the table, I could see the reasoning behind their placement. Some were placed near each other due to common overlap in the sort of potions, remedies, poisons, tinctures, and various other mixtures they were used in. There was an innate sense of it, along with a looser understanding, backed up by what could only be described as a knack for trial and error.
It felt like I was a backyard scientist, learning just enough to get at what I'm interested in doing, and expanding my understanding by either brute-forcing the issue, or developing unique solutions to overlooked problems. Like, for example, the lack of access to scientific-grade hardware for precision use in neoalchemical processes.
Thing is, though? I was a really good backyard scientist. Maybe not intelligent, but inventive instead. Much of what I can put my understanding to is littered with substitutions, not having access to the components that'd be ideal for any given bit of alchemy. For example, the use of a Blue-eyed Owl's gizzard would be appropriate for brewing a 'Sleepless potion' with almost no nasty side effects, but just a regular old owl gizzard would absolutely do if the quantity of herbs were increased to compensate.
You would probably end up with a terrible headache for a few hours afterwards, and if used long-term, you're likely to end up with blinding migraines and a craving addiction to the stuff that'll demand the use of more until your sleep is entirely eliminated and you eventually die from a heart attack.
Pleasant stuff.
Also, the star made me think in a British accent when thinking about neoalchemy. Weird.
Anyway, looks like I can make potions fairly easily, but with a more rational part of my brain I stopped myself from immediately trying to throw together various potions in the kitchen of that apartment that wouldn't be mine for much longer. Some of them would absolutely explode and release deadly toxic by-products if I did things correctly, and without good equipment, substituting would make things potentially dangerous to consume regardless.
A mental image of intermittent and multicoloured vomiting entered my mind, and I noted to myself that making a potion to ease starvation without extremely clean tools was a bad idea.
I chomped down on the last bit of my sandwich, swallowing it somewhat mechanically, but grateful that my stomach was playing nice with me today and not twisting itself into knots. I took a moment of pause, alongside drinking some still cold milk as a treat, ignoring the potential riskiness milk seemed to pose ever since I got sicker, and rested my mind before I set out on my plan for the day.
First on the menu was some minor testing with the life magic I got access to yesterday—mostly to burn some time since I wanted to make sure that Panacea had gotten her call out of the way first. Then… well, I'd bite the bullet of calling the contact she'd left me.
It was a nerve-wracking thought, making a move as big as that so soon after gaining my powers—something I'm pretty sure that most who got powers would sleep on for a while longer. But I didn't have the confidence in having time to sit on it and think through every possible scenario, especially when I was almost entirely certain that I'd end up making the same decision anyways.
For now, though, I'm just going to distract myself with what is my most practical power– well, that's not true anymore since I got the neoalchemy star, but it's the other immediately accessible ability I have. Also it happens to be the one I feel drawn to most, personally.
I moved over to the couch, taking a look at the clock on the wall that was always slow by a few hours, noting that I had a handful of hours before I'd endeavour to make the call, and closed my eyes to dig into the depths of the energy that had welled up in me.
Only to be interrupted by my power, of course.
I rolled my eyes in my head and moved the process along, waiting for any connection to happen; and apparently my power took offense to my indifference. It nabbed a large star, larger than the one I'd just gotten this morning, but not gigantic by any means, and poured it into my mind.
As soon as the connection completed, my eyes snapped open wide. Schematics for technology I couldn't even begin to fully comprehend started flying through my mind at lightning speed, each schematic only being a part of a greater machine. I could do nothing but ride it out, the hyper advanced tech intruding so heavily that it almost began to scare me.
Then, without a moment to breathe, the seemingly endless schematics stopped to instead be replaced with documentation and specifics of the software used to power it, including the systems used to digitally protect the equipment.
It felt like forever until the absolute flood of information stopped, leaving me with my heart racing at what I'd just been given by my power.
This wasn't like the collection of magical schematics I'd been granted, where they were all impressive but esoteric, offering very little in the way of revolutionary technology. Unlike those schematics also, it didn't come with exacting understanding of how to make everything, which meant I had to rely on my ability to interpret actual schematics and documentation.
But I could read the synopsis of it just fine.
A nanotechnology-based fabricator, capable of creating anything that you wanted. It made any technology I'd ever come into contact with or ever heard of outside—of maybe tinker tech—look like children toying with playdoh. It was sophisticated in ways that belonged entirely to the trashy science fiction novels I'd took a liking to at one point, appearing as little more than a hand-wavy way to explain a post-scarcity society. But actually real.
The sheer implications of technology like this made my head swim, not to mention that I had exhaustive documentation of functioning software used to control manufacturing of objects with nanotechnology.
I couldn't understand the schematics worth a damn and, if I were being totally honest, there were entire paragraphs that used almost exclusively ten plus character words that meant nothing to me. But I could easily recognise that the schematic for the 'internal nanotech storage container' was individually immensely valuable, along with the various other parts of the system. All of them acting as answers to questions only asked in highly technical scientific papers, or between a few college students with too much interest and not enough understanding.
Hell, the internal processing unit this thing ran on was probably the most powerful conventionally made computer chip on the planet.
I swallowed thickly. There went any theories of my power giving access to technology that was only so advanced.
For now, there were no actionable steps towards constructing the thing, but it wouldn't stay that way forever. I could maybe make the software, though I expect I might have to write the software from bare metal, and I only barely understood how to put the internals of a PC together properly—so I'll call that no-go too.
I ended up forcefully purging the endless thinking loop my mind would gladly get stuck in given the chance, going back to my idea of sensing the life magics instead.
Time to focus on what was most immediately useful.
I slowed my breathing, deepening each breath to affect a sense of calm, and truly began to focus on the energy that I knew was there and could vaguely sense in my surroundings.
The life magic inside of me became more and more clear, not in the visual sense, but through an altogether new sense I couldn't really describe. I brought myself as close to the magic inside me as I could and did what you might liken to dipping your hand in the surface of a calm lake and watching as it enveloped your fingers seamlessly.
It responded with almost a curiousness, a faint warmness surrounding my hand and easing the slight weakness of my muscles that severely sedentary life had caused. The lake of power was absolutely massive, enough that I wasn't sure it could ever truly run out as long as life existed in any real form on Earth, but that meant nothing to the fact that I was struggling to keep the concentration to focus it on my hand.
I held to it as best as I could, concentration making the time blur while I tried to manipulate the magic more efficiently. Eventually I broke away from the power as a spike of pain in my head reached a crescendo. I expected the pain to persist, punishing me for overstepping, but it almost immediately receded.
"A warning, huh?" I mused to myself.
That was good. It wouldn't just let me go so far as killing myself. For now, I'd consider it safe enough to train on my own without further additions to my understanding. Ideally, a star I nab in the future will come with the ability to spell cast to some capacity, and hopefully give me an in with learning to wield the life energy inside of me.
I brought my right hand up to my face, the one I'd been directing life magic towards, and gently flexed my fingers, kneading into the thin meat between my thumb and forefinger. I could immediately feel the results of the magic's work. It wasn't at all obvious, with there being no physical changes to the overly bony hand, but my movements felt smoother and came with no pain, didn't cramp anywhere near as quickly when sustaining a flexed muscle, and even looked slightly healthier in the parlour of my skin.
It was astounding, the effects being nothing short of what I'd consider possible via some parahuman regeneration ability. I'd gotten a tiny bit of experience with the magic and already felt more confident in using it at its very basics, but it also left my focus and energy drained like exercising a mental muscle. And that was while the life magic worked with me too.
I looked up at the clock—quickly adding the few hours I knew it was behind by—and realised that the little training session had already lasted hours. Enough for it to have hit midday and the arbitrarily set deadline I'd decided to enforce on myself.
I pulled myself from the couch and went to grab my flip phone from the bedside table in my room, as well as the card Panacea had given me, before returning to the couch, sitting upright as I stared down at the phone and the card intensely.
"Okay," I said to myself, reorganising my thoughts, "Panacea said to be respectful and just to say that she'd told me to call. Shit, should I be using my mobile for this?"
Where was the nearest payphone? Did I even have the coins laying around to pay? I tried to think on what my best move here was, but in the end it felt futile. I was about to personally call someone in the PRT or Protectorate to ask to be interviewed in person. There was no way I was walking anywhere far today, so the best I'd be able to do was a payphone that I think was a street over, and it'd be the least private conversation in the world.
Welp, I'm not keeping my identity all that secret from the PRT, there's no way I can realistically compete. I read the number on the card, cross-checking with the one on my phone a numeral at a time, confirmed that it was correct, took in a few deep breaths, and hit the green call button.
My mouth went catastrophically dry as soon as I saw the calling animation pop up, though I ignored it and pressed the flip phone to my ear and willed my hand to stop shaking.
One ring. Two rings. Three–
"Hello, how may I help you?" A woman's voice appeared in my ear, almost making me jump despite expecting it.
"Ah, yes," I stammered, trying to get my brain back on track, "I was given this number and told to call today or later by Panacea, I'm interested in possible employment and was wondering what the next steps are from here, ma'am."
I thought I caught the edge of a sigh away from the phone's microphone, but the woman's voice returned a moment later.
"Yes, while discussion over the phone would be expedient, you will have to conduct an interview in person for security and safety reasons—both for yourself and my colleagues and I." She said, her voice exacting and straightforward, a strong American accent with a hint of something else that I couldn't quite place, "This will first be a basic interview conducted by myself, then further with the lead of our team and the head of our branch if things go accordingly. After this you may return back to your home, or you may choose to continue with other mandatory requirements of your interview process. Do you require further clarification or have any general questions?"
Her tone was genial, if not particularly warm, but had a certain cadence or flow to it that felt awfully familiar, I just couldn't place it.
"I understand. Though, I was concerned with how I might go about seeking legal aid to assist me in negotiating any contracts?" I asked definitively, though trying not to be brusque about it. I wasn't going to outright say that I didn't trust a government contract to not fuck me over, but I wasn't going to needlessly open myself up to it either way. Besides, I had a feeling that I'd need to be careful with these sorts of contracts, lest I sign over my rights to the technology I produce and cause myself more problems.
"A fair question," the nameless Protectorate or PRT lady replied, and I could feel a small smile in her voice, maybe amusement, "there is a list of verified and trusted lawyers that will be made available to you for the contractual process. With the sensitive nature of the contract and the individuals it relates, it is necessary that only those lawyers be used, and thus their services will be subsidised in part by us. All you will be required to sign is a standard non-disclosure agreement that holds no other power over you, regardless of whether you are accepted or not."
It wasn't perfect and sounded potentially rife for abuse—especially as they were subsidising the lawyers, and the 'trusted' lawyers likely got consistent work through the PRT. But beggars couldn't be choosers, and there was merit to not simply allowing any old lawyer access to the identity of a potential new member of the Protectorate. I'd cry foul if something smelled seriously wrong about it, though.
I was suddenly pulled into my mind, and in a small panic I hurried along the process so I could get back to the very important conversation currently happening. Thankfully, it quickly failed, and I pushed back out of my mind to say my part.
"Alright, that's fine by me. Is there a date and time I should be putting down?" I asked, happy to move along to the final part of the conversation that could be held over the phone.
"We are capable of accommodating almost any time during working hours, however I will ask first whether you are willing to be brought to us immediately? It will reduce the likelihood of mishaps or interference and allows for us to begin work in securing your identity and persons. We've found through experience that expedience is crucial at this point of the process." She said sternly, the poor quality of the flip phone's speakers doing nothing to lessen the gravitas in her voice.
I quickly tried to think it through but found myself just floundering in my thoughts before deciding to forge ahead, "That's also fine for me. Should I prepare anything?" I asked.
"No preparation required beyond making yourself as presentable as possible; this is a job interview, of course." She responded with a dry tone that I suspected hid her humour, "If you would be willing to supply an address or a location you are comfortable being picked up from, we could get a vehicle on the way."
I threw caution to the wind, not seeing much of a reason in making myself walk any extra distance when I'm supposed to endure interviewing with the PRT and Protectorate. I quickly and clearly listed the address for the apartment building I lived in—which thankfully was only home for a few more days if this were to go pear-shaped.
"Thank you," she said professionally after confirming the address, "a driver will be sent to that address and arrive in thirty minutes. The vehicle will be a close mimicry of a taxicab with dark tinted windows. You will be shown identification by the driver before being given your privacy in the back seat. I suggest you read and look through the provided materials you will find in the pocket on the back of the seat in front of you. I will greet you after you arrive here, so until then."
I gave my own short farewell and ended the call, taking a slightly shuddery breath, then stilled.
Fuck, I needed to take a shower. No time to lose, I got up and started preparing for a quick and painful shower.
Let's try to not end up late to the interview, shall we?
The trip down the stairs had been rough, my body absolutely enraged that I would dare make it go out more than once in a week, but I kept pushing past its protests. I had a little while till transport got here, and I'd made the trip down the stairs for more than just being responsibly early.
As I walked down the last few steps, I saw the door to Joy's room open, revealing the face of one very suspicious old woman staring at me with a scrutinising gaze.
"Another trip out, I see?" She asked, eyeing me carefully.
"Yup," I answered with a bit of humour, "though I really wish I wasn't."
"Going to see after that opportunity you were talking about, ey?" She questioned with a raised brow.
I gave her a nod, not wanting to encourage more conversation about the topic, at least not out in public. The smart old cookie caught on quickly, just offering me an exasperated smile, worn at the edges with worry.
"Are you sure you're okay? I heard someone going in and out of your apartment this morning, a lady I believe?" She grinned teasingly, but not enough to diminish the concern.
"I'm fine, I swear." I said, finding a surprising amount of strength in my voice with the statement, "She's someone I met at the hospital last night. She was kind enough to help me get home."
"Mhm," she hummed, disbelief coating her tone, "drives a nice car too, she does."
"Joyce, are you spying on my friend?" I asked with exaggerate shock.
"Absolutely, love." She grinned back, "It's all I've got left to do in my days. Do you see me doing much else other than speculate on the young'uns love lives?"
I snorted out a laugh, already formulating a follow up quip, but distracted by a flash of yellow out of the corner of my eye. A car that looked very nearly like a taxi was smoothly pulling up outside of the building, clearly visible through the front doors.
"That your ride, James?" Joy asked casually.
"Sure is, Joy. I should get a move on, don't be worrying about me too much, I'm taking care of myself!" I assured as I quickly walked to the door, leaving behind sound of Joy's dubious grumbling.
In moments I was out on the street, moving up to the dark tinted side-window and giving it a small knock with a knuckle. Immediately it wound down to reveal a man dressed in a slightly more casual version of 'I'm absolutely a cop' attire.
"Here to be picked up for your interview in twenty minutes, sir?" He asked, quietly and exactly.
"That's me." I affirmed with a nod, and with a smooth motion, the man flipped out a wallet containing a more discrete version of a PRT badge and a licence with his face on it. He put it away after confirming I'd seen it and offered the back seat of the taxi so we could get on our way.
The back seat was physically barred from the front, a thick plexiglass like material making the back seat somewhat dim, the light mostly coming from the heavily tinted windows. As I'd been instructed, I pulled the contents of the pocket on the back of the chair in front of me out onto my lap and examined the pieces.
There was a PRT and Protectorate recruitment guide styled as somewhat of a magazine, accompanied by a list of things printed on red card that would not be tolerated by those in the interview process; including trying to run off to meet Protectorate members or Wards, and finally a plastic sheath that held a generic black domino mask that I was instructed to put on before exiting the vehicle.
The list of 'Do Nots' was mostly useless, seeing as I wasn't all that keen to get myself mobbed by PRT troopers or any member of the Protectorate. I read it anyways, just in case, but the rules made me wonder just who it was that incited the creation of the sometimes quite specific rules, and if they were even still around after having challenged a Protectorate member to a duel.
The recruitment guide was more useful, though it paid a lot of lip service to the benefits of joining, what they could offer in terms of opportunity, the safety they provided, and so on. Though it did mention a probationary phase where you must stay in the place of your recruitment for a year, outside of extenuating circumstances, and there was a large emphasis on the ability to transfer to other PRT branches or to fulfil leadership positions after said probationary period.
It all sounded nice, but it didn't go into any real logistics of the work done, different capacities team members could fulfil, or anything more complicated than extremely simple overviews. Operational security at work. I could only assume that I'd learn more when they got me to sign that NDA.
By the time I'd finished doing my best to scour the recruitment guide, I could see the PRT building just down the street from where the car currently was, and we turned onto a side road between two other office buildings, navigating through to another sideroad that passed behind the row, and ended in a ramp going downwards to a metal door that was currently in the process of easing open.
I quickly tore open the domino mask's package, feeling the small thing in my hands for a moment before following the instructions and pressing it gently to my face, lining it up with the slight bump for the bridge of the nose, and then released the pressure. It stayed on my face fairly securely, not in any immediate risk of falling off, at least. It made me feel stupid, though; such a token gesture of privacy that really offered no protection.
As we descended into what must've been a secondary carpark, the dimness inside the back of the car became almost pitch black, leaving me to feel the motions of the car as it slowly pulled into an open space and turned off. The driver left his seat, coming to my side and opened the door into the dimly lit carpark.
"Please leave the vehicle and follow me, I'll be taking you to an interview room nearby." The man said concisely, very little emotional inflection, and seemed more bored by the events than anything. I'd take that as a good sign for now, I guess.
I hopped out quickly, letting the PRT agent close the door behind me and began to follow him as he walked towards a nearby door at a thankfully reasonable pace. He was easy enough to keep up with, even if I'd have rather moved a fair deal slower, but I'd live.
We passed through the door with the PRT agent swiping a card in a reader and emerged into a long, bland hallway. I had a feeling that this was where most of the 'first meetings' happened between the PRT and unknowns that they aren't comfortable bringing into their building full of people. It was a good way down the hall that the agent turned into a shorter hall, only then coming to a stop in front of a door that read 'Interview Room 9'.
"Your interview will be held in here." He said with finality, giving me a courteous nod, then standing off to the side of the door in a comfortable but prepared position. I couldn't say I envied the guy's job, and I could only really wonder on who's shitlist he got himself on to be given newbie duty.
"Thanks mate." I said briefly, before pushing down on the wide door handle and moving into the room, quickly pulling the door closed behind myself.
Then I turned and got myself a face full of Miss Militia standing up from her chair across from a comfortably sized table, offering a hand.
Well, shit, now I know where I remembered the voice from. Fucking TV.
"Good afternoon, sorry to be so vague over the phone, it happens to be protocol for interacting with potential recruits that do not have a secure mobile device." She stated, her voice much warmer than it'd been on the call. Maybe she'd been sticking to a script?
"That's okay, it makes sense to me. Besides Panacea had told me to be discreet anyways." I followed up, grinning a little while a shook her hand. Yeah, I felt a little giddy meeting Miss Militia. Sue me.
"That's good to hear." She said with a smile that you could see in the corner of her eyes, even if you couldn't see her mouth under her American flag patterned bandana, "Now, while you have been vouched for by Panacea, in that you are a parahuman, I would just like to remind you that lying about having, or otherwise falsifying parahuman abilities from here on out will be an act that may incur potential criminal charges, is this understood?"
"Yup." I answered easily. I expected nothing less, after all.
Miss Militia nodded succinctly, opening up a folder and pulling out a small collection of papers and slid them across the table to me, "This is an NDA that covers the identity of any parahumans you may come to discover, PRT and Protectorate operations, and any other sensitive information including the recruitment process itself. Once you've read through the document, you may sign at the bottom of the final page."
Quickly took a critical eye to the thing, trying to look for any 'gotchas' of unreasonable things to keep quiet about when my power drew me into my head at that very moment. I swore internally while I waited impatiently for it to be over. A small star was grabbed, and suddenly I had a metaphorical dial in my head that I couldn't quite grasp the meaning of at the moment.
I snapped back, blinking slightly as my eyes refocused on the words in front of me, but caught Miss Militia searching my expression with dark, analytical eyes.
"Ah," I said, tone apologetic, "a power thing that happens randomly, sorry."
Her dark, styled eyebrows rose in comprehension, and nodded slightly before letting me return to the NDA.
About five minutes of reading passed, with me going over the exact list of things that would be restricted under the NDA and found that it was exactly what she'd said it was. It was even written in plain English enough that it was almost immediately comprehendible. It was a very blanket NDA, and I'm sure I'd be signing more as time went onwards. I quickly added my lacklustre signature to the end of the document and passed it back to her.
"Thank you," she said with a smile, probably happy to have gotten the NDA formalities out of the way, "now that's done, what would you like me to call you during your time here? You can take a generic cape name for anonymity if you'd like."
"Just call me James." I shrugged. It was about as common a name as you got, only John would make me any more anonymous.
"Fair enough, James." She said, a sparkle of amusement in her eye. "Much of this interview hinges on how willing you are to be open about the details of your parahuman abilities going forward, or any times you may have used them before now. Accidents with parahuman powers are very common when someone first triggers—the terminology we use to describe the event of a person gaining parahuman abilities. If any such situation occurred, we could potentially help you navigate the aftermath of it, depending on severity."
"No situation, thankfully." I said with a half-smile, "I, uh, triggered only yesterday, really. I'm trying to move quickly and secure myself before any 'situations' do end up happening."
"Good thinking. Many simply wait too long." She commented ruefully but didn't stop me from continuing. I gave it a moment's thought, wondering if they expected me to recount how I got my powers, but I decided I'd just give her what she asked for.
"I'll warn you that I'm not very well versed in the proper PRT classifications stuff, but as far as I understand, I'm a Tinker." I offered.
"I see," she said, jotting down something on what might either be a form or just a notepad, "in that case, have you created any pieces of tinker tech that may need containment?"
"Nothing, no."
"We ask because many tinkers begin building almost fanatically as soon as they trigger, especially as their need to do so rises and forces them into a state we call a Tinker fugue, which is most common amongst the newly triggered Tinkers." She explained easily.
"I can't say I've really been feeling like that, just some theorising about what I could do with certain materials, I guess." I shrugged.
"What kind of materials, if I may ask? And do you have any specific technology or clear theme that your power tends to follow?" She inquired tentatively, which gave me an idea that this is where she expects to face at least some pushback from a newly triggered parahuman, or a new recruit in general.
"Materials wise, at the moment it's all about natural products like herbs, specific chemicals, some animal products, things like that. It's very strange, but I'm pretty sure I can make a wakefulness medicine with an owl gizzard and some other stuff, and my brain isn't letting go of the idea." I said with a chuckle, affecting a quirk of Miss Militia's eyebrow, "As for a theme my power follows? I wouldn't have a clue, it's… extremely esoteric."
Miss Militia tapped her pen to the paper in front of her, obviously mulling over just how she should deal with this—definitely not missing my evasiveness around the 'theme' my power followed. I wouldn't lie about it, and she's likely going to drill down enough that I'd have to lie to get around her questions, but I wasn't intending on telling the entire truth either. If I could randomly gain the schematics for a nanomachine powered fabricator that was hundreds of years more advanced than where we currently stood, I didn't want to know if I could also gain weapons of mass destruction, and I wouldn't hand them over to the PRT or so much as use them myself if I had any choice in the matter—besides the case where they might be effective against an Endbringer.
"It is a very odd presenting Tinker power, but there have been other Tinkers whose materials mostly involved biological matter before, some would be considered 'wet' or biological Tinkers, but many use plant matter and such to create other, non-living items." She said, her tone careful, and I clued into what she was subtly asking.
"I don't create living beings, no." I said, "I think I might be able to with, well, too much effort to bother, I just get the idea that it's a very complicated path to follow. I am more capable of creating something that, when imbibed, can change or alter the drinker. I don't know if that counts."
"Not precisely, no." She admits, "But it can be a grey area. There are Tinkers who offer permanent or temporary body modifications on black markets, and with tinker tech's propensity to degrade and stop working over time…"
I can't help but cringe at that, remembering Panacea's explanation of why she didn't feel comfortable healing me, "I can see that, but what I can create shouldn't break down outside of naturally spoiling in the lifespan of the medicine itself. If I made it correctly, with the right materials, it would have the intended effect, and if the effect is a permanent one, it won't devolve. I'm certain of that." And I was, though I don't know why.
"I see, that will likely be tested at some point regardless of your current certainty—tinker tech remains incredibly unstable and notoriously unpredictable." She replied genially, "But I'd like to go back to how you described your power. You said it was 'esoteric'?"
Her eyes told me I wasn't getting away from it, so I just sighed, scratching at the back of my head while I tried to think of exactly how much I was going to say and what exactly.
"Alright, so stick with me for a second here," I warned lightly, but without much but seriousness, "the reason I say its esoteric is because my power doesn't really stay consistent."
"Consistent?" She echoed, eyes narrowing thoughtfully while scrutinizing me.
"In that the technology or items that appear in my head don't have any consistent rhyme or reason. They don't even necessarily seem to use a similar basis; from the way they are created, to the terminology that pops into my head. Many of these items I don't know how to access due to ingredients and materials that, despite knowing exactly how to make them, make no sense and do not exist to the best of my knowledge." I said, trying to keep my voice definite under the pressure of Miss Militia's gaze. A far harder task than I'd expected, even when I was actually telling the pure truth.
"This… is a little difficult to comprehend." She stated neutrally, "Tinkers seem to naturally be able to build and manufacture initial forms of equipment, such as tools, almost immediately, followed by primitive versions of more powerful equipment which only scales up to more advanced technologies as time allows. You say that you have no access to some of your technology?"
"Essentially." I agreed, "I don't understand why, or how, or what for. But my power seems to gain access to technologies and areas of expertise completely randomly. Both at random intervals, and of random subject matter. I've only had my power for a day, so there's time for a pattern to present itself, but so far the results have been, uh, wacky enough that I wouldn't bet on it."
"Randomly access?" Miss Militia specified, prompting me to delve deeper into it.
"Yeah, I gain it out of nowhere. Just suddenly I have new stuff floating in my head. It's very disorienting and leads to the minute space outs you saw an example of earlier." I added, leaving Miss Militia looking like she was ready to go back to the very opening of the conversation and ask whether I remembered that fibbing to the PRT was a great way to get yourself frowned at sternly by the woman who summons guns from nowhere behind a set of bars.
"We will have to confirm that you are telling the truth, especially with you not being capable of building these pieces of tinker tech." She said, her voice filled with gentle warning. At least she was being nice about it.
"I understand." I replied easily, totally earnest, "Panacea reacted the same when I discussed my power with her. She requested to check whether I was lying by holding onto my arm and using her biological sense, I assume, and when she determined I wasn't lying, she proposed the possibility that I may be insane instead of a liar." I tried to keep a straight face, but the stupid smirk forced past my defences through the sheer disbelieving look on her face.
"Please, by all means, check this with Panacea when you get the chance to. Though she said she would only release information about me if I gave her my permission to, so I might have to do that first." I chuckled helplessly, shaking my head.
"I see." Miss Militia said softly, slightly mollified by my confidence in Panacea backing up my story. I guess it made sense if Panacea had given me a direct line to Miss Militia, and Miss Militia had trusted Panacea's word enough to entertain me.
"Sorry, it's a bit much." I apologised.
"Don't worry, we've dealt with some very odd powers over the years, but I have to say that Trumps are almost always the oddest." She said with a weary smile.
"Trumps?" I questioned, trying to remember where I'd heard the term.
"A Trump is generally a parahuman power that either interacts with other powers, grants powers, or otherwise manipulates powers. This also extends to some powers that no-sells or avoids other powers. The most powerful Trump would be Eidolon." She elaborated.
"Ah, so I guess you think I'm a Trump instead?"
"Power classifications do not typically remain exclusive to one category. The PRT uses them to assess the danger of certain parahumans, and to better define the response and protocols required when they are a present threat. You are perfectly capable of being a Tinker Trump, and there are others classified as such, including Dragon, or even Bonesaw of the Slaughterhouse 9." Miss Militia intoned seriously. Her invoking the name of the Slaughterhouse made something inside of me twinge at just being compared to one of them in the most tangential of ways.
"Though, I admit, I'm not sure there is a Tinker Trump that is quite as literal as your power seems to be. Can you give me an idea of the technology that your power has currently gained?" She requested politely, but again likely expecting some pushback or incomplete answers.
"Well," I said filling the air as I mulled over the question, "what I cannot access at the moment defines itself as 'magical', and I actually have no control of the terminology, it came with the magic thing baked in. Though I have learned to access and somewhat manipulate similar energies through my power randomly granting it and have gained ways to infuse or otherwise enhance items I craft with those energies. I don't understand nearly as much of that stuff as I'd need to really make anything from the magic items–"
My power extended and missed a large star by a country mile.
"James?" Miss Militia called out, concern touching her voice.
"Sorry, power pulled me away for a second. Didn't get anything new." I said dismissively, "Anyways, I can't make any of the magic items, even though I'd really like that watch that changes the flow of time. It's pretty fascinating piece of work. So far though, what I can interact with and create are the medicines I discussed earlier—which calls itself 'neoalchemy', by the way. Just that it requires precision tools, like expensive chemistry sets, or specific materials to create them. You can cope without one of the two, and compensate for it, but never both at once." I finished gravely.
"I–" Miss Militia began before cutting herself off with a slight wince, "Unfortunately this is all quite difficult to believe, even with Panacea's pending confirmation of at least part of what you describe. Even then, it does not account for you wholeheartedly believing something regardless of reality."
"True." I said easily, crossing my arms, "I could potentially demonstrate at least the alchemy and the basic manipulation of the energy I was talking about earlier. Though I'm not sure if any scanners would pick it up, so you might need to scan for the physical effects of the manipulation. I don't know if that'd be worth much as confirmation, but it's what I can currently do."
"Well, we will consider this more if we reach the power testing phase, though I'll advise you to subject yourself to power testing regardless—it is extremely valuable to newly triggered parahumans." She sated with a finality that closed out the topic of my power, and it was only through a small glimpse of her ear that I realised she was likely listening to communications from someone else in the building, which might explain the wince from earlier, "For now, I'd like to discuss why you've come to the Protectorate, what it is that you feel there is to gain from joining?"
"Ah, that's the big one." I admitted, grimacing in discomfort, "The truth is that I'm heavily disabled. I suffer with extreme exhaustion, abdominal pain, brain fog, headaches and migraines, and tend to have inconsistent health which means that sometimes I end up stuck in bed for upwards of a month at worst. I'm practically skeletal, because of a lack of nutrition—you can connect the dots there."
The Protectorate hero didn't quite seem surprised, but she did seem gently sympathetic, "So you've come to the PRT for financial stability and to gain a support structure to assist or help you in compensating for your poor health?"
"Got it in one." I said with a smile, pleased that the woman was so quick to the draw on what I wanted, "What can you guys do on that end? I can't commit to consistent physical activity, I can barely walk today, but I'm doing this knowing that I'm going to suffer the consequences for it. I'd be lying if I said that I could manage anything semi-regular at this point."
"There are many Protectorate members who suffer with long term illnesses and inconsistencies in their health or have important family members who do. We would have far fewer heroes in our organisation if we did not have good stances on that front." She said, seeming genuinely pleased by being able to say so. "In your case, after a physical exam is taken to determine your current capabilities, you will likely be placed such that you do not perform patrols as consistently as your peers, and only once you reach a minimum bar of fitness for potential combat. Until that point, you will likely be expected to use that time in tinkering, attending other duties around the PRT or Protectorate Headquarters, or simply continue building the physical wellness required of you as best as you can."
I considered that, and if that was how it was worded in the contract itself, then it was something I could likely achieve. I genuinely couldn't say either way if it I could consistently meet expectations, but I was already seeing some effect from the presence of life magic in me, as moving around today hasn't been as impactful as it should be, based on past experiences.
"Yeah, that sounds reasonable." I said with an easy smile, keeping other potential doubts from my face, "By the way, you guys don't happen to have your own living spaces 'on base' or anything? Otherwise I'll be having to look for a new apartment."
"Protectorate members do, yes," she answered, "though most prefer to have a home outside of the PRT buildings, mostly for the sake of work-life balance."
"Alright, I just needed to know how urgently I should be looking for an apartment." I shrugged, grinning.
"Awfully confident there." She chided, though her brow was raised in amusement.
"Call it a hunch." I said slyly. I considered me garnering enough attention for the person in her ear causing her to wince a good sign, at least in the sense that I'd caught someone's attention. Also that she was acting genial or, more surprisingly, nice, gave me the idea that she wasn't waiting for a gaggle of PRT troopers to burst in and cover me in that horrible containment foam stuff.
Or she was just that scary good at acting, but I'd like to not think of that. I'd never sleep if I started down that road.
I watched on as Miss Militia paused for a moment, seemingly listening to whatever was coming through her earpiece, before she returned her attention back to me, "It seems that we will be modifying the normal schedule from here. Your powers are the subject of enough scrutiny that it's become necessary to verify them to the best of our abilities before proceeding with interviews and induction. This will not be full power-testing and the results beyond a positive or negative will not be made note of, with only those involved in the verification process knowing more. This will be contractually verified by an NDA to protect your identity and your power's capabilities from being documented or discussed by the verifiers."
I quirked an eyebrow at that, "I have to ask, how robust is that NDA supposed to be. Suppose I was classified a Villain at some point, for God knows what reason, would that NDA be void?"
"In some cases, yes." Miss Militia admitted openly, "If you stand to cause a great deal of harm, there is legal precedence for lifting restrictions on classified information such as a parahuman's powers. However, if you are merely classified a villain, then that information will remain protected until the point where you stand to do enough harm or position yourself directly against PRT or Protectorate forces. It is robust, however, and the same NDA routinely protects the information of Rouge parahumans due to their lack of sufficient threat."
I regarded that information carefully. It made enough sense that you'd be able to make that information available if a previously tested parahuman went totally off the rails—at that point, an NDA is worth less than the lives of those in the firing line—but the phrase 'sufficient threat' gave me pause.
'Sufficient threat' could mean almost anything. It was implied that the threat had to be to the lives of citizens or members of the PRT or Protectorate, and an active one at that. It brought to mind the members of the Slaughterhouse, or maybe the Empire Eighty-Eight, where lots of their capes could really do some damage if they cut loose in the middle of a crowd—Hookwolf being likely the best example from the Nazi's in our backyard.
But that was only what was implied. 'Harm' could be interpreted in numerous ways, and 'sufficient threat' could be fulfilled by simply existing as a powerful enough entity, like if Eidolon went Rogue, I'd bet the PRT would consider him just being unchained from them to be enough of a threat.
"Well, as long as I can read the contract, and I can understand it enough that I don't have to bring this all to a halt to call a lawyer to explain it to me, then we're good." I offered tentatively, trying to get across that it was the contract that I was most concerned about.
"Absolutely, we'll get right on that." She replied with a soothing smile, rising from her seat, "Wait here while I prepare this with administration, and we'll get you to the test facilities in this building if you sign."
I did end up signing. I think I underestimated how little the PRT wanted to give as valid reasons for parahumans to not come to them. So far, they'd made as much of the process as easy as they could, and that was saying something for what had to be a bureaucratic mess on the backend. The contract was pretty no nonsense, and even if it were a contract that relevant government officials could make void essentially on a whim, it wasn't likely that such a deal would be honoured at all by a great many parahuman organisations, villain or not.
As soon as I'd finished up signing my signature, we'd started the trek through the building immediately. I did my best to not let the effect the moment was having on me show, but I knew I wasn't fooling either the agent that had driven me or Miss Militia herself. They didn't say anything, though with how Miss Militia was glancing to me frequently I got the feeling she was about ready to grab me if I fainted, which was nice but also pretty embarrassing.
Aparrently I was trusted enough to not be a complete psychopath, as I ended up walking through a part of the building that actually had a few employees wandering around, seemingly technician types or a maintenance crew of some description. Soon enough, we arrived at a large set of double-doors that led directly into a room absolutely packed to the gills with assorted equipment and protective infrastructure, clearly meant to be an emergency lab. Why the PRT would have a lab underneath their office building was beyond me, but with instincts that I didn't quite understand, I could tell it hadn't been used for practical reasons in a long time but had been maintained religiously despite that.
Miss Militia turned to me with that slight crinkle of a smile at the corners of her eyes, "This is where your verification testing will be taking place, your examiner is finishing up with collecting his tools and other preparations at the moment. As soon as he arrives, we will leave the room, all cameras turned will be turned off, and only an emergency alarm button left active in case of an unlikely accident. He will have a copy of the paperwork with his signature alongside yours to verify that he is your examiner."
"Sounds good." I mumbled, only half paying attention as my mind just about salivated over the precision chemistry equipment that was stored in the room, along with a searing curiosity at what was in the attached room that was simply labelled 'Storage'.
I felt the pull of my power just early enough to attempt to resist against being yanked into my mind, this time trying to resist for longer than the last time I'd felt the pull slightly early. The same as last time, I wasn't as successful as I'd have liked but there had been some progress at least, allowing me to stay outside my mind for a few seconds of the process.
By the time I entered my mind I could already see the failure to grab a star, allowing me to exit immediately only to hear the double doors I'd entered through opening noisily.
"Good afternoon," a stoic voice greeted, not exactly upbeat, but amiable at least, "I've arrived to administer the tests for James' powers?"
I turned, eyes already wide from immediately recognising the voice of my apparent examiner, and was greeted with the sleek and refined blue power armour that was at least half of Armsmaster's entire image as a hero—the other half being his halberd.
I caught sight of Miss Militia's amusement out of the corner of my eye, but I had come to realise that it didn't matter if you cared all that much about the whole cape media thing, there were still individuals that held a level of fame that was simply undeniable. Armsmaster was among the handful of exceptionally recognisable Protectorate heroes, and just so happened to be the Protectorate Leader in Brockton.
I swallowed as Armsmaster, taller than me by a good margin in his armour, offered me a hand to shake while placing a copy of the signed contract on the bench nearest to us.
"A pleasure to meet you, James. I am Armsmaster and I'll be verifying, as best as possible, the statements regarding the nature of your powers are as you understand them." He said cleanly and with a placid shadow of a smile on the exposed lower half of his face.
I grabbed the man's hand, grasping the metal covered fingers with a slight bewilderment, "Hope to work well with you." I said, trying my best to not sound like a dumbass in front of one of America's most famous heroes.
"Absolutely." He stated with a definitive tone, as if he would accept nothing less than things going 'well', "Now, as soon as the others leave, we will begin with testing your 'neoalchemy' first."
A/N: Well, that's certainly a better turn out than last chapter, ey? Some of this stuff is pretty absurd, especially the Eclipse Phase CM, but neoalchemy is surprisingly also pretty bonkers. I went and read the webcomic the perk is ripped from and the description really undersells what neoalchemy is capable of. For example, the main character is a reimagining of Jekyll and Hyde, which in that story is done through splitting apart the good and bad of a person via manipulation of the soul. Neoalchemy can bring beings to life, create the undead, and even Frankenstein's monster is a result of neoalchemy. At the moment its limited by access to native materials, but with the addition of a few magic abilities, or the ability to engineer biology, that could quickly change.
Other than that, I've still got a good deal of CP banked for some more stuff later. And hey! I got the first 100CP perk of the story, which feels kinda stupid since I've gotten a perk from almost every other denomination.
Hope you all enjoyed!
The horrible, chainsaw-like sound, alongside spine tinglingly bad beeps, tore me from my troubled sleep. Without a moment's pause I rolled out of my bed, clumsily stumbling over to slam my palm down onto the plastic button of the demonic thing, then yanked its cord from the wall maliciously, as though the clock had any preference to being on or off.
Didn't matter, I hated it right now. I could anthropomorphise a shitty alarm clock if it made me feel better about ending its pathetic, digital life.
"Oooh shit," I groaned as the world quickly dissolved into static, dropping to my hands and knees to stop myself from passing out, "stood up too damn fast."
Just as the split second of darkness took my vision entirely, I was pulled into my mind by my power on a moment's notice, distancing myself from the unpleasant recovery from the bout of faintness. Like hell I was going to complain about that.
My power reached out towards the constellations, a scene I'd witnessed enough times for it to have lost a little of its lustre, but this time the connection was almost instant. Instead of the far off, massive stars littering the swirling mess of constellations, it seems my power had reached for a smaller meal this time.
My excitement rose as the star poured its essence into my head and… hmm.
That's odd. There's something there, just not readily apparent.
I left the recesses of my mind and regathered myself from the floor. After my power connecting with something, I felt awake enough that going back to bed would be ill advised. Even though exhaustion practically poured off of me, I worked past it. I was already burnt from the… experience I'd had yesterday and pushing past the exhaustion would only send me further down, but I didn't have much of a choice for now. More immediate concerns.
I scoured my mind, trying to find an easy answer for what'd just been put in my head. My guess for the moment was that the star hadn't been as knowledge focused as some of the others I'd gotten my hands on so far. It was on the tip of my tongue, I knew it, but I just couldn't find exactly what I was looking for.
Scrubbing at my face, wincing at pressing too hard against the cheekbones of my too-gaunt features, I stumbled out into my living room and kitchen to find a baffling sight.
The couch had a set of sheets and a pillow I hadn't used for years folded and placed neatly on one side of it, having been used as an impromptu bed, and the kitchen countertop had food on it.
Like, a few small grocery bags full of food. Nothing special, really—some bread, milk, cereal, a few different types of sandwich spread, coffee, a big-ass thing of water, some assorted treats I hadn't had the money to splurge on for years…
And a note:
Hey James,
You passed out there after a bit, thought I'd leave you to rest. I was a bit too tired to make the trek home, so I crashed on your couch for a few hours before heading out and grabbing you some essentials after I realised you barely had any soap left in the shower. I hope you don't mind me staying or using your bathroom, I made sure to pack everything up and wipe things down!
Other than that, I wanted to say thank you for your company last night, it made me realise how little I talk with people outside of work anymore. It was fun, in a way. Maybe we could do it again sometime, preferably when we're not both mad as hatters?
-Steph
What followed was a scrawled string of numbers, clearly a phone number, that I stared at for a moment before rubbing my brow with a sigh, trying to ignore the flush creeping up the back of my neck.
Holy shit this was so fucking embarrassing.
If I were to be perfectly honest, my recollection of events of the past day was academic at best. Most of my memories were shrouded in a haze of exhaustion, conflicted emotions; both elated and depressed, and sheer confusion. Exhaustion has a way of just making you feel terrible about anything and everything. Dark thoughts start to persistently come to you even as you forcibly push them away, regardless of how little an effect they usually might have on you.
I clicked my tongue, placing the note back on the bench for the moment, and returning to the food I'd been gifted, kicking my mind into gear to start preparing a meal.
I'd, frankly, made a mopey ass of myself yesterday. I had been walking a tightrope of emotions between bursting out laughing and breaking down into sobs the whole day. I didn't really like having those sorts of days, even if I had good reasons for it. I liked to keep my mind somewhat orderly—and liked to at least think I had a good handle on my own emotions.
But every now and then, it pays off to have a day like that. I still didn't feel great—felt awful really—but emotionally I'd come to find myself in a neutral space. Whether that was because I'd processed those emotions, or because I'd just released the pressure in the valves to non-critical levels, I couldn't tell. I felt better, more stable, so I'd take it as a win.
The sandwich came together quickly, not in good enough health to stand around cooking eggs—of which there was a half-carton. Eggs were really the only thing I could cook at all, what I'd once wanted to use as the starting line for learning more meals, but out of practicality I'd chosen conserving my health and energy over cooked meals.
Sitting on my kitchen stool, I dug around in the plastic bags, bringing each item out and placing them in a meticulously organised fashion, reading each for their ingredients and any other nutritional information I could glean from them. There were quite a few that were contained in vessels that could be useful for storage and preservation of varying elements—reuse of available materials and tools was a greatly efficient practice.
One item that Steph had bought me was coffee, as well as a handful of different sodas that I'd absolutely savour the treat of. Coffee wasn't really my thing. It smelled wonderful if I was in the right mood, but the taste had always been a mixed bag or just straight unpleasant, though I hadn't exactly thoroughly tested for the tastes of different coffees and preparations methods.
Now that I think about it, much of the bitterness of the coffee itself could be alleviated by adding sugar to counteract it, but I wasn't really a fan of adding too much sugar if I didn't need it. Lessening the amount of coffee grounds used is a possible solution, diluting it with more milk or adding other resources such as honeys or possibly even the juices of a citrus fruit. A coffee still didn't sound entirely pleasant, however, and I think I could probably put better use to the honey in a handy mixture that would likely alleviate some of the brain fog that I struggle with—I wouldn't even need the specialised tools, decanters, and other precision laboratory equipment. It's perfectly doable with just a stovetop and a metal saucepan, even if the effectiveness might take a bit of a hit.
Now where would I get my hands on some of the dried herbs I'd need…
I stopped myself dead still, arm stuck deep inside a cupboard I haven't pulled anything from in months, hand grasping the handle of a cheap saucepan I only used a few times maximum.
What the fuck?
I sighed, pulling the saucepan free and placing it on the stovetop, then returning to my seat, grumpily stuffing an edge of my chocolate spread sandwich into my mouth and started chewing.
Well, I guess I figured out what my new star contained. It was like pulling a thread in a blanket, watching as it all started to unravel from there. I was right, in some senses, when I'd thought the new star to not have as much knowledge as some of the others. I didn't have a textbook of recipes and theory stuffed into my noggin', but I did have an eye for things now.
Just looking at how I'd set my grocery items on the table, I could see the reasoning behind their placement. Some were placed near each other due to common overlap in the sort of potions, remedies, poisons, tinctures, and various other mixtures they were used in. There was an innate sense of it, along with a looser understanding, backed up by what could only be described as a knack for trial and error.
It felt like I was a backyard scientist, learning just enough to get at what I'm interested in doing, and expanding my understanding by either brute-forcing the issue, or developing unique solutions to overlooked problems. Like, for example, the lack of access to scientific-grade hardware for precision use in neoalchemical processes.
Thing is, though? I was a really good backyard scientist. Maybe not intelligent, but inventive instead. Much of what I can put my understanding to is littered with substitutions, not having access to the components that'd be ideal for any given bit of alchemy. For example, the use of a Blue-eyed Owl's gizzard would be appropriate for brewing a 'Sleepless potion' with almost no nasty side effects, but just a regular old owl gizzard would absolutely do if the quantity of herbs were increased to compensate.
You would probably end up with a terrible headache for a few hours afterwards, and if used long-term, you're likely to end up with blinding migraines and a craving addiction to the stuff that'll demand the use of more until your sleep is entirely eliminated and you eventually die from a heart attack.
Pleasant stuff.
Also, the star made me think in a British accent when thinking about neoalchemy. Weird.
Anyway, looks like I can make potions fairly easily, but with a more rational part of my brain I stopped myself from immediately trying to throw together various potions in the kitchen of that apartment that wouldn't be mine for much longer. Some of them would absolutely explode and release deadly toxic by-products if I did things correctly, and without good equipment, substituting would make things potentially dangerous to consume regardless.
A mental image of intermittent and multicoloured vomiting entered my mind, and I noted to myself that making a potion to ease starvation without extremely clean tools was a bad idea.
I chomped down on the last bit of my sandwich, swallowing it somewhat mechanically, but grateful that my stomach was playing nice with me today and not twisting itself into knots. I took a moment of pause, alongside drinking some still cold milk as a treat, ignoring the potential riskiness milk seemed to pose ever since I got sicker, and rested my mind before I set out on my plan for the day.
First on the menu was some minor testing with the life magic I got access to yesterday—mostly to burn some time since I wanted to make sure that Panacea had gotten her call out of the way first. Then… well, I'd bite the bullet of calling the contact she'd left me.
It was a nerve-wracking thought, making a move as big as that so soon after gaining my powers—something I'm pretty sure that most who got powers would sleep on for a while longer. But I didn't have the confidence in having time to sit on it and think through every possible scenario, especially when I was almost entirely certain that I'd end up making the same decision anyways.
For now, though, I'm just going to distract myself with what is my most practical power– well, that's not true anymore since I got the neoalchemy star, but it's the other immediately accessible ability I have. Also it happens to be the one I feel drawn to most, personally.
I moved over to the couch, taking a look at the clock on the wall that was always slow by a few hours, noting that I had a handful of hours before I'd endeavour to make the call, and closed my eyes to dig into the depths of the energy that had welled up in me.
Only to be interrupted by my power, of course.
I rolled my eyes in my head and moved the process along, waiting for any connection to happen; and apparently my power took offense to my indifference. It nabbed a large star, larger than the one I'd just gotten this morning, but not gigantic by any means, and poured it into my mind.
As soon as the connection completed, my eyes snapped open wide. Schematics for technology I couldn't even begin to fully comprehend started flying through my mind at lightning speed, each schematic only being a part of a greater machine. I could do nothing but ride it out, the hyper advanced tech intruding so heavily that it almost began to scare me.
Then, without a moment to breathe, the seemingly endless schematics stopped to instead be replaced with documentation and specifics of the software used to power it, including the systems used to digitally protect the equipment.
It felt like forever until the absolute flood of information stopped, leaving me with my heart racing at what I'd just been given by my power.
This wasn't like the collection of magical schematics I'd been granted, where they were all impressive but esoteric, offering very little in the way of revolutionary technology. Unlike those schematics also, it didn't come with exacting understanding of how to make everything, which meant I had to rely on my ability to interpret actual schematics and documentation.
But I could read the synopsis of it just fine.
A nanotechnology-based fabricator, capable of creating anything that you wanted. It made any technology I'd ever come into contact with or ever heard of outside—of maybe tinker tech—look like children toying with playdoh. It was sophisticated in ways that belonged entirely to the trashy science fiction novels I'd took a liking to at one point, appearing as little more than a hand-wavy way to explain a post-scarcity society. But actually real.
The sheer implications of technology like this made my head swim, not to mention that I had exhaustive documentation of functioning software used to control manufacturing of objects with nanotechnology.
I couldn't understand the schematics worth a damn and, if I were being totally honest, there were entire paragraphs that used almost exclusively ten plus character words that meant nothing to me. But I could easily recognise that the schematic for the 'internal nanotech storage container' was individually immensely valuable, along with the various other parts of the system. All of them acting as answers to questions only asked in highly technical scientific papers, or between a few college students with too much interest and not enough understanding.
Hell, the internal processing unit this thing ran on was probably the most powerful conventionally made computer chip on the planet.
I swallowed thickly. There went any theories of my power giving access to technology that was only so advanced.
For now, there were no actionable steps towards constructing the thing, but it wouldn't stay that way forever. I could maybe make the software, though I expect I might have to write the software from bare metal, and I only barely understood how to put the internals of a PC together properly—so I'll call that no-go too.
I ended up forcefully purging the endless thinking loop my mind would gladly get stuck in given the chance, going back to my idea of sensing the life magics instead.
Time to focus on what was most immediately useful.
I slowed my breathing, deepening each breath to affect a sense of calm, and truly began to focus on the energy that I knew was there and could vaguely sense in my surroundings.
The life magic inside of me became more and more clear, not in the visual sense, but through an altogether new sense I couldn't really describe. I brought myself as close to the magic inside me as I could and did what you might liken to dipping your hand in the surface of a calm lake and watching as it enveloped your fingers seamlessly.
It responded with almost a curiousness, a faint warmness surrounding my hand and easing the slight weakness of my muscles that severely sedentary life had caused. The lake of power was absolutely massive, enough that I wasn't sure it could ever truly run out as long as life existed in any real form on Earth, but that meant nothing to the fact that I was struggling to keep the concentration to focus it on my hand.
I held to it as best as I could, concentration making the time blur while I tried to manipulate the magic more efficiently. Eventually I broke away from the power as a spike of pain in my head reached a crescendo. I expected the pain to persist, punishing me for overstepping, but it almost immediately receded.
"A warning, huh?" I mused to myself.
That was good. It wouldn't just let me go so far as killing myself. For now, I'd consider it safe enough to train on my own without further additions to my understanding. Ideally, a star I nab in the future will come with the ability to spell cast to some capacity, and hopefully give me an in with learning to wield the life energy inside of me.
I brought my right hand up to my face, the one I'd been directing life magic towards, and gently flexed my fingers, kneading into the thin meat between my thumb and forefinger. I could immediately feel the results of the magic's work. It wasn't at all obvious, with there being no physical changes to the overly bony hand, but my movements felt smoother and came with no pain, didn't cramp anywhere near as quickly when sustaining a flexed muscle, and even looked slightly healthier in the parlour of my skin.
It was astounding, the effects being nothing short of what I'd consider possible via some parahuman regeneration ability. I'd gotten a tiny bit of experience with the magic and already felt more confident in using it at its very basics, but it also left my focus and energy drained like exercising a mental muscle. And that was while the life magic worked with me too.
I looked up at the clock—quickly adding the few hours I knew it was behind by—and realised that the little training session had already lasted hours. Enough for it to have hit midday and the arbitrarily set deadline I'd decided to enforce on myself.
I pulled myself from the couch and went to grab my flip phone from the bedside table in my room, as well as the card Panacea had given me, before returning to the couch, sitting upright as I stared down at the phone and the card intensely.
"Okay," I said to myself, reorganising my thoughts, "Panacea said to be respectful and just to say that she'd told me to call. Shit, should I be using my mobile for this?"
Where was the nearest payphone? Did I even have the coins laying around to pay? I tried to think on what my best move here was, but in the end it felt futile. I was about to personally call someone in the PRT or Protectorate to ask to be interviewed in person. There was no way I was walking anywhere far today, so the best I'd be able to do was a payphone that I think was a street over, and it'd be the least private conversation in the world.
Welp, I'm not keeping my identity all that secret from the PRT, there's no way I can realistically compete. I read the number on the card, cross-checking with the one on my phone a numeral at a time, confirmed that it was correct, took in a few deep breaths, and hit the green call button.
My mouth went catastrophically dry as soon as I saw the calling animation pop up, though I ignored it and pressed the flip phone to my ear and willed my hand to stop shaking.
One ring. Two rings. Three–
"Hello, how may I help you?" A woman's voice appeared in my ear, almost making me jump despite expecting it.
"Ah, yes," I stammered, trying to get my brain back on track, "I was given this number and told to call today or later by Panacea, I'm interested in possible employment and was wondering what the next steps are from here, ma'am."
I thought I caught the edge of a sigh away from the phone's microphone, but the woman's voice returned a moment later.
"Yes, while discussion over the phone would be expedient, you will have to conduct an interview in person for security and safety reasons—both for yourself and my colleagues and I." She said, her voice exacting and straightforward, a strong American accent with a hint of something else that I couldn't quite place, "This will first be a basic interview conducted by myself, then further with the lead of our team and the head of our branch if things go accordingly. After this you may return back to your home, or you may choose to continue with other mandatory requirements of your interview process. Do you require further clarification or have any general questions?"
Her tone was genial, if not particularly warm, but had a certain cadence or flow to it that felt awfully familiar, I just couldn't place it.
"I understand. Though, I was concerned with how I might go about seeking legal aid to assist me in negotiating any contracts?" I asked definitively, though trying not to be brusque about it. I wasn't going to outright say that I didn't trust a government contract to not fuck me over, but I wasn't going to needlessly open myself up to it either way. Besides, I had a feeling that I'd need to be careful with these sorts of contracts, lest I sign over my rights to the technology I produce and cause myself more problems.
"A fair question," the nameless Protectorate or PRT lady replied, and I could feel a small smile in her voice, maybe amusement, "there is a list of verified and trusted lawyers that will be made available to you for the contractual process. With the sensitive nature of the contract and the individuals it relates, it is necessary that only those lawyers be used, and thus their services will be subsidised in part by us. All you will be required to sign is a standard non-disclosure agreement that holds no other power over you, regardless of whether you are accepted or not."
It wasn't perfect and sounded potentially rife for abuse—especially as they were subsidising the lawyers, and the 'trusted' lawyers likely got consistent work through the PRT. But beggars couldn't be choosers, and there was merit to not simply allowing any old lawyer access to the identity of a potential new member of the Protectorate. I'd cry foul if something smelled seriously wrong about it, though.
I was suddenly pulled into my mind, and in a small panic I hurried along the process so I could get back to the very important conversation currently happening. Thankfully, it quickly failed, and I pushed back out of my mind to say my part.
"Alright, that's fine by me. Is there a date and time I should be putting down?" I asked, happy to move along to the final part of the conversation that could be held over the phone.
"We are capable of accommodating almost any time during working hours, however I will ask first whether you are willing to be brought to us immediately? It will reduce the likelihood of mishaps or interference and allows for us to begin work in securing your identity and persons. We've found through experience that expedience is crucial at this point of the process." She said sternly, the poor quality of the flip phone's speakers doing nothing to lessen the gravitas in her voice.
I quickly tried to think it through but found myself just floundering in my thoughts before deciding to forge ahead, "That's also fine for me. Should I prepare anything?" I asked.
"No preparation required beyond making yourself as presentable as possible; this is a job interview, of course." She responded with a dry tone that I suspected hid her humour, "If you would be willing to supply an address or a location you are comfortable being picked up from, we could get a vehicle on the way."
I threw caution to the wind, not seeing much of a reason in making myself walk any extra distance when I'm supposed to endure interviewing with the PRT and Protectorate. I quickly and clearly listed the address for the apartment building I lived in—which thankfully was only home for a few more days if this were to go pear-shaped.
"Thank you," she said professionally after confirming the address, "a driver will be sent to that address and arrive in thirty minutes. The vehicle will be a close mimicry of a taxicab with dark tinted windows. You will be shown identification by the driver before being given your privacy in the back seat. I suggest you read and look through the provided materials you will find in the pocket on the back of the seat in front of you. I will greet you after you arrive here, so until then."
I gave my own short farewell and ended the call, taking a slightly shuddery breath, then stilled.
Fuck, I needed to take a shower. No time to lose, I got up and started preparing for a quick and painful shower.
Let's try to not end up late to the interview, shall we?
===
The trip down the stairs had been rough, my body absolutely enraged that I would dare make it go out more than once in a week, but I kept pushing past its protests. I had a little while till transport got here, and I'd made the trip down the stairs for more than just being responsibly early.
As I walked down the last few steps, I saw the door to Joy's room open, revealing the face of one very suspicious old woman staring at me with a scrutinising gaze.
"Another trip out, I see?" She asked, eyeing me carefully.
"Yup," I answered with a bit of humour, "though I really wish I wasn't."
"Going to see after that opportunity you were talking about, ey?" She questioned with a raised brow.
I gave her a nod, not wanting to encourage more conversation about the topic, at least not out in public. The smart old cookie caught on quickly, just offering me an exasperated smile, worn at the edges with worry.
"Are you sure you're okay? I heard someone going in and out of your apartment this morning, a lady I believe?" She grinned teasingly, but not enough to diminish the concern.
"I'm fine, I swear." I said, finding a surprising amount of strength in my voice with the statement, "She's someone I met at the hospital last night. She was kind enough to help me get home."
"Mhm," she hummed, disbelief coating her tone, "drives a nice car too, she does."
"Joyce, are you spying on my friend?" I asked with exaggerate shock.
"Absolutely, love." She grinned back, "It's all I've got left to do in my days. Do you see me doing much else other than speculate on the young'uns love lives?"
I snorted out a laugh, already formulating a follow up quip, but distracted by a flash of yellow out of the corner of my eye. A car that looked very nearly like a taxi was smoothly pulling up outside of the building, clearly visible through the front doors.
"That your ride, James?" Joy asked casually.
"Sure is, Joy. I should get a move on, don't be worrying about me too much, I'm taking care of myself!" I assured as I quickly walked to the door, leaving behind sound of Joy's dubious grumbling.
In moments I was out on the street, moving up to the dark tinted side-window and giving it a small knock with a knuckle. Immediately it wound down to reveal a man dressed in a slightly more casual version of 'I'm absolutely a cop' attire.
"Here to be picked up for your interview in twenty minutes, sir?" He asked, quietly and exactly.
"That's me." I affirmed with a nod, and with a smooth motion, the man flipped out a wallet containing a more discrete version of a PRT badge and a licence with his face on it. He put it away after confirming I'd seen it and offered the back seat of the taxi so we could get on our way.
The back seat was physically barred from the front, a thick plexiglass like material making the back seat somewhat dim, the light mostly coming from the heavily tinted windows. As I'd been instructed, I pulled the contents of the pocket on the back of the chair in front of me out onto my lap and examined the pieces.
There was a PRT and Protectorate recruitment guide styled as somewhat of a magazine, accompanied by a list of things printed on red card that would not be tolerated by those in the interview process; including trying to run off to meet Protectorate members or Wards, and finally a plastic sheath that held a generic black domino mask that I was instructed to put on before exiting the vehicle.
The list of 'Do Nots' was mostly useless, seeing as I wasn't all that keen to get myself mobbed by PRT troopers or any member of the Protectorate. I read it anyways, just in case, but the rules made me wonder just who it was that incited the creation of the sometimes quite specific rules, and if they were even still around after having challenged a Protectorate member to a duel.
The recruitment guide was more useful, though it paid a lot of lip service to the benefits of joining, what they could offer in terms of opportunity, the safety they provided, and so on. Though it did mention a probationary phase where you must stay in the place of your recruitment for a year, outside of extenuating circumstances, and there was a large emphasis on the ability to transfer to other PRT branches or to fulfil leadership positions after said probationary period.
It all sounded nice, but it didn't go into any real logistics of the work done, different capacities team members could fulfil, or anything more complicated than extremely simple overviews. Operational security at work. I could only assume that I'd learn more when they got me to sign that NDA.
By the time I'd finished doing my best to scour the recruitment guide, I could see the PRT building just down the street from where the car currently was, and we turned onto a side road between two other office buildings, navigating through to another sideroad that passed behind the row, and ended in a ramp going downwards to a metal door that was currently in the process of easing open.
I quickly tore open the domino mask's package, feeling the small thing in my hands for a moment before following the instructions and pressing it gently to my face, lining it up with the slight bump for the bridge of the nose, and then released the pressure. It stayed on my face fairly securely, not in any immediate risk of falling off, at least. It made me feel stupid, though; such a token gesture of privacy that really offered no protection.
As we descended into what must've been a secondary carpark, the dimness inside the back of the car became almost pitch black, leaving me to feel the motions of the car as it slowly pulled into an open space and turned off. The driver left his seat, coming to my side and opened the door into the dimly lit carpark.
"Please leave the vehicle and follow me, I'll be taking you to an interview room nearby." The man said concisely, very little emotional inflection, and seemed more bored by the events than anything. I'd take that as a good sign for now, I guess.
I hopped out quickly, letting the PRT agent close the door behind me and began to follow him as he walked towards a nearby door at a thankfully reasonable pace. He was easy enough to keep up with, even if I'd have rather moved a fair deal slower, but I'd live.
We passed through the door with the PRT agent swiping a card in a reader and emerged into a long, bland hallway. I had a feeling that this was where most of the 'first meetings' happened between the PRT and unknowns that they aren't comfortable bringing into their building full of people. It was a good way down the hall that the agent turned into a shorter hall, only then coming to a stop in front of a door that read 'Interview Room 9'.
"Your interview will be held in here." He said with finality, giving me a courteous nod, then standing off to the side of the door in a comfortable but prepared position. I couldn't say I envied the guy's job, and I could only really wonder on who's shitlist he got himself on to be given newbie duty.
"Thanks mate." I said briefly, before pushing down on the wide door handle and moving into the room, quickly pulling the door closed behind myself.
Then I turned and got myself a face full of Miss Militia standing up from her chair across from a comfortably sized table, offering a hand.
Well, shit, now I know where I remembered the voice from. Fucking TV.
"Good afternoon, sorry to be so vague over the phone, it happens to be protocol for interacting with potential recruits that do not have a secure mobile device." She stated, her voice much warmer than it'd been on the call. Maybe she'd been sticking to a script?
"That's okay, it makes sense to me. Besides Panacea had told me to be discreet anyways." I followed up, grinning a little while a shook her hand. Yeah, I felt a little giddy meeting Miss Militia. Sue me.
"That's good to hear." She said with a smile that you could see in the corner of her eyes, even if you couldn't see her mouth under her American flag patterned bandana, "Now, while you have been vouched for by Panacea, in that you are a parahuman, I would just like to remind you that lying about having, or otherwise falsifying parahuman abilities from here on out will be an act that may incur potential criminal charges, is this understood?"
"Yup." I answered easily. I expected nothing less, after all.
Miss Militia nodded succinctly, opening up a folder and pulling out a small collection of papers and slid them across the table to me, "This is an NDA that covers the identity of any parahumans you may come to discover, PRT and Protectorate operations, and any other sensitive information including the recruitment process itself. Once you've read through the document, you may sign at the bottom of the final page."
Quickly took a critical eye to the thing, trying to look for any 'gotchas' of unreasonable things to keep quiet about when my power drew me into my head at that very moment. I swore internally while I waited impatiently for it to be over. A small star was grabbed, and suddenly I had a metaphorical dial in my head that I couldn't quite grasp the meaning of at the moment.
I snapped back, blinking slightly as my eyes refocused on the words in front of me, but caught Miss Militia searching my expression with dark, analytical eyes.
"Ah," I said, tone apologetic, "a power thing that happens randomly, sorry."
Her dark, styled eyebrows rose in comprehension, and nodded slightly before letting me return to the NDA.
About five minutes of reading passed, with me going over the exact list of things that would be restricted under the NDA and found that it was exactly what she'd said it was. It was even written in plain English enough that it was almost immediately comprehendible. It was a very blanket NDA, and I'm sure I'd be signing more as time went onwards. I quickly added my lacklustre signature to the end of the document and passed it back to her.
"Thank you," she said with a smile, probably happy to have gotten the NDA formalities out of the way, "now that's done, what would you like me to call you during your time here? You can take a generic cape name for anonymity if you'd like."
"Just call me James." I shrugged. It was about as common a name as you got, only John would make me any more anonymous.
"Fair enough, James." She said, a sparkle of amusement in her eye. "Much of this interview hinges on how willing you are to be open about the details of your parahuman abilities going forward, or any times you may have used them before now. Accidents with parahuman powers are very common when someone first triggers—the terminology we use to describe the event of a person gaining parahuman abilities. If any such situation occurred, we could potentially help you navigate the aftermath of it, depending on severity."
"No situation, thankfully." I said with a half-smile, "I, uh, triggered only yesterday, really. I'm trying to move quickly and secure myself before any 'situations' do end up happening."
"Good thinking. Many simply wait too long." She commented ruefully but didn't stop me from continuing. I gave it a moment's thought, wondering if they expected me to recount how I got my powers, but I decided I'd just give her what she asked for.
"I'll warn you that I'm not very well versed in the proper PRT classifications stuff, but as far as I understand, I'm a Tinker." I offered.
"I see," she said, jotting down something on what might either be a form or just a notepad, "in that case, have you created any pieces of tinker tech that may need containment?"
"Nothing, no."
"We ask because many tinkers begin building almost fanatically as soon as they trigger, especially as their need to do so rises and forces them into a state we call a Tinker fugue, which is most common amongst the newly triggered Tinkers." She explained easily.
"I can't say I've really been feeling like that, just some theorising about what I could do with certain materials, I guess." I shrugged.
"What kind of materials, if I may ask? And do you have any specific technology or clear theme that your power tends to follow?" She inquired tentatively, which gave me an idea that this is where she expects to face at least some pushback from a newly triggered parahuman, or a new recruit in general.
"Materials wise, at the moment it's all about natural products like herbs, specific chemicals, some animal products, things like that. It's very strange, but I'm pretty sure I can make a wakefulness medicine with an owl gizzard and some other stuff, and my brain isn't letting go of the idea." I said with a chuckle, affecting a quirk of Miss Militia's eyebrow, "As for a theme my power follows? I wouldn't have a clue, it's… extremely esoteric."
Miss Militia tapped her pen to the paper in front of her, obviously mulling over just how she should deal with this—definitely not missing my evasiveness around the 'theme' my power followed. I wouldn't lie about it, and she's likely going to drill down enough that I'd have to lie to get around her questions, but I wasn't intending on telling the entire truth either. If I could randomly gain the schematics for a nanomachine powered fabricator that was hundreds of years more advanced than where we currently stood, I didn't want to know if I could also gain weapons of mass destruction, and I wouldn't hand them over to the PRT or so much as use them myself if I had any choice in the matter—besides the case where they might be effective against an Endbringer.
"It is a very odd presenting Tinker power, but there have been other Tinkers whose materials mostly involved biological matter before, some would be considered 'wet' or biological Tinkers, but many use plant matter and such to create other, non-living items." She said, her tone careful, and I clued into what she was subtly asking.
"I don't create living beings, no." I said, "I think I might be able to with, well, too much effort to bother, I just get the idea that it's a very complicated path to follow. I am more capable of creating something that, when imbibed, can change or alter the drinker. I don't know if that counts."
"Not precisely, no." She admits, "But it can be a grey area. There are Tinkers who offer permanent or temporary body modifications on black markets, and with tinker tech's propensity to degrade and stop working over time…"
I can't help but cringe at that, remembering Panacea's explanation of why she didn't feel comfortable healing me, "I can see that, but what I can create shouldn't break down outside of naturally spoiling in the lifespan of the medicine itself. If I made it correctly, with the right materials, it would have the intended effect, and if the effect is a permanent one, it won't devolve. I'm certain of that." And I was, though I don't know why.
"I see, that will likely be tested at some point regardless of your current certainty—tinker tech remains incredibly unstable and notoriously unpredictable." She replied genially, "But I'd like to go back to how you described your power. You said it was 'esoteric'?"
Her eyes told me I wasn't getting away from it, so I just sighed, scratching at the back of my head while I tried to think of exactly how much I was going to say and what exactly.
"Alright, so stick with me for a second here," I warned lightly, but without much but seriousness, "the reason I say its esoteric is because my power doesn't really stay consistent."
"Consistent?" She echoed, eyes narrowing thoughtfully while scrutinizing me.
"In that the technology or items that appear in my head don't have any consistent rhyme or reason. They don't even necessarily seem to use a similar basis; from the way they are created, to the terminology that pops into my head. Many of these items I don't know how to access due to ingredients and materials that, despite knowing exactly how to make them, make no sense and do not exist to the best of my knowledge." I said, trying to keep my voice definite under the pressure of Miss Militia's gaze. A far harder task than I'd expected, even when I was actually telling the pure truth.
"This… is a little difficult to comprehend." She stated neutrally, "Tinkers seem to naturally be able to build and manufacture initial forms of equipment, such as tools, almost immediately, followed by primitive versions of more powerful equipment which only scales up to more advanced technologies as time allows. You say that you have no access to some of your technology?"
"Essentially." I agreed, "I don't understand why, or how, or what for. But my power seems to gain access to technologies and areas of expertise completely randomly. Both at random intervals, and of random subject matter. I've only had my power for a day, so there's time for a pattern to present itself, but so far the results have been, uh, wacky enough that I wouldn't bet on it."
"Randomly access?" Miss Militia specified, prompting me to delve deeper into it.
"Yeah, I gain it out of nowhere. Just suddenly I have new stuff floating in my head. It's very disorienting and leads to the minute space outs you saw an example of earlier." I added, leaving Miss Militia looking like she was ready to go back to the very opening of the conversation and ask whether I remembered that fibbing to the PRT was a great way to get yourself frowned at sternly by the woman who summons guns from nowhere behind a set of bars.
"We will have to confirm that you are telling the truth, especially with you not being capable of building these pieces of tinker tech." She said, her voice filled with gentle warning. At least she was being nice about it.
"I understand." I replied easily, totally earnest, "Panacea reacted the same when I discussed my power with her. She requested to check whether I was lying by holding onto my arm and using her biological sense, I assume, and when she determined I wasn't lying, she proposed the possibility that I may be insane instead of a liar." I tried to keep a straight face, but the stupid smirk forced past my defences through the sheer disbelieving look on her face.
"Please, by all means, check this with Panacea when you get the chance to. Though she said she would only release information about me if I gave her my permission to, so I might have to do that first." I chuckled helplessly, shaking my head.
"I see." Miss Militia said softly, slightly mollified by my confidence in Panacea backing up my story. I guess it made sense if Panacea had given me a direct line to Miss Militia, and Miss Militia had trusted Panacea's word enough to entertain me.
"Sorry, it's a bit much." I apologised.
"Don't worry, we've dealt with some very odd powers over the years, but I have to say that Trumps are almost always the oddest." She said with a weary smile.
"Trumps?" I questioned, trying to remember where I'd heard the term.
"A Trump is generally a parahuman power that either interacts with other powers, grants powers, or otherwise manipulates powers. This also extends to some powers that no-sells or avoids other powers. The most powerful Trump would be Eidolon." She elaborated.
"Ah, so I guess you think I'm a Trump instead?"
"Power classifications do not typically remain exclusive to one category. The PRT uses them to assess the danger of certain parahumans, and to better define the response and protocols required when they are a present threat. You are perfectly capable of being a Tinker Trump, and there are others classified as such, including Dragon, or even Bonesaw of the Slaughterhouse 9." Miss Militia intoned seriously. Her invoking the name of the Slaughterhouse made something inside of me twinge at just being compared to one of them in the most tangential of ways.
"Though, I admit, I'm not sure there is a Tinker Trump that is quite as literal as your power seems to be. Can you give me an idea of the technology that your power has currently gained?" She requested politely, but again likely expecting some pushback or incomplete answers.
"Well," I said filling the air as I mulled over the question, "what I cannot access at the moment defines itself as 'magical', and I actually have no control of the terminology, it came with the magic thing baked in. Though I have learned to access and somewhat manipulate similar energies through my power randomly granting it and have gained ways to infuse or otherwise enhance items I craft with those energies. I don't understand nearly as much of that stuff as I'd need to really make anything from the magic items–"
My power extended and missed a large star by a country mile.
"James?" Miss Militia called out, concern touching her voice.
"Sorry, power pulled me away for a second. Didn't get anything new." I said dismissively, "Anyways, I can't make any of the magic items, even though I'd really like that watch that changes the flow of time. It's pretty fascinating piece of work. So far though, what I can interact with and create are the medicines I discussed earlier—which calls itself 'neoalchemy', by the way. Just that it requires precision tools, like expensive chemistry sets, or specific materials to create them. You can cope without one of the two, and compensate for it, but never both at once." I finished gravely.
"I–" Miss Militia began before cutting herself off with a slight wince, "Unfortunately this is all quite difficult to believe, even with Panacea's pending confirmation of at least part of what you describe. Even then, it does not account for you wholeheartedly believing something regardless of reality."
"True." I said easily, crossing my arms, "I could potentially demonstrate at least the alchemy and the basic manipulation of the energy I was talking about earlier. Though I'm not sure if any scanners would pick it up, so you might need to scan for the physical effects of the manipulation. I don't know if that'd be worth much as confirmation, but it's what I can currently do."
"Well, we will consider this more if we reach the power testing phase, though I'll advise you to subject yourself to power testing regardless—it is extremely valuable to newly triggered parahumans." She sated with a finality that closed out the topic of my power, and it was only through a small glimpse of her ear that I realised she was likely listening to communications from someone else in the building, which might explain the wince from earlier, "For now, I'd like to discuss why you've come to the Protectorate, what it is that you feel there is to gain from joining?"
"Ah, that's the big one." I admitted, grimacing in discomfort, "The truth is that I'm heavily disabled. I suffer with extreme exhaustion, abdominal pain, brain fog, headaches and migraines, and tend to have inconsistent health which means that sometimes I end up stuck in bed for upwards of a month at worst. I'm practically skeletal, because of a lack of nutrition—you can connect the dots there."
The Protectorate hero didn't quite seem surprised, but she did seem gently sympathetic, "So you've come to the PRT for financial stability and to gain a support structure to assist or help you in compensating for your poor health?"
"Got it in one." I said with a smile, pleased that the woman was so quick to the draw on what I wanted, "What can you guys do on that end? I can't commit to consistent physical activity, I can barely walk today, but I'm doing this knowing that I'm going to suffer the consequences for it. I'd be lying if I said that I could manage anything semi-regular at this point."
"There are many Protectorate members who suffer with long term illnesses and inconsistencies in their health or have important family members who do. We would have far fewer heroes in our organisation if we did not have good stances on that front." She said, seeming genuinely pleased by being able to say so. "In your case, after a physical exam is taken to determine your current capabilities, you will likely be placed such that you do not perform patrols as consistently as your peers, and only once you reach a minimum bar of fitness for potential combat. Until that point, you will likely be expected to use that time in tinkering, attending other duties around the PRT or Protectorate Headquarters, or simply continue building the physical wellness required of you as best as you can."
I considered that, and if that was how it was worded in the contract itself, then it was something I could likely achieve. I genuinely couldn't say either way if it I could consistently meet expectations, but I was already seeing some effect from the presence of life magic in me, as moving around today hasn't been as impactful as it should be, based on past experiences.
"Yeah, that sounds reasonable." I said with an easy smile, keeping other potential doubts from my face, "By the way, you guys don't happen to have your own living spaces 'on base' or anything? Otherwise I'll be having to look for a new apartment."
"Protectorate members do, yes," she answered, "though most prefer to have a home outside of the PRT buildings, mostly for the sake of work-life balance."
"Alright, I just needed to know how urgently I should be looking for an apartment." I shrugged, grinning.
"Awfully confident there." She chided, though her brow was raised in amusement.
"Call it a hunch." I said slyly. I considered me garnering enough attention for the person in her ear causing her to wince a good sign, at least in the sense that I'd caught someone's attention. Also that she was acting genial or, more surprisingly, nice, gave me the idea that she wasn't waiting for a gaggle of PRT troopers to burst in and cover me in that horrible containment foam stuff.
Or she was just that scary good at acting, but I'd like to not think of that. I'd never sleep if I started down that road.
I watched on as Miss Militia paused for a moment, seemingly listening to whatever was coming through her earpiece, before she returned her attention back to me, "It seems that we will be modifying the normal schedule from here. Your powers are the subject of enough scrutiny that it's become necessary to verify them to the best of our abilities before proceeding with interviews and induction. This will not be full power-testing and the results beyond a positive or negative will not be made note of, with only those involved in the verification process knowing more. This will be contractually verified by an NDA to protect your identity and your power's capabilities from being documented or discussed by the verifiers."
I quirked an eyebrow at that, "I have to ask, how robust is that NDA supposed to be. Suppose I was classified a Villain at some point, for God knows what reason, would that NDA be void?"
"In some cases, yes." Miss Militia admitted openly, "If you stand to cause a great deal of harm, there is legal precedence for lifting restrictions on classified information such as a parahuman's powers. However, if you are merely classified a villain, then that information will remain protected until the point where you stand to do enough harm or position yourself directly against PRT or Protectorate forces. It is robust, however, and the same NDA routinely protects the information of Rouge parahumans due to their lack of sufficient threat."
I regarded that information carefully. It made enough sense that you'd be able to make that information available if a previously tested parahuman went totally off the rails—at that point, an NDA is worth less than the lives of those in the firing line—but the phrase 'sufficient threat' gave me pause.
'Sufficient threat' could mean almost anything. It was implied that the threat had to be to the lives of citizens or members of the PRT or Protectorate, and an active one at that. It brought to mind the members of the Slaughterhouse, or maybe the Empire Eighty-Eight, where lots of their capes could really do some damage if they cut loose in the middle of a crowd—Hookwolf being likely the best example from the Nazi's in our backyard.
But that was only what was implied. 'Harm' could be interpreted in numerous ways, and 'sufficient threat' could be fulfilled by simply existing as a powerful enough entity, like if Eidolon went Rogue, I'd bet the PRT would consider him just being unchained from them to be enough of a threat.
"Well, as long as I can read the contract, and I can understand it enough that I don't have to bring this all to a halt to call a lawyer to explain it to me, then we're good." I offered tentatively, trying to get across that it was the contract that I was most concerned about.
"Absolutely, we'll get right on that." She replied with a soothing smile, rising from her seat, "Wait here while I prepare this with administration, and we'll get you to the test facilities in this building if you sign."
===
I did end up signing. I think I underestimated how little the PRT wanted to give as valid reasons for parahumans to not come to them. So far, they'd made as much of the process as easy as they could, and that was saying something for what had to be a bureaucratic mess on the backend. The contract was pretty no nonsense, and even if it were a contract that relevant government officials could make void essentially on a whim, it wasn't likely that such a deal would be honoured at all by a great many parahuman organisations, villain or not.
As soon as I'd finished up signing my signature, we'd started the trek through the building immediately. I did my best to not let the effect the moment was having on me show, but I knew I wasn't fooling either the agent that had driven me or Miss Militia herself. They didn't say anything, though with how Miss Militia was glancing to me frequently I got the feeling she was about ready to grab me if I fainted, which was nice but also pretty embarrassing.
Aparrently I was trusted enough to not be a complete psychopath, as I ended up walking through a part of the building that actually had a few employees wandering around, seemingly technician types or a maintenance crew of some description. Soon enough, we arrived at a large set of double-doors that led directly into a room absolutely packed to the gills with assorted equipment and protective infrastructure, clearly meant to be an emergency lab. Why the PRT would have a lab underneath their office building was beyond me, but with instincts that I didn't quite understand, I could tell it hadn't been used for practical reasons in a long time but had been maintained religiously despite that.
Miss Militia turned to me with that slight crinkle of a smile at the corners of her eyes, "This is where your verification testing will be taking place, your examiner is finishing up with collecting his tools and other preparations at the moment. As soon as he arrives, we will leave the room, all cameras turned will be turned off, and only an emergency alarm button left active in case of an unlikely accident. He will have a copy of the paperwork with his signature alongside yours to verify that he is your examiner."
"Sounds good." I mumbled, only half paying attention as my mind just about salivated over the precision chemistry equipment that was stored in the room, along with a searing curiosity at what was in the attached room that was simply labelled 'Storage'.
I felt the pull of my power just early enough to attempt to resist against being yanked into my mind, this time trying to resist for longer than the last time I'd felt the pull slightly early. The same as last time, I wasn't as successful as I'd have liked but there had been some progress at least, allowing me to stay outside my mind for a few seconds of the process.
By the time I entered my mind I could already see the failure to grab a star, allowing me to exit immediately only to hear the double doors I'd entered through opening noisily.
"Good afternoon," a stoic voice greeted, not exactly upbeat, but amiable at least, "I've arrived to administer the tests for James' powers?"
I turned, eyes already wide from immediately recognising the voice of my apparent examiner, and was greeted with the sleek and refined blue power armour that was at least half of Armsmaster's entire image as a hero—the other half being his halberd.
I caught sight of Miss Militia's amusement out of the corner of my eye, but I had come to realise that it didn't matter if you cared all that much about the whole cape media thing, there were still individuals that held a level of fame that was simply undeniable. Armsmaster was among the handful of exceptionally recognisable Protectorate heroes, and just so happened to be the Protectorate Leader in Brockton.
I swallowed as Armsmaster, taller than me by a good margin in his armour, offered me a hand to shake while placing a copy of the signed contract on the bench nearest to us.
"A pleasure to meet you, James. I am Armsmaster and I'll be verifying, as best as possible, the statements regarding the nature of your powers are as you understand them." He said cleanly and with a placid shadow of a smile on the exposed lower half of his face.
I grabbed the man's hand, grasping the metal covered fingers with a slight bewilderment, "Hope to work well with you." I said, trying my best to not sound like a dumbass in front of one of America's most famous heroes.
"Absolutely." He stated with a definitive tone, as if he would accept nothing less than things going 'well', "Now, as soon as the others leave, we will begin with testing your 'neoalchemy' first."
==== Perks Gained this Chapter ====
-Neoalchemist (The Glass Scientists) (200CP)
Invisibility serums, subtle poisons, superspeed formulae, if the Victorians ever imagined it could be done with chemistry, you can do it.
Invisibility serums, subtle poisons, superspeed formulae, if the Victorians ever imagined it could be done with chemistry, you can do it.
-Cracked Desktop CM Schematics (Eclipse Phase) (400CP)
Complete schematics and documentation for a desktop cornucopia machine, about the size of a large photocopier, with all safety and copyright limiters removed by default. It can make almost anything you have the blueprints and correct feedstock for. It can't make antimatter or anything that requires nanotech more advanced than this setting has, which extends to femotech and picotech. If you are trying to make something bigger than the CM itself, you may need it to print smaller parts you then assemble.
Complete schematics and documentation for a desktop cornucopia machine, about the size of a large photocopier, with all safety and copyright limiters removed by default. It can make almost anything you have the blueprints and correct feedstock for. It can't make antimatter or anything that requires nanotech more advanced than this setting has, which extends to femotech and picotech. If you are trying to make something bigger than the CM itself, you may need it to print smaller parts you then assemble.
-Toggle (Young Justice) (100CP)
Toggle allows its user to forgo learning to control their powers by simply allowing them to turn their powers off when they aren't needed. This can be done per power, so there isn't a need to go without the ability to teleport because you don't want to use your super strength. Also works on out of Jump powers. You can think of this like a dial. It can be on, or full power, as well as off, or no power, and anywhere in between those two states.
Toggle allows its user to forgo learning to control their powers by simply allowing them to turn their powers off when they aren't needed. This can be done per power, so there isn't a need to go without the ability to teleport because you don't want to use your super strength. Also works on out of Jump powers. You can think of this like a dial. It can be on, or full power, as well as off, or no power, and anywhere in between those two states.
A/N: Well, that's certainly a better turn out than last chapter, ey? Some of this stuff is pretty absurd, especially the Eclipse Phase CM, but neoalchemy is surprisingly also pretty bonkers. I went and read the webcomic the perk is ripped from and the description really undersells what neoalchemy is capable of. For example, the main character is a reimagining of Jekyll and Hyde, which in that story is done through splitting apart the good and bad of a person via manipulation of the soul. Neoalchemy can bring beings to life, create the undead, and even Frankenstein's monster is a result of neoalchemy. At the moment its limited by access to native materials, but with the addition of a few magic abilities, or the ability to engineer biology, that could quickly change.
Other than that, I've still got a good deal of CP banked for some more stuff later. And hey! I got the first 100CP perk of the story, which feels kinda stupid since I've gotten a perk from almost every other denomination.
Hope you all enjoyed!
- Pronouns
- He, Him, His
Will perks that change the MC on a genetic or racial level still exist, like the Percy Jackson Demigod Perk?
Cause the be honest right now he seems to line up with Hephestus, with the crippled body and stuff.
Cause the be honest right now he seems to line up with Hephestus, with the crippled body and stuff.
- Location
- England
"The young cape might have been a rouge. I couldn't tell - I'm colour blind"
That Toggle perk is cheap but useful. Some of the perks can get wild and turning them off or moderating them is helpful.
Armsmaster is a glory hound, but he's also an intelligent man. He'll realize the implications of the Celestial Forge quickly. Powers normally don't solve your problems, so if James' trigger event didn't cure his disease, then Armsmaster may expect that James will never cure himself. At least that's what would happen with a normal parahuman instead of the Celestial Forge. Still, Armsmaster will definitely be all over the potions to remove sleep.
I look forward to Armsmaster somehow sticking both of his feet in his mouth by making some insensitive comment.
Armsmaster is a glory hound, but he's also an intelligent man. He'll realize the implications of the Celestial Forge quickly. Powers normally don't solve your problems, so if James' trigger event didn't cure his disease, then Armsmaster may expect that James will never cure himself. At least that's what would happen with a normal parahuman instead of the Celestial Forge. Still, Armsmaster will definitely be all over the potions to remove sleep.
I look forward to Armsmaster somehow sticking both of his feet in his mouth by making some insensitive comment.
He really is Hephaestus.
- Location
- 𐌂 ̢͎̩̤̲̙͓̑̀͂͒̀͆̏𐋏 ̛͏̫̚𐌀 ̛͉̥̩̤̰͈̂̅͒͊͟𐍈 ̣͛𐍃 ̡̅̈́
Why does I get feeling, that something will go terribly wrong? Am I such pessimist? Hmm, whatever...
Celestial Forge is such a good thing, but so broken and trashed... It has so many cool things, which I know nothing about. And it misses so many cool stuff I know about, but it just not here! I starting to think about making my own, home-brew version more optimised, with things I like and maybe slightly changed mechanic. It sounds like a huge waste of time, but maybe one day I'll be inspired enough to take it seriously. Perhaps this is where the habit of periodically making useless lists comes in handy. Well, it's even make them not so useless anymore, perhaps?
Celestial Forge is such a good thing, but so broken and trashed... It has so many cool things, which I know nothing about. And it misses so many cool stuff I know about, but it just not here! I starting to think about making my own, home-brew version more optimised, with things I like and maybe slightly changed mechanic. It sounds like a huge waste of time, but maybe one day I'll be inspired enough to take it seriously. Perhaps this is where the habit of periodically making useless lists comes in handy. Well, it's even make them not so useless anymore, perhaps?
Last edited:
The author mentions in an earlier post he removed a bunch of things from the forge. No tech or companions suddenly showing up. He may also skip perks of it just doesn't fit the story or are too poorly written. Many perks aren't written too well or have few details.
- Location
- 𐌂 ̢͎̩̤̲̙͓̑̀͂͒̀͆̏𐋏 ̛͏̫̚𐌀 ̛͉̥̩̤̰͈̂̅͒͊͟𐍈 ̣͛𐍃 ̡̅̈́
I know, I know... It was more just me rumbling about things, because I started to reread Forge files and think too much.
An excellent chapter, but I have to admit I was genuinely surprised when the cab actually took him to the PRT. Throughout the phone call I was 100% convinced he only thought he was talking to the PRT when it was really the Elite or Accords Ambassadors or something.
MaimakteriAnn
(Verified Sleepy)
- Location
- Enormous And Round Terran Homeworld
- Pronouns
- She/Her/Dr
I'd also recommend not counting reactions to new perks toward the word count
You could count up all the words that are reactions to new perks and exclude them. Or you could skip the counting and just assume/budget a certain number of words, which shows up as having more than 1000 words between 100CP gains. Which you're already doing.
However, I think you should slow down the perk gain rate even more than you already have, because you're still gaining perks faster than you're exploring them. You have 3000 CP of perks, and you've made active use of exactly one of them so far. The MC has done no actual tinkering. Yeah, that's the pace of chronic fatigue, and you started the story with a broke protagonist and no access to Resources perks, which guaranteed a slow start. The pacing might pick up once the protagonist has tools. But until you've made at least minor use of most of the perks already present, you should slow down the gain rate.
However, I think you should slow down the perk gain rate even more than you already have, because you're still gaining perks faster than you're exploring them. You have 3000 CP of perks, and you've made active use of exactly one of them so far. The MC has done no actual tinkering. Yeah, that's the pace of chronic fatigue, and you started the story with a broke protagonist and no access to Resources perks, which guaranteed a slow start. The pacing might pick up once the protagonist has tools. But until you've made at least minor use of most of the perks already present, you should slow down the gain rate.
misterq
Mister Questionmark
- Location
- Somewhere near Space
I keep thinking Steph was a Coil agent since she complained about how her job in Brockton Bay earned less than in other cities, so I was thinking how being in Coil's employ would let her drive that nice car around. Also that she recognized the trigger event and was trying to figure out how useful his powers were. .
- Location
- box under a bridge
This is really good and as someone who has chronic health problems (not this severe thankfully) it's good to see this kind of headspace and situation in fiction.
- Location
- Brazil
First of all, this was far and away a great surprise! Meaty chapters, and these tweaks to the format:
Congratulations, you have almost completely unfucked the Celestial Forge. Every single CF fic would be improved through these rules. Especially BB's Celestial Forge.
Overall, your narration is great, very emotional, and I really, really like the changes you've made and the rationale behind them. I was genuinely moved by the sheer struggle James goes through, killing a lion a day just to very barely survive.
There's two things I think you could stand to improve on. First of all, pacing: it's been thirty seven thousand words, and it's day two. Already you've accumulated 3000 points worth of perks, and no crafting has been done. This will very rapidly snowball, as the word count to point generation ratio is simply too small, and at the same time, you are getting some whacky, whacky powers which don't quite allow, I feel, for a stable base yet. So maybe you should give some judicious application of your tenth rule until you roll something you are confortable building most of the short term story around- maybe neoalchemy (combined with magic crafting?) does it, but I'm not familiar with it.
Secondly, the dialogue. For some reason, it feels like the MC "breaks character" on longer dialogue scenes, especially in the first half of what you have shown so far. The meeting with Panacea, especially- that's not the response of someone that reached the end of an unimaginably long and painful rope, of someone that just saw a figure he nearly deified and whose every hope hung upon fail him completely. In general, first chapter dialogue is weak- with Panpan breaking character as well, trading casual banter with someone she just triggered.
Mind, the narration is still great. But the dialogue feels somewhat detached from it- it doesn't feel like it reflects what goes on, either inside or outside of the MC's head. It's getting better by the end of chapter two, tho.
I wil give you this, tho: rarely have I gotten invested in a protagonist as fast as I have in Parker. If anyone deserves a fucking break, he does.
Are 10/10.
Congratulations, you have almost completely unfucked the Celestial Forge. Every single CF fic would be improved through these rules. Especially BB's Celestial Forge.
Overall, your narration is great, very emotional, and I really, really like the changes you've made and the rationale behind them. I was genuinely moved by the sheer struggle James goes through, killing a lion a day just to very barely survive.
There's two things I think you could stand to improve on. First of all, pacing: it's been thirty seven thousand words, and it's day two. Already you've accumulated 3000 points worth of perks, and no crafting has been done. This will very rapidly snowball, as the word count to point generation ratio is simply too small, and at the same time, you are getting some whacky, whacky powers which don't quite allow, I feel, for a stable base yet. So maybe you should give some judicious application of your tenth rule until you roll something you are confortable building most of the short term story around- maybe neoalchemy (combined with magic crafting?) does it, but I'm not familiar with it.
Secondly, the dialogue. For some reason, it feels like the MC "breaks character" on longer dialogue scenes, especially in the first half of what you have shown so far. The meeting with Panacea, especially- that's not the response of someone that reached the end of an unimaginably long and painful rope, of someone that just saw a figure he nearly deified and whose every hope hung upon fail him completely. In general, first chapter dialogue is weak- with Panpan breaking character as well, trading casual banter with someone she just triggered.
Mind, the narration is still great. But the dialogue feels somewhat detached from it- it doesn't feel like it reflects what goes on, either inside or outside of the MC's head. It's getting better by the end of chapter two, tho.
I wil give you this, tho: rarely have I gotten invested in a protagonist as fast as I have in Parker. If anyone deserves a fucking break, he does.
Last edited:
While I sorta agree with you, I also have issue with your idea that longer dialogues should 'stay on character'.
While yes, that is true. If you take real world examples you'll find that people very quickly shift verbal and emotional gears as a conversation goes on. This means that an 'in character' longer conversation or series or conversations with gaps between them will in fact change the way each character speaks. Even drastically sometimes.
And I'm not sure what you mean about his reaction to being failed by panpan? If he exalted her and put her on a pedastal then it makes perfect sense that he would act very respectful and humbly and thankful towards her even though it was all in vain.
It's not like you can't read the hurt and emotional pain he was feeling. He was torn apart! But... since he truly was putting Amy up on high, he didn't blame it on her.
The people who would react badly to not being able to being healed would be the people who DIDN'T put her on a pedastal.
BTW, that would be our, the readers, natural responce to her in this story most of the time too. We know how fucky she is, how broken her 'devotion to healing' is and how much she actually hates her job and is sickened by the people she has to heal. So we as the omnicient readers would of course be miffed that she didn't help the guy. Especially because we also understand that not only can she do brains. Her freakin shard would failsafe anything she tried and pretty much make it work because she isn't just a bio-kinetic she's also a top tier bio-tinker
A bio-tinker who's shard wants her to tinker so badly that any type of tinkering she tries it'll literally vomit out dozens of solutions and methods of how to do.
I mean, just look at the crap she was 'suddenly' able to pull off when she pulled the stick out of her ass for all of 1 arc in ward and worked with Riley. Easily Bio-tinker 10
By the way my favourite method of progressing the powers in fics likes these, that i've seen used very rarely, is "X amount of time passed, so you get X amount of power" and if you pair that with "You have accomplished X amount of heroic/villainous/rougeish acts of import, gain X amount of power".
It's a great pairing. keeps the story flowing along and give motive. I actually kinda have a pet peeve against the amount of words written for power progression. Because it's so awfully fucky and bad for so many reason... you end up spending more time explaining a power you just got than actually going into how you are going to use what you have to accomplish a goal.
Or worse, the opposite, when the values are really harsh and the protag as like 3 rolls by chapter 15 and is having to fight the S9 with toasters and slightly off coloured toads.
It's a great pairing. keeps the story flowing along and give motive. I actually kinda have a pet peeve against the amount of words written for power progression. Because it's so awfully fucky and bad for so many reason... you end up spending more time explaining a power you just got than actually going into how you are going to use what you have to accomplish a goal.
Or worse, the opposite, when the values are really harsh and the protag as like 3 rolls by chapter 15 and is having to fight the S9 with toasters and slightly off coloured toads.
- Location
- 𐌂 ̢͎̩̤̲̙͓̑̀͂͒̀͆̏𐋏 ̛͏̫̚𐌀 ̛͉̥̩̤̰͈̂̅͒͊͟𐍈 ̣͛𐍃 ̡̅̈́
Hope it's not dead. I really like this story.
- Location
- Up on a Hill
Well, as long as other people are chiming up about it…
Just read through all this, and it really is lovely. Absolutely one of the top forge fics I've come across in terms of the CF variant rules and writing quality. I'd love to see some more chapters someday.
Just read through all this, and it really is lovely. Absolutely one of the top forge fics I've come across in terms of the CF variant rules and writing quality. I'd love to see some more chapters someday.
- Location
- 𐌂 ̢͎̩̤̲̙͓̑̀͂͒̀͆̏𐋏 ̛͏̫̚𐌀 ̛͉̥̩̤̰͈̂̅͒͊͟𐍈 ̣͛𐍃 ̡̅̈́
One of my favorite variants too. Celestial Forge is not about stuff from thin air, but more about skills, knowledge and creation abilities, which still needs to be applied by person and require will to succeed. Well, at least I think so.
P.S. I hope nothing bad happened to the author.
Last edited:
4: Like it or Not
A/N: Well hey there, been a minute or two, huh? There's time for talk later, so let's just get on with things for now, shall we?
Also, this is post 1 of 2!
4: Like it or Not
Wiping my palms against my jeans, the nervousness slowly eating away at my ability to stay composed, I swiftly grabbed myself a seat on one of the many chairs that were tucked neatly beneath the benches.
Armsmaster, the tinker, as far as America was concerned—only possibly chipped out by Dragon and the legacy that Hero had left behind—stood amid the organised tables, his calm totally unimpeded.
Why would it be? He's Armsmaster, and I'm not exactly of enough note to make someone like him nervous for any real reason.
"Now, it is unlikely that this lab will have all of the components you need to create any exotic medicines, but it stocks a great deal of materials that may open some options for you." Armsmaster said, breaking the silence.
"Yeah." I said, buying myself some time to think, "I'll be honest, I won't know until I look at what's there, and then I'll probably be able to figure something out. I've been getting the idea that I'm not exactly a… typical tinker."
The armoured man chuckled wryly, a genuine amusement leaking into his tone, "Trust me, there is no such thing as a 'typical tinker'. We make impossible things that we cannot fully explain and cannot be reasonably replicated. But yes, your power, as you have stated it to be, is exceptionally non-standard, which is why I've stepped in personally."
"Well, that's good enough for me," I said as I wrested myself from my seated position, having warded away the dizziness enough to keep moving, "let's see about these materials and hope some lightbulbs go off."
With a wordless nod, Armsmaster confidently strode toward the storage area, opening the door with use of a small card reader I hadn't noticed before, and ushered me in when I caught up behind him. Entering into the storage area was an experience, one that would've been lost on me only a little under two days ago.
Walls and floorspace was absolutely covered in shelving, filled boxes of individual materials, chemicals, and just about anything else that could be relevant, labelled and packaged for long term storage. Armsmaster's sleek blue armour moved almost soundlessly through the rows of metal shelving units with a precise ease that was likely half the armour's motors and half the trained gait of the man wearing it.
"This laboratory is a standard emergency facility required to be in each main PRT building in the United States. The reason for the supplies being so eclectic is to give a tinker the best chances of mitigating, for example, an engineered virus, pathogen, or some other tinker-made threat. I don't believe there has ever been an official emergency use of any of these facilities, though." Armsmaster noted casually, and I couldn't help but find a little comfort in that fact. Well, unless the reason the facilities weren't used was because it was already too late, which I forced myself to ignore for now.
"I think that might just turn out to be handy," I said as I turned my attentions to the labelling, trying to determine what I knew I could use, "my neoalchemy seems to like natural materials more than raw chemicals, even if the purpose of the materials is just to derive that chemical from them anyway. I can bypass it in some places but in some other recipes, multiple processes are done at once and removing an element from that would be unpredictable."
"Something to be explored in future." Armsmaster agreed, "For now, consider this a proof of concept. Being able to mix specific chemicals together without the natural mediums your power reaches for is undoubtedly more streamlined, but tinker powers have their quirks."
"And also that I wouldn't know how I'd ever determine what property twice-blessed holy water imparts." I said with a snort, the component flitting across my mind as I started to list a few of the boxes that my neoalchemy know-how gravitated towards.
"Twice-blessed–" Armsmaster sputtered, genuinely perturbed despite his stoic mien, "that sounds… a little absurd."
"Yup." I answered helplessly as I pulled out a few boxes from the bottom rung of the shelves, all the while fighting to stay standing straight and to not pass out. I reached out for a box on the shelves at about eye height for me, but was stopped abruptly by Armsmaster's heavy hand.
"James, maybe it would be best if I grabbed these boxes for you. Your heartrate puts you in danger of passing out." He said authoritatively, barely giving me time to return a stunned nod before he started taking boxes from the shelves at your direction. It didn't take much thinking for you to intuit that he must have a sensor of some sort that could pick up the heart rate of those around him.
"Oh don't worry, I only really pass out in severe cases. I have mini-blackouts, but I've actually only fainted a handful of times." I assured absentmindedly.
"Even so." He said dismissively, easily collecting the boxes that I'd been reaching for, stacking them atop each other, then carrying them out to the tables.
I spent another few minutes checking to see if there was anything else that I could fully make with the materials present, but there was always something missing. Scratching my head with a mild frustration, I wandered back out to the main area and joined Armsmaster at the table he'd chosen—one close to both the material storage and the equipment cabinets.
Armsmaster stood with his arms crossed, taking up his role as my assessor, simply observing me as I sorted through the materials he'd carried out to the table. I seemed to have a list in my mind that I could automatically check materials against, making the process of ordering and organising a painless, almost zen activity.
It took only a few minutes for the materials to be unpacked and sorted from their respective boxes, revealing the great quantity of herbs and other natural materials. One of the first materials I'd taken was a box of lavender, in various levels of processing—from the flower to its essential oils.
It might seem antithetical, with lavender usually being linked to calming and even sleep, but it was also a powerful basis to start from. The way neoalchemy seemed to work relied upon both conceptual and scientific understandings, with there being at least some wiggle room in the middle. Lavender was good for calming, and when you were trying to make a medicine that attempts to clear brain fog and increase mental clarity, a whole hell of a lot of ingredients would both have properties and conceptual ties to energy, alertness, focus, and so on.
With my course of action determined, I walked over to the equipment cabinets, searching through the windows and picking out a handful that I'd need; test tubes, Bunsen burners, beakers, mixing bowls, even a simple mortar and pestle. Taking them back to the table and connecting the Bunsen burner into the gas, I began prepping the materials and process order as best as I knew how.
This only further confirmed to me that there was a qualitative difference between the information on the Cornucopia Machine, the magical items I'd received, and this neoalchemy. If this were just the information required to do neoalchemy, I wouldn't feel this confident in my actions, nor would I be able to come up with multiple different ways to account for any random failure organically, and most of all, I would probably be bored by this prep.
As it was, I felt like I'd slipped into the zone, like I'd performed this prep process a thousand times with even worse materials and equipment. It was an ease of expertise that slowly oiled the cogs, freeing some of the knowledge I hadn't immediately gleaned and further instituting it into my actions.
"Fair warning," I said as I flicked the Bunsen burner on and precisely sterilising some of the equipment with a practiced hand that I shouldn't have, "this'll likely take… ten to fifteen minutes?"
"That is acceptable." Armsmaster ameliorated with an iron calm, "For the record, what is it you intend to make, if you know yet?"
"A medicine for mental acuity." I quickly answered, filling one of the test tubes with water to about a third full, "I'm intending to rectify the general brain fog and executive function issues I struggle with. It should prove effective on just about anyone, though."
Armsmaster simply nodded, leaving me to my silent focus, allowing me to pull as much of my mental energy as I could to the fore and force myself to perform at my best for long enough to finish the thing.
First came the lavender. Ground into almost a paste, added to the test tube, shaken and let sit for some time after adding a drop of lemon juice. With the imbalance of lavender and lemon juice, it should form a base of calm, sans the drowsiness thanks to the lemon juice—sugars and sourness offsetting the sleepiness.
Quickly I began preparing three batches of dry herbs, ground finely into an almost dusty texture while the base settled. There were a monstrous amount of ingredients included, and I could guess that it was because I wasn't operating with precision recipes in mind, but instead general rules of thumb. I was probably just blasting the spectrum of the concepts I was going for without overloading the lavender base—If I wanted a really clean and effective medicine with minimal impurities, I'd have to test everything extensively, requiring likely over a hundred test batches at minimum.
In the background, a beaker had been set to boil water and after the inclusion of a small amount of agar powder—which would naturally set into a jelly—I picked up the now settled mixture of lavender, water, and lemon juice and shook it roughly before pouring it into the boiling agar and water mixture.
A great deal of stirring later, and the slow inclusion of the thoroughly ground herbs, I was left to slowly ease the temperature down as some more agar powder was added alongside a small amount of heavily diluted lavender oil to complete the process.
Pulling the beaker from the flame, I poured the far more syrupy, gelatinous mixture onto a small tray, evened it out with a shake, and then let it sit to rest before chilling.
I dropped into my chair, warding away the dizziness with closed eyes, phantom colours and lights sparkling across my vision in concert with an unpleasant airiness in my head. But, just as I was beginning to recover, I was pulled into my mind with a sharp tug that I couldn't hope to resist in my state of weakness.
In a moment I saw a small star pull close and in the next moment the designs for a quill appeared in my mind. Not just any quill, of course, but one made with a Griffon's feather. It was clearly magical, and even came with some basic understandings of what I suspected were runes, not all that dissimilar than those in the designs of the magical items I'd been granted initially.
Suddenly, a metal grasp closed around my shoulder—carefully measured right between firm and strong, but not painful, "Are you alright? You seem dazed." Armsmaster inquired stoically.
"I'm fine, just my power doing its thing." I said dismissively, righting my posture a little as he removed his armoured grip, "I just got, uh, 'given' a quill that can write runes and has innate properties of protection, I think. It's made from materials I don't know how to access; namely a Griffon's feather, which I doubt I could…" I trailed off as my mind burst into bubbles of thought, a bizarre experience of different fields of thought haphazardly coalescing to attack a problem.
"James?" Armsmaster prodded and, though I might be wrong, I thought I heard just a slight curiosity in his voice, "Has something come to you?"
"Uh, I mean, I think?" I said unsurely, trying to pull a coherent explanation from my mind while it was still bubbling away like an unstable chemical reaction, "I don't know, I'll have to think on it more, but while I do, can you chuck this in that fridge? No need to mess with the temperature, a commercial fridge would work just fine."
Armsmaster gave me a last look before taking the tray of slowly thickening mixture to the fridge on the other side of the room, leaving me a moment to think.
A Griffon's feather wasn't something I'd be able to naturally acquire, and with it being an item that came from a specific source that didn't exist, that'd mean I was left without other avenues of attack… usually. But now I had access to multiple schools of thought, most of which focused on magic or the application of it in some way, and the challenge of creating such an item artificially was just plausible enough that I could actually use it as a thought experiment.
What I knew of a Griffon basically only extended to the properties of the feather itself. They had a strong alignment with concepts of protection, and also were from a creature that bordered on being bestial, though still humanoid in some aspects. This meant that, other than the conceptual protection of treasure and guardianship, it was life magic that further gave the item it's power—as likely most items derived from living creatures would be, barring specific elemental qualities.
With the basic understandings of at least imbuing magic into machinery, I knew it'd be possible to imbue it into an organic item, likely with much more ease. If the Griffon's feather had instead been innately wind aspected, like a bird could be if they use natural magics to enhance their flight, then I'd likely be shit out of luck. But as it was, I had somewhat of a reasonable chance of making an actual Griffon's feather.
That was… kinda dope, now that I thought about it. If it was possible to artificially create a Griffon feather, then what about all the magical ingredients I have randomly pop into my head when thinking over neoalchemy recipes? How many of them could I make if I went so far as to fabricate the magical items they asked for?
It was a door opener, and if I could get that Griffon feather, then it would only open that door further. Especially with runes suddenly being accessible to me, allowing me to more finely imbue magic into technology and other items.
I chuckled to myself, a light giddiness washing through me. Things were starting to click, and I could feel the sensation get its hooks into me like some terribly addictive drug. I cut off the stream of thought, exacting some self-control to let myself rest properly for at least a while after the intensive process.
"How long does it require to cool?" Armsmaster inquired from across the room.
"It doesn't need to set completely, it can still be syrupy, it just needs to get rid of the heat mostly. That shouldn't take long, I don't think." I called back, receiving a thoughtful hum in response.
"Is the process sensitive to temperatures in the opposite direction?" Came another question.
"Nope," I said almost automatically, "as long as you don't freeze it solid, the temperature shouldn't really matter."
"I see." Armsmaster rumbled, before a few clicks of a dial sounded and a noisy fan spun up into a high-pitched whine that lasted for almost half a minute, then spun down soon after.
Moments later, Armsmaster placed the tray in front of me, the gooey mess having settled a little and clearly much colder, and gave me a tight smile from beneath his ever-passive visor, "does this seem good to you?"
"I guess so." I said, placing a finger in the mix and verifying that the cold had permeated the mixture, "Well, we can test it now; I don't see any reason it shouldn't function just fine. Will probably taste awful, mind."
"If you would give me a moment to scan it to check that it doesn't class as poisonous or have any other glaring faults?" He asked promptly, "This information will not be stored past the internal storage of the scanner module itself, and will be immediately deleted afterwards."
I shrugged, proffering a small amount of the mix that I instinctively knew would be leftovers once evenly divided into safe doses. Armsmaster detached a small sample stick from a part of his wrist armour then, after taking only a tiny portion of the mix, did he insert it back into his wrist and stand in silence.
"Amazingly," he said after a moment with a slightly incredulous tone, "it seems that the mixture is perfectly edible. With the amounts of different ingredients and concentrated extract used, this would usually result in being classed as inedible—or at least cautioned against. Apparently, your abilities sidestep this."
I knew how—abstractly, at least. The neutralisation of extraneous or conflicting effects also doubled as the reduction of harms and ill effects. It certainly wasn't something that operated by the currently understood science and would likely continue to flaunt them until a basis for the 'magical' came to be documented.
"Well, that's handy." I said with a grin, "I'll take a dose first, if you don't mind. You're welcome to take one yourself, of course. Unless you have non-standard physiology, then I'd recommend you don't."
"I have been given permission to do so, within reason." He said wryly, and from his tone of voice, it sounded like he'd had to fight to be allowed to do so.
I shrugged, washing off a small scoop while asking Armsmaster to grab two small glasses from a cabinet that I'd seen, and then placed as an exact a dose as I could in each glass. It was a substantial amount, meaning to be consumed in the form of a bar of thick jelly, and even that would probably take a few bites. I'd probably be able to get it down to a pill after a while, but again; time wasn't my friend here.
I picked up one of the glasses sending a glance towards Armsmaster who, even with his helmet on and his eyes covered, I could tell was watching me closely. With a grimace, I turned back to the syrupy, cloudy mixture and grit my teeth in preparation.
"This is going to be fucking gross." I hissed, and before Armsmaster could make to respond, I tapped the side of other glass in a mock cheers and started to down the liquid.
Of course, since it was syrupy and gelatinous, it didn't go down smoothly. Instead, it went down like extra thick cough syrup, and required me to forcibly swallow the mixture to make it move down my throat at all. If I wasn't prepared for it, I probably would've gagged.
The taste, though, was easily the worst part of it. It was absolutely horrendous. A mixture of the pungent smell of way too many ingredients and the exponentially more powerful taste left my tastebuds reeling from the sheer overload. What was worse was that the syrupy form meant that it coated absolutely everything it touched; teeth, mouth, throat, everything.
As soon as I'd got it all down, I finally let myself cough, my eyes watering both from the effort of downing the mix and the fumes that permeated my nose and mouth, making me feel like I'd just snorted pure essential oils.
"Christ Almighty, that's vile." I choked out.
"The effects?" Armsmaster inquired calmly, his voice totally neutral. Enough that I wondered if it was hiding his amusement.
"They should kick in soo-"
And then they kicked in. A weight lifted off of the top of my head, like a too-heavy blanket had been resting on top of me, smothering me for years.
"Holy shit." I whispered, unable to contain the reverence in my voice as I stared blankly at the cup in my hand. I felt clear. I felt awake…
I felt alive.
"I take it the effects kicked in?" Armsmaster intoned wryly.
"Boy did they." I said flatly, feeling the thought zap through my mind at what was almost lightning pace in comparison the laborious crawl it'd been going at before.
"Can you describe them to me?" Armsmaster said.
"Clarity." I said without a moment's pause, "Like someone oiled the cogs in my brain and turned me back on. Not hyperactive, or over attentive, just clear."
"Interesting." He murmured, "And it acted so quickly too."
Before I could say another word, he gently took the other glass, gave me a short nod, then began to down the mixture with a slightly disturbing amount of grace. The man's lips didn't even twitch as he imbibed the foul mixture, and only a moment later, he placed the glass back down on the table just as gently as he'd taken it.
I couldn't hide my expression of disgust, staring at the man like he'd grown a second head, and I saw Armsmaster's mouth turn up at the corners in a genuine smirk.
"I once went to college, you know." He said, a chuckle hidden somewhere in his chest, and then with a jarring suddenness, his mouth went slack, opening in slight shock.
"Oh." He said after a moment.
"Oh." I agreed, undisguised mirth playing on my features.
Armsmaster was usually described as an effective and pivotal Protectorate Hero by his peers, however grudgingly they might admit to it.
The man himself had long since accepted that as fact. He was a hard man to like, and even harder to get along with when there was an argument over strategy or methodology—which, in the Protectorate, was nigh on every single day. Armsmaster didn't particularly pride himself in being a hardliner, not quite, but did pride himself in making sure his thoughts and opinions on anything of importance was made absolutely clear.
He was fully aware that this made him hard to work with. He was exacting in his specifics, a trait that had developed over the years of tinker work he'd immersed himself in. He was an unrepentant hardass, but he was also the leader of the local Protectorate.
He'd found that people conveniently forgot just how sought for his time was, where Director Piggot didn't face quite the same scrutiny. Perhaps it was because the woman looked as though she were a sugar cube away from a heart attack at all times, constantly haggard where Armsmaster was perceived as almost indominable.
This was patently false, proven only by the fact that being put into temporary M/S confinement following the consumption of tinker-made medicine—one that alters your mental state, no less—was the first proper break he'd had in weeks.
Piggot had been decidedly unimpressed by his recommendation that he, the Protectorate leader, be the one to consume the medicine rather than some trooper being paid a generous stipend. The only reason it'd been allowed at all was due to Armsmaster's incredibly meticulous storage and analysis of biometric data.
It was one of his fortes, as far as tinker tech goes. His suit was one of the most technology dense pieces of equipment he knew of, and he'd spared no expense on sensors aiming both inward and outward. He'd always been of the opinion that true power laid in the vibrant world of information and interpretation, and his collection systems were obscenely extensive.
Essentially, all of the sensors in his equipment were automatically sending highly specific and accurate biometric data to a server, one that Armsmaster himself was incapable of personally interfering with. It was there that the analysis programs he and Dragon had designed were housed, processing data on custom silicon that Dragon had graciously cooked up for the task.
While Armsmaster hadn't always had the analysis systems in place, he'd been storing his own biodata from the moment he built his first sensors, and having run the historic data through those systems essentially provided him with an advanced and specific baseline for his own neurological activity.
If Armsmaster had been compromised by a master or stranger effect, then it would need to show no significant change to the way his brain works, or any of the other telemetry data he collects. If that were the case, then—in the words of Assault—"everyone is fucked anyway".
"Colin," a pleasant voice sounded inside his helm, alongside a notification that he'd been reconnected to his wireless systems, "I've built a comprehensive report after you took the new tinker's medicine. The changes neurologically were quite significant, but not outside of expectations in comparison to other medicines that act on the brain in similar ways—notably without the common detrimental neurological affectations and side effects."
Armsmaster hummed thoughtfully at the words of his most trusted companion. He'd been loath to pull her from her work, or call her in to help in his own duties, but there were few who could claim to process data into information like Dragon could.
"If you could, note that the drug has significantly eased my mental state, much like we've seen in the sedatives I've used in the past." He orated whilst a PRT trooper came to the door of the M/S holding cell and ushered Armsmaster from the room.
"The sedatives that you historically react poorly to?" Dragon inquired, a touch of professional concern in her voice.
"That I react poorly to when they significantly dull my mental acuity." He amended, "Whereas this tinker-made drug seems to roughly balance the mental clarity you gain with the calming or subduing effects of a sedative, resulting in a drug that meets the best of both worlds."
"That's…" Dragon trailed off, leaving them in silence as Armsmaster walked towards the Director's office to report, "That's quite significant, Colin. We've been looking for similar solutions for some time, but medicine has never been my expertise."
He nodded gently, the actuation of the assistive motors likely being picked up and interpreted as such by Dragon, "I admit, I hadn't quite realised the degree of impact that the stimulants have had upon my mental state."
Dragon made to speak more, but Armsmaster had already come to the door of the Director's office, only pausing long enough to allow Dragon a few final words.
"We'll talk about this later, Colin." She said, to which he gave another nod before he noted the line going dead.
With an efficient stride, Armsmaster opened the door without knocking—a practice that Emily Piggot and himself shared a mutual distaste for—and saw both the Director sitting behind her desk, and Miss Militia standing to one side. Likely for safety as much as necessity.
"Armsmaster." Miss Militia greeted, her eyes solidly meeting his despite the visor, allowing him to note the slight crease of distaste or disappointment—Armsmaster wasn't sure nor was he particularly excellent at reading facial expressions.
"Colin." Piggot stated, less a greeting and more a commanding of attention.
Armsmaster closed the door behind him, coming to rest a stride away from the desk, letting his armour's leg joints lock to let him relax, "Director."
"Dragon cleared you, which I assume she's already told you," she began, her voice flat and devoid of humour, "she made clear that this tinker's medicine was something that acted quite predictably when accounting for its intended effects."
"It was created for the purpose of assisting with mental clarity, something that the tinker himself seems to struggle with alongside his other physical issues noted in his interview with Miss Militia. The tinker 'tech' itself follows the established knowledge of tinker abilities being obtuse in their creation, but it seemed as though the tinker can fairly clearly describe his process and improvise on the fly, which is less common."
"And the effects?" She pressed, her pudgy features drawing into a stern frown.
"Precisely as he intended for them to be, or at least described. I couldn't find any glaring weakness in his conceptualisation of the medicine to the effects in reality, but the drug has yet to wear off. I will notify and document the effects of the medicine as it does so, as well as any withdrawal effects if they occur." Armsmaster stated, his voice even and relaxed in a way that he noticed almost seemed to unnerve his colleagues.
"And the likelihood of the side effects?"
"Fairly unlikely." Armsmaster answered, "If he was willing to take the medicine, I assume that significant downsides were not something he would be prepared to endure, what with the heavily conservative stance he takes towards his health."
Director Piggot levelled the Protectorate leader with an exacting gaze, steel-grey eyes piercing through his visor as though it were cheap plastic, before averting her gaze and rubbing at her forehead with a pained sigh, "Fine. As to his claims about the energy manipulation, or his other described abilities or knowledge?"
"I examined him whilst he attempted to make the manipulation of energy clear to me—however there was no way for me to capture this on any sensor equipment I have on hand. I suspect I would have to custom build a testing rig for the express purpose of examining him while–" Armsmaster explained, but was cut off with a disbelieving glare from the Director and a curious one from Miss Militia.
"You believe the kid?" She demanded, voice like a scalpel.
However, despite the pressure she was putting on him, Armsmaster simply affected a concise nod, "I cannot reasonably determine if what he says is factually true, or even that he is not someone duping me, but from both the instance where it seemed he gained knowledge that made him reference a 'Griffon's feather' and when he was attempting to reveal his energy manipulation to me, both my intuition and equipment read him as genuinely doing so. Not to mention that I could feel that he was doing something while he acted with his secondary ability."
"Explain." Piggot prompted.
"I could simply feel it, maybe best described as a collection of common phenomena all occurring simultaneously. The hair on my arms raised, goosebumps appeared, a tingle down my spine, a sudden wave of sensitivity in my skin, and so on. This was a clear enough indication to me that something was occurring, just invisibly to both my sensors and my conscious awareness." Armsmaster finished, before halting for a short moment and adding, "I may be incorrect, of course. But the man's apparent truthfulness and frankness so far has bought the benefit of the doubt."
Director Piggot, Miss Militia, and Armsmaster then all stood in a tense silence, ponderous but finely constrained. Armsmaster, under the standard contract he'd signed, could say very little for the actual abilities the man put on display, other than that which he'd made readily apparent prior to the testing and verification that had been done.
Despite public opinion being of the opposite, the PRT and Protectorate tended to stick quite staunchly to the rules when it came to potential recruits, vigilantes or independent heroes—even rogues and villains in many scenarios. It was common practice for the PRT and Protectorate to bend over backwards to both protect and incentivise new additions to their roster, either with first pick on trading protectorate members or bolstering your own local forces with new blood—not to mention the sizeable budget awarded to a branch to accommodate and provide for the new recruit.
Breaking that trust was done only in the direst of situations, at least in theory. In reality it was more common than any would like to admit and was generally a scorched earth policy that benefitted next to no one.
Emily Piggot, scowling with what Armsmaster had long since identified as distaste, shook her head lightly before picking up her phone and raising it to her ear, shooting both of the parahumans in her office a look.
"Alright, move along. I've got to get onto the phone with this lawyer for the recruit, damn tinkers and their paranoia." She muttered, though it seemed more like loosely directed grumbling.
"We prefer the term 'prepared and cautious'." Armsmaster chuckled, once again receiving bizarre looks from his colleagues, but he ignored them and merely turned with a wordless farewell.
He didn't quite catch the look the two women behind him shared, nor the subtle command given before Miss Militia strode out of the room to follow her direct superior's armour-clad form, a look of concern poorly hidden by her bandana.
I learned very quickly that I despised contract law.
Honestly, it's something I should've known about myself, but it wasn't until I was faced with a hefty document describing in exacting 'detail' the job I was signing up for, that I realised how much I hated this shit.
Seriously, it doesn't matter how 'plain english' a legal document is worded, you encounter one jargon word, and you're going down a long and dark rabbit hole.
I submerged myself into the very depths, of course. If there was ever a time to be paranoid, it was when you were signing government contracts that may very well steal your soul if you're not the fine-print reading sort. The lawyer, Joshua Maxwell, seemed an alright guy and more than fine with explaining every sentence three times and rewording it at least as many times again. Probably because he was billed hourly, and the Protectorate's pockets are deep.
Either way, I figured out a great deal from that session. Most of it was, frankly, common sense on paper; the kind of stuff you'd almost call a waste of good dead tree, until you realise that there was absolutely a reason they put it there in the first place.
There was the probation period of a year, which the lawyer had said was essentially unarguable—no one had been able to haggle that period down. Not that I really cared to do so, I wasn't chomping at the bit to rise in the ranks like some other heroic hopeful. I got paid fairly decently during that period, eventually leading into better pay befitting a full Protectorate member, which was semi-negotiable.
My likeness remained mine, but my cape persona was essentially entirely owned by the Protectorate. Probably so that there was legal distinction if you went rouge and used the persona the Protectorate made for you. They could and would kneecap the monetisation or usage of that on any official platform, and that's likely pretty handy when a past Protectorate member goes, say, Slaughterhouse 9.
Either way, I'm not sure I could possibly care less for owning my 'cape persona'. I received a small percent sum of merch sold of my likeness or persona which, according to Mr. Lawyer, was usually the biggest point of discussion. It was very frequently renegotiated, especially for those with marketable personas like Armsmaster, the Big Three, and so on.
I really doubted that I was going to be part of that group.
What did pique my interest was clauses relating to contractual work for the PRT, Protectorate, and 'Affiliated Partners'. Essentially, if you had a power that was at all useful or desirable, you could sometimes get offered contracted work through the Protectorate, internally or even externally. The biggest beneficiary of this?
Tinkers. Tinkers galore.
The wording did seem to imply that internal work would be less a fully paying contract and more of a small bonus for your work—you were actually employed by them, so technically this was them being generous—but the external work was fully paid, regardless of the cut that the Protectorate took.
It was a decent deal, as far as I could see. Worked for everyone, even if you weren't going to rake in the obscene cash you could as a highly desirable rouge tinker.
Speaking of tinkers, I was relieved to find, in print, that there was essentially nothing about the Protectorate 'owning' anything I create.
The reality was that tinker tech was thought to be essentially unreproducible. In incredibly specific scenarios, that's been shown to be false to a certain degree, but there is no amount of detailed schematics and step by step instructions that'll allow someone to make most tinker tech.
I would feel bad about not telling the whole truth—especially as I had reason to believe that what I create can, theoretically, be reproduced—but I also wasn't keen on anyone catching onto the fact that they could mass produce, say, a Cornucopia Machine, and just totally torpedo our current technological level as we undergo what is tantamount to a secondary industrial revolution.
No thanks. I'm not letting that weigh on my conscious forever. Maybe someday, but absolutely not without understanding what the hell I'd be unleashing.
But outside all of this, the only other real complications were the burdens of responsibility when it came to being law enforcement; patrols, safety, internal review, so on and so forth.
On paper, it almost seemed like a cushy job.
Yeah, until you pulled up the videos online of Protectorate members staring down the friendly blender dog next door, or the fuck-off terrifying dragon man. Real cushy.
It was just a no-brainer, from where I currently stood. They wanted me—wanted any parahuman really—in the Protectorate, if not to bolster their own forces, then to deprive everyone else of more firepower, especially in Brockton Bay. And damn were they willing to pay the privilege to at least take you off the board.
It honestly made me wonder why more didn't take this deal.
How many even got so far as to read the contract at all?
I'm no stooge for the government, and I'm definitely no fanboy for the Protectorate, but even with as critical an eye as I can give, and the help of a lawyer whose job it is to be hyper-anal about all of this, I still can't see why so many would give up a genuinely good deal like this.
Scrawling down my signature on the dotted line, I committed myself to the fact that I'd be finding out, whether I liked it or not.
A/N: 2 perk rolls have been banked for the next post (which is coming as soon as I can set it up), just felt it'd be weird to have it break the flow and didn't care to rework it all after I wrote it. Onto post 2/2.
Also, this is post 1 of 2!
4: Like it or Not
Wiping my palms against my jeans, the nervousness slowly eating away at my ability to stay composed, I swiftly grabbed myself a seat on one of the many chairs that were tucked neatly beneath the benches.
Armsmaster, the tinker, as far as America was concerned—only possibly chipped out by Dragon and the legacy that Hero had left behind—stood amid the organised tables, his calm totally unimpeded.
Why would it be? He's Armsmaster, and I'm not exactly of enough note to make someone like him nervous for any real reason.
"Now, it is unlikely that this lab will have all of the components you need to create any exotic medicines, but it stocks a great deal of materials that may open some options for you." Armsmaster said, breaking the silence.
"Yeah." I said, buying myself some time to think, "I'll be honest, I won't know until I look at what's there, and then I'll probably be able to figure something out. I've been getting the idea that I'm not exactly a… typical tinker."
The armoured man chuckled wryly, a genuine amusement leaking into his tone, "Trust me, there is no such thing as a 'typical tinker'. We make impossible things that we cannot fully explain and cannot be reasonably replicated. But yes, your power, as you have stated it to be, is exceptionally non-standard, which is why I've stepped in personally."
"Well, that's good enough for me," I said as I wrested myself from my seated position, having warded away the dizziness enough to keep moving, "let's see about these materials and hope some lightbulbs go off."
With a wordless nod, Armsmaster confidently strode toward the storage area, opening the door with use of a small card reader I hadn't noticed before, and ushered me in when I caught up behind him. Entering into the storage area was an experience, one that would've been lost on me only a little under two days ago.
Walls and floorspace was absolutely covered in shelving, filled boxes of individual materials, chemicals, and just about anything else that could be relevant, labelled and packaged for long term storage. Armsmaster's sleek blue armour moved almost soundlessly through the rows of metal shelving units with a precise ease that was likely half the armour's motors and half the trained gait of the man wearing it.
"This laboratory is a standard emergency facility required to be in each main PRT building in the United States. The reason for the supplies being so eclectic is to give a tinker the best chances of mitigating, for example, an engineered virus, pathogen, or some other tinker-made threat. I don't believe there has ever been an official emergency use of any of these facilities, though." Armsmaster noted casually, and I couldn't help but find a little comfort in that fact. Well, unless the reason the facilities weren't used was because it was already too late, which I forced myself to ignore for now.
"I think that might just turn out to be handy," I said as I turned my attentions to the labelling, trying to determine what I knew I could use, "my neoalchemy seems to like natural materials more than raw chemicals, even if the purpose of the materials is just to derive that chemical from them anyway. I can bypass it in some places but in some other recipes, multiple processes are done at once and removing an element from that would be unpredictable."
"Something to be explored in future." Armsmaster agreed, "For now, consider this a proof of concept. Being able to mix specific chemicals together without the natural mediums your power reaches for is undoubtedly more streamlined, but tinker powers have their quirks."
"And also that I wouldn't know how I'd ever determine what property twice-blessed holy water imparts." I said with a snort, the component flitting across my mind as I started to list a few of the boxes that my neoalchemy know-how gravitated towards.
"Twice-blessed–" Armsmaster sputtered, genuinely perturbed despite his stoic mien, "that sounds… a little absurd."
"Yup." I answered helplessly as I pulled out a few boxes from the bottom rung of the shelves, all the while fighting to stay standing straight and to not pass out. I reached out for a box on the shelves at about eye height for me, but was stopped abruptly by Armsmaster's heavy hand.
"James, maybe it would be best if I grabbed these boxes for you. Your heartrate puts you in danger of passing out." He said authoritatively, barely giving me time to return a stunned nod before he started taking boxes from the shelves at your direction. It didn't take much thinking for you to intuit that he must have a sensor of some sort that could pick up the heart rate of those around him.
"Oh don't worry, I only really pass out in severe cases. I have mini-blackouts, but I've actually only fainted a handful of times." I assured absentmindedly.
"Even so." He said dismissively, easily collecting the boxes that I'd been reaching for, stacking them atop each other, then carrying them out to the tables.
I spent another few minutes checking to see if there was anything else that I could fully make with the materials present, but there was always something missing. Scratching my head with a mild frustration, I wandered back out to the main area and joined Armsmaster at the table he'd chosen—one close to both the material storage and the equipment cabinets.
Armsmaster stood with his arms crossed, taking up his role as my assessor, simply observing me as I sorted through the materials he'd carried out to the table. I seemed to have a list in my mind that I could automatically check materials against, making the process of ordering and organising a painless, almost zen activity.
It took only a few minutes for the materials to be unpacked and sorted from their respective boxes, revealing the great quantity of herbs and other natural materials. One of the first materials I'd taken was a box of lavender, in various levels of processing—from the flower to its essential oils.
It might seem antithetical, with lavender usually being linked to calming and even sleep, but it was also a powerful basis to start from. The way neoalchemy seemed to work relied upon both conceptual and scientific understandings, with there being at least some wiggle room in the middle. Lavender was good for calming, and when you were trying to make a medicine that attempts to clear brain fog and increase mental clarity, a whole hell of a lot of ingredients would both have properties and conceptual ties to energy, alertness, focus, and so on.
With my course of action determined, I walked over to the equipment cabinets, searching through the windows and picking out a handful that I'd need; test tubes, Bunsen burners, beakers, mixing bowls, even a simple mortar and pestle. Taking them back to the table and connecting the Bunsen burner into the gas, I began prepping the materials and process order as best as I knew how.
This only further confirmed to me that there was a qualitative difference between the information on the Cornucopia Machine, the magical items I'd received, and this neoalchemy. If this were just the information required to do neoalchemy, I wouldn't feel this confident in my actions, nor would I be able to come up with multiple different ways to account for any random failure organically, and most of all, I would probably be bored by this prep.
As it was, I felt like I'd slipped into the zone, like I'd performed this prep process a thousand times with even worse materials and equipment. It was an ease of expertise that slowly oiled the cogs, freeing some of the knowledge I hadn't immediately gleaned and further instituting it into my actions.
"Fair warning," I said as I flicked the Bunsen burner on and precisely sterilising some of the equipment with a practiced hand that I shouldn't have, "this'll likely take… ten to fifteen minutes?"
"That is acceptable." Armsmaster ameliorated with an iron calm, "For the record, what is it you intend to make, if you know yet?"
"A medicine for mental acuity." I quickly answered, filling one of the test tubes with water to about a third full, "I'm intending to rectify the general brain fog and executive function issues I struggle with. It should prove effective on just about anyone, though."
Armsmaster simply nodded, leaving me to my silent focus, allowing me to pull as much of my mental energy as I could to the fore and force myself to perform at my best for long enough to finish the thing.
First came the lavender. Ground into almost a paste, added to the test tube, shaken and let sit for some time after adding a drop of lemon juice. With the imbalance of lavender and lemon juice, it should form a base of calm, sans the drowsiness thanks to the lemon juice—sugars and sourness offsetting the sleepiness.
Quickly I began preparing three batches of dry herbs, ground finely into an almost dusty texture while the base settled. There were a monstrous amount of ingredients included, and I could guess that it was because I wasn't operating with precision recipes in mind, but instead general rules of thumb. I was probably just blasting the spectrum of the concepts I was going for without overloading the lavender base—If I wanted a really clean and effective medicine with minimal impurities, I'd have to test everything extensively, requiring likely over a hundred test batches at minimum.
In the background, a beaker had been set to boil water and after the inclusion of a small amount of agar powder—which would naturally set into a jelly—I picked up the now settled mixture of lavender, water, and lemon juice and shook it roughly before pouring it into the boiling agar and water mixture.
A great deal of stirring later, and the slow inclusion of the thoroughly ground herbs, I was left to slowly ease the temperature down as some more agar powder was added alongside a small amount of heavily diluted lavender oil to complete the process.
Pulling the beaker from the flame, I poured the far more syrupy, gelatinous mixture onto a small tray, evened it out with a shake, and then let it sit to rest before chilling.
I dropped into my chair, warding away the dizziness with closed eyes, phantom colours and lights sparkling across my vision in concert with an unpleasant airiness in my head. But, just as I was beginning to recover, I was pulled into my mind with a sharp tug that I couldn't hope to resist in my state of weakness.
In a moment I saw a small star pull close and in the next moment the designs for a quill appeared in my mind. Not just any quill, of course, but one made with a Griffon's feather. It was clearly magical, and even came with some basic understandings of what I suspected were runes, not all that dissimilar than those in the designs of the magical items I'd been granted initially.
Suddenly, a metal grasp closed around my shoulder—carefully measured right between firm and strong, but not painful, "Are you alright? You seem dazed." Armsmaster inquired stoically.
"I'm fine, just my power doing its thing." I said dismissively, righting my posture a little as he removed his armoured grip, "I just got, uh, 'given' a quill that can write runes and has innate properties of protection, I think. It's made from materials I don't know how to access; namely a Griffon's feather, which I doubt I could…" I trailed off as my mind burst into bubbles of thought, a bizarre experience of different fields of thought haphazardly coalescing to attack a problem.
"James?" Armsmaster prodded and, though I might be wrong, I thought I heard just a slight curiosity in his voice, "Has something come to you?"
"Uh, I mean, I think?" I said unsurely, trying to pull a coherent explanation from my mind while it was still bubbling away like an unstable chemical reaction, "I don't know, I'll have to think on it more, but while I do, can you chuck this in that fridge? No need to mess with the temperature, a commercial fridge would work just fine."
Armsmaster gave me a last look before taking the tray of slowly thickening mixture to the fridge on the other side of the room, leaving me a moment to think.
A Griffon's feather wasn't something I'd be able to naturally acquire, and with it being an item that came from a specific source that didn't exist, that'd mean I was left without other avenues of attack… usually. But now I had access to multiple schools of thought, most of which focused on magic or the application of it in some way, and the challenge of creating such an item artificially was just plausible enough that I could actually use it as a thought experiment.
What I knew of a Griffon basically only extended to the properties of the feather itself. They had a strong alignment with concepts of protection, and also were from a creature that bordered on being bestial, though still humanoid in some aspects. This meant that, other than the conceptual protection of treasure and guardianship, it was life magic that further gave the item it's power—as likely most items derived from living creatures would be, barring specific elemental qualities.
With the basic understandings of at least imbuing magic into machinery, I knew it'd be possible to imbue it into an organic item, likely with much more ease. If the Griffon's feather had instead been innately wind aspected, like a bird could be if they use natural magics to enhance their flight, then I'd likely be shit out of luck. But as it was, I had somewhat of a reasonable chance of making an actual Griffon's feather.
That was… kinda dope, now that I thought about it. If it was possible to artificially create a Griffon feather, then what about all the magical ingredients I have randomly pop into my head when thinking over neoalchemy recipes? How many of them could I make if I went so far as to fabricate the magical items they asked for?
It was a door opener, and if I could get that Griffon feather, then it would only open that door further. Especially with runes suddenly being accessible to me, allowing me to more finely imbue magic into technology and other items.
I chuckled to myself, a light giddiness washing through me. Things were starting to click, and I could feel the sensation get its hooks into me like some terribly addictive drug. I cut off the stream of thought, exacting some self-control to let myself rest properly for at least a while after the intensive process.
"How long does it require to cool?" Armsmaster inquired from across the room.
"It doesn't need to set completely, it can still be syrupy, it just needs to get rid of the heat mostly. That shouldn't take long, I don't think." I called back, receiving a thoughtful hum in response.
"Is the process sensitive to temperatures in the opposite direction?" Came another question.
"Nope," I said almost automatically, "as long as you don't freeze it solid, the temperature shouldn't really matter."
"I see." Armsmaster rumbled, before a few clicks of a dial sounded and a noisy fan spun up into a high-pitched whine that lasted for almost half a minute, then spun down soon after.
Moments later, Armsmaster placed the tray in front of me, the gooey mess having settled a little and clearly much colder, and gave me a tight smile from beneath his ever-passive visor, "does this seem good to you?"
"I guess so." I said, placing a finger in the mix and verifying that the cold had permeated the mixture, "Well, we can test it now; I don't see any reason it shouldn't function just fine. Will probably taste awful, mind."
"If you would give me a moment to scan it to check that it doesn't class as poisonous or have any other glaring faults?" He asked promptly, "This information will not be stored past the internal storage of the scanner module itself, and will be immediately deleted afterwards."
I shrugged, proffering a small amount of the mix that I instinctively knew would be leftovers once evenly divided into safe doses. Armsmaster detached a small sample stick from a part of his wrist armour then, after taking only a tiny portion of the mix, did he insert it back into his wrist and stand in silence.
"Amazingly," he said after a moment with a slightly incredulous tone, "it seems that the mixture is perfectly edible. With the amounts of different ingredients and concentrated extract used, this would usually result in being classed as inedible—or at least cautioned against. Apparently, your abilities sidestep this."
I knew how—abstractly, at least. The neutralisation of extraneous or conflicting effects also doubled as the reduction of harms and ill effects. It certainly wasn't something that operated by the currently understood science and would likely continue to flaunt them until a basis for the 'magical' came to be documented.
"Well, that's handy." I said with a grin, "I'll take a dose first, if you don't mind. You're welcome to take one yourself, of course. Unless you have non-standard physiology, then I'd recommend you don't."
"I have been given permission to do so, within reason." He said wryly, and from his tone of voice, it sounded like he'd had to fight to be allowed to do so.
I shrugged, washing off a small scoop while asking Armsmaster to grab two small glasses from a cabinet that I'd seen, and then placed as an exact a dose as I could in each glass. It was a substantial amount, meaning to be consumed in the form of a bar of thick jelly, and even that would probably take a few bites. I'd probably be able to get it down to a pill after a while, but again; time wasn't my friend here.
I picked up one of the glasses sending a glance towards Armsmaster who, even with his helmet on and his eyes covered, I could tell was watching me closely. With a grimace, I turned back to the syrupy, cloudy mixture and grit my teeth in preparation.
"This is going to be fucking gross." I hissed, and before Armsmaster could make to respond, I tapped the side of other glass in a mock cheers and started to down the liquid.
Of course, since it was syrupy and gelatinous, it didn't go down smoothly. Instead, it went down like extra thick cough syrup, and required me to forcibly swallow the mixture to make it move down my throat at all. If I wasn't prepared for it, I probably would've gagged.
The taste, though, was easily the worst part of it. It was absolutely horrendous. A mixture of the pungent smell of way too many ingredients and the exponentially more powerful taste left my tastebuds reeling from the sheer overload. What was worse was that the syrupy form meant that it coated absolutely everything it touched; teeth, mouth, throat, everything.
As soon as I'd got it all down, I finally let myself cough, my eyes watering both from the effort of downing the mix and the fumes that permeated my nose and mouth, making me feel like I'd just snorted pure essential oils.
"Christ Almighty, that's vile." I choked out.
"The effects?" Armsmaster inquired calmly, his voice totally neutral. Enough that I wondered if it was hiding his amusement.
"They should kick in soo-"
And then they kicked in. A weight lifted off of the top of my head, like a too-heavy blanket had been resting on top of me, smothering me for years.
"Holy shit." I whispered, unable to contain the reverence in my voice as I stared blankly at the cup in my hand. I felt clear. I felt awake…
I felt alive.
"I take it the effects kicked in?" Armsmaster intoned wryly.
"Boy did they." I said flatly, feeling the thought zap through my mind at what was almost lightning pace in comparison the laborious crawl it'd been going at before.
"Can you describe them to me?" Armsmaster said.
"Clarity." I said without a moment's pause, "Like someone oiled the cogs in my brain and turned me back on. Not hyperactive, or over attentive, just clear."
"Interesting." He murmured, "And it acted so quickly too."
Before I could say another word, he gently took the other glass, gave me a short nod, then began to down the mixture with a slightly disturbing amount of grace. The man's lips didn't even twitch as he imbibed the foul mixture, and only a moment later, he placed the glass back down on the table just as gently as he'd taken it.
I couldn't hide my expression of disgust, staring at the man like he'd grown a second head, and I saw Armsmaster's mouth turn up at the corners in a genuine smirk.
"I once went to college, you know." He said, a chuckle hidden somewhere in his chest, and then with a jarring suddenness, his mouth went slack, opening in slight shock.
"Oh." He said after a moment.
"Oh." I agreed, undisguised mirth playing on my features.
===
Armsmaster was usually described as an effective and pivotal Protectorate Hero by his peers, however grudgingly they might admit to it.
The man himself had long since accepted that as fact. He was a hard man to like, and even harder to get along with when there was an argument over strategy or methodology—which, in the Protectorate, was nigh on every single day. Armsmaster didn't particularly pride himself in being a hardliner, not quite, but did pride himself in making sure his thoughts and opinions on anything of importance was made absolutely clear.
He was fully aware that this made him hard to work with. He was exacting in his specifics, a trait that had developed over the years of tinker work he'd immersed himself in. He was an unrepentant hardass, but he was also the leader of the local Protectorate.
He'd found that people conveniently forgot just how sought for his time was, where Director Piggot didn't face quite the same scrutiny. Perhaps it was because the woman looked as though she were a sugar cube away from a heart attack at all times, constantly haggard where Armsmaster was perceived as almost indominable.
This was patently false, proven only by the fact that being put into temporary M/S confinement following the consumption of tinker-made medicine—one that alters your mental state, no less—was the first proper break he'd had in weeks.
Piggot had been decidedly unimpressed by his recommendation that he, the Protectorate leader, be the one to consume the medicine rather than some trooper being paid a generous stipend. The only reason it'd been allowed at all was due to Armsmaster's incredibly meticulous storage and analysis of biometric data.
It was one of his fortes, as far as tinker tech goes. His suit was one of the most technology dense pieces of equipment he knew of, and he'd spared no expense on sensors aiming both inward and outward. He'd always been of the opinion that true power laid in the vibrant world of information and interpretation, and his collection systems were obscenely extensive.
Essentially, all of the sensors in his equipment were automatically sending highly specific and accurate biometric data to a server, one that Armsmaster himself was incapable of personally interfering with. It was there that the analysis programs he and Dragon had designed were housed, processing data on custom silicon that Dragon had graciously cooked up for the task.
While Armsmaster hadn't always had the analysis systems in place, he'd been storing his own biodata from the moment he built his first sensors, and having run the historic data through those systems essentially provided him with an advanced and specific baseline for his own neurological activity.
If Armsmaster had been compromised by a master or stranger effect, then it would need to show no significant change to the way his brain works, or any of the other telemetry data he collects. If that were the case, then—in the words of Assault—"everyone is fucked anyway".
"Colin," a pleasant voice sounded inside his helm, alongside a notification that he'd been reconnected to his wireless systems, "I've built a comprehensive report after you took the new tinker's medicine. The changes neurologically were quite significant, but not outside of expectations in comparison to other medicines that act on the brain in similar ways—notably without the common detrimental neurological affectations and side effects."
Armsmaster hummed thoughtfully at the words of his most trusted companion. He'd been loath to pull her from her work, or call her in to help in his own duties, but there were few who could claim to process data into information like Dragon could.
"If you could, note that the drug has significantly eased my mental state, much like we've seen in the sedatives I've used in the past." He orated whilst a PRT trooper came to the door of the M/S holding cell and ushered Armsmaster from the room.
"The sedatives that you historically react poorly to?" Dragon inquired, a touch of professional concern in her voice.
"That I react poorly to when they significantly dull my mental acuity." He amended, "Whereas this tinker-made drug seems to roughly balance the mental clarity you gain with the calming or subduing effects of a sedative, resulting in a drug that meets the best of both worlds."
"That's…" Dragon trailed off, leaving them in silence as Armsmaster walked towards the Director's office to report, "That's quite significant, Colin. We've been looking for similar solutions for some time, but medicine has never been my expertise."
He nodded gently, the actuation of the assistive motors likely being picked up and interpreted as such by Dragon, "I admit, I hadn't quite realised the degree of impact that the stimulants have had upon my mental state."
Dragon made to speak more, but Armsmaster had already come to the door of the Director's office, only pausing long enough to allow Dragon a few final words.
"We'll talk about this later, Colin." She said, to which he gave another nod before he noted the line going dead.
With an efficient stride, Armsmaster opened the door without knocking—a practice that Emily Piggot and himself shared a mutual distaste for—and saw both the Director sitting behind her desk, and Miss Militia standing to one side. Likely for safety as much as necessity.
"Armsmaster." Miss Militia greeted, her eyes solidly meeting his despite the visor, allowing him to note the slight crease of distaste or disappointment—Armsmaster wasn't sure nor was he particularly excellent at reading facial expressions.
"Colin." Piggot stated, less a greeting and more a commanding of attention.
Armsmaster closed the door behind him, coming to rest a stride away from the desk, letting his armour's leg joints lock to let him relax, "Director."
"Dragon cleared you, which I assume she's already told you," she began, her voice flat and devoid of humour, "she made clear that this tinker's medicine was something that acted quite predictably when accounting for its intended effects."
"It was created for the purpose of assisting with mental clarity, something that the tinker himself seems to struggle with alongside his other physical issues noted in his interview with Miss Militia. The tinker 'tech' itself follows the established knowledge of tinker abilities being obtuse in their creation, but it seemed as though the tinker can fairly clearly describe his process and improvise on the fly, which is less common."
"And the effects?" She pressed, her pudgy features drawing into a stern frown.
"Precisely as he intended for them to be, or at least described. I couldn't find any glaring weakness in his conceptualisation of the medicine to the effects in reality, but the drug has yet to wear off. I will notify and document the effects of the medicine as it does so, as well as any withdrawal effects if they occur." Armsmaster stated, his voice even and relaxed in a way that he noticed almost seemed to unnerve his colleagues.
"And the likelihood of the side effects?"
"Fairly unlikely." Armsmaster answered, "If he was willing to take the medicine, I assume that significant downsides were not something he would be prepared to endure, what with the heavily conservative stance he takes towards his health."
Director Piggot levelled the Protectorate leader with an exacting gaze, steel-grey eyes piercing through his visor as though it were cheap plastic, before averting her gaze and rubbing at her forehead with a pained sigh, "Fine. As to his claims about the energy manipulation, or his other described abilities or knowledge?"
"I examined him whilst he attempted to make the manipulation of energy clear to me—however there was no way for me to capture this on any sensor equipment I have on hand. I suspect I would have to custom build a testing rig for the express purpose of examining him while–" Armsmaster explained, but was cut off with a disbelieving glare from the Director and a curious one from Miss Militia.
"You believe the kid?" She demanded, voice like a scalpel.
However, despite the pressure she was putting on him, Armsmaster simply affected a concise nod, "I cannot reasonably determine if what he says is factually true, or even that he is not someone duping me, but from both the instance where it seemed he gained knowledge that made him reference a 'Griffon's feather' and when he was attempting to reveal his energy manipulation to me, both my intuition and equipment read him as genuinely doing so. Not to mention that I could feel that he was doing something while he acted with his secondary ability."
"Explain." Piggot prompted.
"I could simply feel it, maybe best described as a collection of common phenomena all occurring simultaneously. The hair on my arms raised, goosebumps appeared, a tingle down my spine, a sudden wave of sensitivity in my skin, and so on. This was a clear enough indication to me that something was occurring, just invisibly to both my sensors and my conscious awareness." Armsmaster finished, before halting for a short moment and adding, "I may be incorrect, of course. But the man's apparent truthfulness and frankness so far has bought the benefit of the doubt."
Director Piggot, Miss Militia, and Armsmaster then all stood in a tense silence, ponderous but finely constrained. Armsmaster, under the standard contract he'd signed, could say very little for the actual abilities the man put on display, other than that which he'd made readily apparent prior to the testing and verification that had been done.
Despite public opinion being of the opposite, the PRT and Protectorate tended to stick quite staunchly to the rules when it came to potential recruits, vigilantes or independent heroes—even rogues and villains in many scenarios. It was common practice for the PRT and Protectorate to bend over backwards to both protect and incentivise new additions to their roster, either with first pick on trading protectorate members or bolstering your own local forces with new blood—not to mention the sizeable budget awarded to a branch to accommodate and provide for the new recruit.
Breaking that trust was done only in the direst of situations, at least in theory. In reality it was more common than any would like to admit and was generally a scorched earth policy that benefitted next to no one.
Emily Piggot, scowling with what Armsmaster had long since identified as distaste, shook her head lightly before picking up her phone and raising it to her ear, shooting both of the parahumans in her office a look.
"Alright, move along. I've got to get onto the phone with this lawyer for the recruit, damn tinkers and their paranoia." She muttered, though it seemed more like loosely directed grumbling.
"We prefer the term 'prepared and cautious'." Armsmaster chuckled, once again receiving bizarre looks from his colleagues, but he ignored them and merely turned with a wordless farewell.
He didn't quite catch the look the two women behind him shared, nor the subtle command given before Miss Militia strode out of the room to follow her direct superior's armour-clad form, a look of concern poorly hidden by her bandana.
===
I learned very quickly that I despised contract law.
Honestly, it's something I should've known about myself, but it wasn't until I was faced with a hefty document describing in exacting 'detail' the job I was signing up for, that I realised how much I hated this shit.
Seriously, it doesn't matter how 'plain english' a legal document is worded, you encounter one jargon word, and you're going down a long and dark rabbit hole.
I submerged myself into the very depths, of course. If there was ever a time to be paranoid, it was when you were signing government contracts that may very well steal your soul if you're not the fine-print reading sort. The lawyer, Joshua Maxwell, seemed an alright guy and more than fine with explaining every sentence three times and rewording it at least as many times again. Probably because he was billed hourly, and the Protectorate's pockets are deep.
Either way, I figured out a great deal from that session. Most of it was, frankly, common sense on paper; the kind of stuff you'd almost call a waste of good dead tree, until you realise that there was absolutely a reason they put it there in the first place.
There was the probation period of a year, which the lawyer had said was essentially unarguable—no one had been able to haggle that period down. Not that I really cared to do so, I wasn't chomping at the bit to rise in the ranks like some other heroic hopeful. I got paid fairly decently during that period, eventually leading into better pay befitting a full Protectorate member, which was semi-negotiable.
My likeness remained mine, but my cape persona was essentially entirely owned by the Protectorate. Probably so that there was legal distinction if you went rouge and used the persona the Protectorate made for you. They could and would kneecap the monetisation or usage of that on any official platform, and that's likely pretty handy when a past Protectorate member goes, say, Slaughterhouse 9.
Either way, I'm not sure I could possibly care less for owning my 'cape persona'. I received a small percent sum of merch sold of my likeness or persona which, according to Mr. Lawyer, was usually the biggest point of discussion. It was very frequently renegotiated, especially for those with marketable personas like Armsmaster, the Big Three, and so on.
I really doubted that I was going to be part of that group.
What did pique my interest was clauses relating to contractual work for the PRT, Protectorate, and 'Affiliated Partners'. Essentially, if you had a power that was at all useful or desirable, you could sometimes get offered contracted work through the Protectorate, internally or even externally. The biggest beneficiary of this?
Tinkers. Tinkers galore.
The wording did seem to imply that internal work would be less a fully paying contract and more of a small bonus for your work—you were actually employed by them, so technically this was them being generous—but the external work was fully paid, regardless of the cut that the Protectorate took.
It was a decent deal, as far as I could see. Worked for everyone, even if you weren't going to rake in the obscene cash you could as a highly desirable rouge tinker.
Speaking of tinkers, I was relieved to find, in print, that there was essentially nothing about the Protectorate 'owning' anything I create.
The reality was that tinker tech was thought to be essentially unreproducible. In incredibly specific scenarios, that's been shown to be false to a certain degree, but there is no amount of detailed schematics and step by step instructions that'll allow someone to make most tinker tech.
I would feel bad about not telling the whole truth—especially as I had reason to believe that what I create can, theoretically, be reproduced—but I also wasn't keen on anyone catching onto the fact that they could mass produce, say, a Cornucopia Machine, and just totally torpedo our current technological level as we undergo what is tantamount to a secondary industrial revolution.
No thanks. I'm not letting that weigh on my conscious forever. Maybe someday, but absolutely not without understanding what the hell I'd be unleashing.
But outside all of this, the only other real complications were the burdens of responsibility when it came to being law enforcement; patrols, safety, internal review, so on and so forth.
On paper, it almost seemed like a cushy job.
Yeah, until you pulled up the videos online of Protectorate members staring down the friendly blender dog next door, or the fuck-off terrifying dragon man. Real cushy.
It was just a no-brainer, from where I currently stood. They wanted me—wanted any parahuman really—in the Protectorate, if not to bolster their own forces, then to deprive everyone else of more firepower, especially in Brockton Bay. And damn were they willing to pay the privilege to at least take you off the board.
It honestly made me wonder why more didn't take this deal.
How many even got so far as to read the contract at all?
I'm no stooge for the government, and I'm definitely no fanboy for the Protectorate, but even with as critical an eye as I can give, and the help of a lawyer whose job it is to be hyper-anal about all of this, I still can't see why so many would give up a genuinely good deal like this.
Scrawling down my signature on the dotted line, I committed myself to the fact that I'd be finding out, whether I liked it or not.
==== Perks Gained this Chapter ====
-Griffon Quill Pen Schematics (Monster Girl Encyclopedia) (100CP)
A special pen made from the feather of the valiant Griffon, it embodies the beast's prideful guardianship of treasures. You can use it to write runes on things and people you closely cherish, and enforce your assertion of ownership to protect your precious treasures from harm. The runes will cause the item to warn you whenever they sense desire or hostility towards it, while also making the affected item resist whoever is trying to take your treasure away.
A special pen made from the feather of the valiant Griffon, it embodies the beast's prideful guardianship of treasures. You can use it to write runes on things and people you closely cherish, and enforce your assertion of ownership to protect your precious treasures from harm. The runes will cause the item to warn you whenever they sense desire or hostility towards it, while also making the affected item resist whoever is trying to take your treasure away.
A/N: 2 perk rolls have been banked for the next post (which is coming as soon as I can set it up), just felt it'd be weird to have it break the flow and didn't care to rework it all after I wrote it. Onto post 2/2.
Last edited:
- Location
- New Zealand
You used the word litigious incorrectly multiple times. I think the word you were looking for in all three cases is "rigorous/rigorously"
- Location
- 𐌂 ̢͎̩̤̲̙͓̑̀͂͒̀͆̏𐋏 ̛͏̫̚𐌀 ̛͉̥̩̤̰͈̂̅͒͊͟𐍈 ̣͛𐍃 ̡̅̈́
It's alive! I was starting to worry about this story fate. Good to see it again.