Hyperbola's Boneyard

[Hyperbola]

Welcome to Hyperbola's Boneyard, where the upload speeds are made up and the plots don't matter.

Sometimes writing the stories I care about is hard so I write worse stories that I don't care about as much just to get back into practice. Of course, sometimes I start caring about those stories a bit too much, at which point another layer is required. This is a resting place for the dreaded third tier, with the occasional second tier mixed in. Expect a large variance in quality, style, and voice.

Feel free to enjoy or not as catches your fancy. It's your time; I'm just along for the ride.

 

[Hyperbola]

(AN) - Run-on sentences are a limited resource, so if I use them all here, I won't be able to put any in my other stories, right? Right?

(Tags) - Fantasy, Comedy?

In retrospect, the first clue that something was off should probably have been the multitude of skeletons. Of course, such a fine collection of bones would not normally be cause for concern. Indeed, a large number of skeletons is pretty much a prerequisite for a successful cemetery. However, such specimens are generally kept more out of sight than what Phil Barrymore is currently observing. It's considered something of a faux pas to simply leave bodies on the ground instead of burying them. This was lesson number two at the graveyard.

Now, Phil Barrymore considers himself a diligent individual. His work may cause some people to turn their noses up at him, but he knows that what he does is important, and he does it well. For this reason, Phil was quite certain that he had not simply forgotten to bury the eight or so skeletons arrayed in front of him.

He considered briefly the possibility of their being a bulk shipment that had been left for him by Henry—the last shift's undertaker. Henry is not as diligent as Phil, but he was blessed to be somewhat more… charismatic… and so Phil was left with the graveyard shift, as it were. Still, tense though their relationship may be at times, it seems unlikely that Henry wouldn't have given Phil at least some sort of heads up. Plus it's rare to get plain skeletons being dropped off. Usually they're still a bit more wrapped up in their prior owner.

Of course, it is within the realm of possibility that someone had brought them in as a joke; perhaps unearthing them from one of the further corners of the cemetery. Or, perhaps some good but behind schedule samaritan happened upon the remains of a few overly intrepid travelers and desired that they be properly interred. Though each improbable, a number of potential explanations arose for the phenomenon observed by Phil Barrymore, and so he remained unfazed at the time.

Recalling his diligence, Phil set about his work in returning the skeletons to their home amidst the earth. Lacking any means by which to identify them, he would have to use some of the unmarked headstones in the storehouse. This was not a prospect which brought him great joy. The stones are heaviest when un-engraved and Phil is not a particularly athletic individual. He much prefers when the departed are in possession of a loquacious next of kin, and he readily indulges them with a flat rate for chiseling the dedication. Still, there was little time to dawdle. A single barren headstone was trial enough for poor Phil, and he had eight of them to relocate before the night's end.

Armed with this harrowing knowledge, he set out for the storehouse. It was then that Phil Barrymore finally observed something that his mind simply couldn't grasp. He paused mid stride, gazing in frozen disbelief at the appearance of the arm swung out before him.

A long time ago Phil stood in solidarity with a guild of lumberjacks protesting a levy of some manner. Of course, once his presence was noticed he was swiftly encouraged to find a less visible means of support, but the experience firmly assured Phil that he does possess some form of empathy for his fellow man. Indeed, so powerful is this empathy that it extends even to the bodies under his care. In Phil's mind, this is but one of the many traits he possesses which make him well suited to his job.

That said, his body's sudden spell of skeletal solidarity is a bit beyond what his good nature could reasonably tolerate.

Slowly, as though rationally concerned about what a lack of tendons and ligaments should mean for the structural integrity of a skeleton, Phil brought his arm to bear before his face. He wiggled his wrist, waggled his carpals, and concluded that he must have had far too much to drink the prior day. Phil does not usually partake in alcohol, and so imagines his tolerance must have been somewhat lower than the barkeep had judged. Still, the knowledge that he would have to be out here watching over the graveyard while the rest of the town was celebrating the solstice…

Phil does not always understand how to interact with people. He never quite got a handle on what words he's supposed to say back when they say words to him, to speak nothing of saying words to them unprompted, but he does sometimes wish he had. He sees them from a distance, laughing and singing and hugging one another, and he wishes he knew how he could have some of that for himself.

The pain was not a new one when he nervously sought out the tavern's warmth; it simply had more of a bite than usual. The look upon the face of the barkeep as he entered her establishment did little to lessen the sting. The coughing fit he endured upon downing some of the warm concoction he had exchanged a few coppers for, on the other hand, did wonders for giving him more immediate concerns to trouble himself over. Phil does not usually partake in alcohol.

And now he's a skeleton.

He thinks there ought to be a moral in there somewhere. Or perhaps the barkeeper ought to pay a little more attention as to what goes into her brews.

Still, with everyone occupied by the festival, it's unlikely that anyone will come bother the cemetery. They usually wait until morning to bring in those who got a little too close to the firecrackers. Phil is only here because what he does is important, and he does it well. And also because the proprietor might hear from someone if he'd stopped by any of the celebrations. Phil isn't the best at being inconspicuous, and that's okay.

In any case, it's unlikely that anyone will come here tonight. He could grab just a quick nap to get the drink out of his system, then take care of the bodies afterwards. Phil doesn't fancy the idea of slacking off, particularly given the number of headstones to be moved, but considering the potential for errors implied by being drunk enough to think you're a skeleton, he decides it's probably for the best. After all, who knows what those skeletons actually are. There's a small pile of blankets in the corner of the mortuary that he could curl up on. He hasn't felt sick thus far, and without the prospect of any upsets to his stomach on the horizon, he suspects it should be safe to use them.

Resolved in his course of action, Phil turns to begin the trek back up the hill when he hears a sound in the distance: a faint clacking as of hooves on stone. A long moment's pause tells Phil that the sound is coming closer. Glancing with puzzlement down at the cobble path beneath him, It does not escape his notice that the path is too thin by far for a carriage. A single stallion could fit easily enough, but individual horses have been unwelcome in the graveyard ever since the incident involving a young mare, the recently-deceased alderman's resting place, and the call of nature. The corpse cart is sometimes drawn by beast when a collection of peasants or an overly rotund lordling are called to the beyond, but that would not explain the direction from which the sound emanates. The corpse carts always come in from the back of the cemetery where the paupers are housed. For sanitary reasons, he is told.

Then again, his eyes have not proven themselves to be particularly trustworthy as of late. Perhaps his hearing has taken leave as well?

Phil's indecision lasts until an orb rises into view, glowing with ethereal emerald light. It drifts high above the cobble path, bobbing out of sync with the rhythmic clacking that resounds from beneath it. By virtue of the orb's height and the slant of the hill into which the cobble path is set, Phil has a few moments to consider his course of action before whatever lies below the mysterious light is made visible to him. Or, perhaps more importantly, he to it. These moments prove unnecessary for Phil's decision-making process, which had set upon the idea of hiding behind a tombstone the moment the light first appeared. Phil's decision-executing process was thrilled to accept the spurned time and made excellent use thereof.

Safely, or so he hoped, concealed behind the large slab, Phil waited to see what would happen next. Judging by his normal interactions, the light should simply pass him by unmarked.

This did not strike Phil as the beginnings of a normal interaction.

The light drew to a halt in the air, casting its eerie glow atop the collection of bones that had previously been Phil's chief concern. Following its example, the clatter of hoof on stone ceases abruptly. After a moment's pause it is replaced first by an incautious rustling, then by the thump of a large object being reunited with the ground it had previously been evading.

Drat. If only Phil had had more time. Now the proprietor is sure to hear of Phil's apparent lack of diligence in addressing the corpses with suitable alacrity.

Perhaps if Phil could identify the owner of those footsteps now carelessly battering the road, he might be able to discern the likelihood of the proprietor coming to know of his seeming carelessness. The proprietor himself might dare to violate the ban on horses, in which case Phil is already in trouble. However, so too would an alderman or lord be untroubled by the common law…

But why should any of them have cause to visit the graveyard at this hour on such a festive eve?

Slowly, for Phil is not accustomed to the art of covert action, he leans his head a little past the edge of the stone.

A large man stands along the road, wrapped in a long grey overcoat. Between his size and the shade of his dirt-speckled garb, Phil imagines the man might share some common ancestry with the boulders of Northumwich. More disconcerting than the man's prodigious form, however, are the two skeletons slung haphazardly over his shoulders. They remain remarkably composed in spite of a lack of connective tissues, reminding Phil of his own predicament.

This is not a reminder Phil particularly enjoys.

Beside the man is perhaps a stranger sight yet: the skeleton of a horse standing upright, whole and still and threatening an explanation for the sounds Phil had heard that Phil does not particularly want to contemplate right now.

Instead, Phil considers whether the… animal? should still run afoul of the equine interdict. He does not relish the thought of having to inform the man of this rule. Then again, considering the origin of that particular regulation, Phil does not imagine anyone would have any objections to the skeleton of a horse traveling the premises. It's probably safe for him not to mention anything.

A baritone snort disrupts Phil's cogitation and is followed by the man contributing his two skeletons to the rest of the pile.

Not good. Eight headstones are heavy enough; who knows how many more Phil will have to carry before the morning breaks? Then again, perhaps this gentleman might know the names of the deceased. Hopefully he is a loquacious type. It will take a lot of carving to make up the weight of two stones, even with Phil's abnormally deep chisel.

"I suppose this shall have to do" the man muses with the voice of a rumbling earthquake. "Arise!" he barks, and nature itself heeds the command. A ripple passes along grass as the blades stand upright. The sphere of green light bobs upwards in the air before pulling itself back down. Even the paving stones shift slightly where they lay.

All at once, the skeletons begin to rise. They do not stand, for Phil has observed the act on countless occasions and it bears no resemblance to what these bones do. Their behavior reminds Phil instead of a circus act he attended once as a child—their limbs pulled up into the air as though born aloft on a puppeteer's strings.

So engrossed by the display is Phil that the sound of a scraping stone catches him wholly by surprise. He freezes at the noise, realizing only too late that he himself was the cause, having responded subconsciously to the man's demand. Whether by some arcane compulsion or by his desire to fit in, Phil himself had begun to stand, and in doing so had scraped his knee against the gravestone which previously concealed him.

The man whirls in Phil's direction with such haste that Phil questions for a moment whether the man had ever been facing away. His eyes burn with a hypnotic light as they bore right through Phil's soul and into the ground behind him.

Phil isn't the best at being inconspicuous, and that is not okay.

 

[Hyperbola]

(Tags) - OC, #NoBetasWeDieLikeMen

I'm not much accustomed to first day jitters. You live in the Bay as long as I have and you stop flinching at anything short of being held at gunpoint for the second time in a day. Still, none of my previous gigs ever compared to this. Almost makes me wish Rick hadn't been arrested when the idiot went off to work for Uber and Leet. I could've asked him what to expect. Still, no use crying over spilled milk, and I sure as hell don't want to be late.

Telling myself I'm not stalling, I take a closer look at the decrepit old building in front of me. Burnt brick walls tell the story of what would have been a battle for the decades in any other city. Here, I can't even guess which cape it was that did the damage. The windows on all three floors are shattered and the halfhearted attempt at boarding them up went as far as the second floor before whoever was responsible got bored or shot. That said, it looks to be reasonably structurally sound, in stark contrast to most of the other husks around it…

Why did I agree to this again?

I'm not a cape; I should have far too much sense to be sticking my neck out like this. The moment anyone catches wind of him one of the gangs will come calling and they'll chew through me without even noticing I was there.

He did seem pretty sure of himself, though, and with a promise like the one he dropped on the table…

Ah, fuck it. I can always ditch him later if it turns out he was bullshitting me.

Mind made up, I stride forward into my new life.

Carefully.

There's a lot of broken glass.

 

[Hyperbola]

The inside of the shop-to-be isn't much better than the outside: scoured clean by fire. A few streaks of heavier soot on the floor, arranged in parallel and darker than their surroundings, are all that's left of the prior tenant's life's work. There's no sign of him here, but I do see a brick partition toward the back that presumably hides what used to be a staircase.

Stepping gingerly over a floor of unknown but highly suspect integrity, I find my assumption to have been correct. The stairs leading upwards must've been made of something flammable, but those leading down to the basement are solid concrete, the homey facade of brick giving way to the practicalities of engineering once out of sight of discerning customers.

The heavy clatter of metal on metal rises up from below as I begin my descent and I suppress a wince. Someone's bound to come snooping around if he's always this noisy. Ignoring the voices that whisper again about how stupid of an idea this is, I finish making my way into the basement.

The room is lit with an ethereal yellow cast from a glowing orb bobbing gently in the air. His armor lies on the ground carefully arranged but no less battered and bent than when we first met. Six small crystals are set against the far wall, each aglow with a different color of light save one, which seems instead to be somehow drawing the darkness of the room into itself. Finally, the man himself sits cross legged underneath the light, beating and bending strips of metal for purposes unknown.

I try clearing my throat but time it poorly and the sound is drowned out by another screech of metal.

I try again and this time he takes notice, turning to look in my direction.

"Ah, good. You're here." He greets, not bothering to stand. "As I'm sure you've noticed, there's plenty of work to be done to get this place into shape. I'm afraid your lessons will have to wait until I've gotten a few of the basics set up, but fear not, there'll be plenty to keep you busy in the interim. Cleaning, in particular." Great. "I'll also need to dispatch you to acquire various materials. We'll start with a bucket, a ladder, and whatever supplies you deem necessary to remove this crust from the floors and walls. I assume this world uses some form of paper currency?"

"Uh. Yeah?" That's gonna take some getting used to.

"Hm. Do the banks accept gold in exchange, or would it have to be pawned?"

"Uh. I don't think they do. I think you'd have to find a pawn shop."

"Unfortunate. Are you versed in the exchange rates of precious metals?"

"Uh." Damn it, self, articulate. "Not really. I think gold's something like 40 bucks a gram. Pawn shop would probably take a hefty cut, though."

"Very well." He reaches into a pouch at his side and withdraws a small rectangle. "This should be more than enough for our initial expenses, assuming our worlds have a similar understanding of the meaning of 'gram'. Your task for today is to convert this into the local currency and acquire the aforementioned supplies. The rest you may take as the week's salary, but I expect you not to skimp on quality. I'll start working on a list of other materials we'll need once I've gotten this cauldron in working order. Any questions?"

His manner of speech is brusque, almost to the point of being hard to follow, but I think I caught everything. "Not right now."

"Good." He holds the bar out to me and I take it, carefully suppressing the urge to just pocket it and never return. In the grand scheme of things this isn't all that much money, and there's a world of difference between not showing up to work for a cape and stealing from them.

I slip it into the single one of my cargo pockets that hasn't ripped through and zip it tight. There's not much of a bulge so hopefully my odds of being mugged won't be any higher than average. Not that that says much here.

Offering a quick goodbye which he returns with a grunt, I head back upstairs and out onto the street, leaving the clanging of metal behind. I imagine that in another city, finding out which pawn shops give the best deals might be something that would take at least a full day's work.

Dad and I did that research a long time ago.

Lina's Pawn Shop is the place to beat. Close enough to the PRT that the gangs don't bother it too much, and Lina's got a good heart. Pretty sure she gave more than market rate when Dad sold her his ring…

Anyway. It's a long walk from here. I'd better get going. Pulling my hood up and sticking my hands in my pockets, I set out, eyes constantly scanning the streets.

Daylight's no guarantee of safety this close to the ABB.

We would know.

 

[Hyperbola]

Lina gives me a suspicious once over—more of a twice over really—when I drop the small bar of gold onto her counter. Still, after an uncomfortably sweaty couple of seconds she gives me a couple hundred for the trouble. I whisper a quick "thanks" and head for the exit.

I'll grab the bucket and ladder somewhere closer to the building.

Not because Lina's stare is making me uncomfortable. Let the record reflect. I just don't want to have to walk across town carrying a bucket and a ladder.

That would be weird.

Anyway.

"Kid." She calls out as I put a hand on the door. I turn back to see her chewing her words. "Be careful, yeah?" She settles on eventually.

"Careful as I can be, Ma'am." I head out, the door swinging shut on a weary sigh.

The feeling of a couple hundred bucks in your pocket is hard to describe. Weeks more food, or maybe the landlord off your back for a month, balanced against the very visceral fear of losing it all to some tweaked out merchant or other assorted gangbanger. I'm at least white enough for the Empire to not give me much trouble, and I hate the fuckers all the more for making that something to be grateful for.

Fortunately, I make it to the hardware store without incident. Quite a few of the shelves are barren but I guess the bucket and ladder supply chains remain strong. I also pick up a couple bottles of cleaning supplies and related sundries, painfully aware of how weird I'm going to look carrying all this down the street.

I make it back around 1pm, having resigned myself to a late lunch in favor of getting this crap back to the building as soon as possible. I'm in decent enough shape for a high schooler but the ladder was super awkward to carry.

The sound of pounding metal is noticeably absent as I reach the threshold. Leaving the supplies in the corner I creep downstairs to check on him. Maybe he'll have been kidnapped by the nazis already and I can leave this weirdness behind me.

Nope, still here. True to his word, a rough hewn cauldron now adorns the corner, rendered out of incautiously bent metal sloppily welded together. I didn't think he had a torch but maybe he has laser vision or something. Capes are weird like that.

Having taken a break from his seemingly impromptu foray into metalworking, he now appears to be trying his hand at lens crafting. The metal goggles he was wearing when I found him are disassembled in front of him, sans the shattered glass that had done most unpleasant things to his ocular region. Never was I happier to have never needed glasses than when that image burned itself into my memory.

He seems less daunted by the event than I was, though, as he calmly fuses the shards back together with a thin stream of fire coming out of his gauntlet. Hopefully he's more precise this time than he was with the cauldron. I don't think you can just melt glass and expect it to still be transparent. Then again, I suppose I'm in no place to comment on what is and isn't possible for tinkers, being limited as I am by such plebeian concepts as science, common sense, and the laws of physics.

"We could probably just get some new lenses if having the goggles is important." I offer, ever the helpful minion.

He grunts in displeasure. "This glass has a special coating, and it will be some time before I am able to create more. That said, you may add new lenses to the list of supplies to acquire on a day when you are not otherwise occupied with more important work. Six should suffice. A pair for each of us, and I have recently learned the value in keeping a spare in my satchel. You may measure the casing into which they are to be set to avoid any mistranslations between our units of measurement."

"Sounds good." I make a quick note on my phone.

"I trust your errand was successful?"

"Yeah. I left the stuff upstairs."

"Good. Your task for the remainder of the day—and I daresay the remainder of the next few weeks—shall be to clean this building from top to bottom. Only the main floor must be presentable to guests, but that does not mean that I will tolerate substandard efforts elsewhere. I suspect that upon the completion of this task, the crystals shall be able to afford a harvest, and so your preliminary lessons shall begin then. Hopefully that will be enough of a light on the horizon to see you through any particularly recalcitrant befoulments."

Oh joy. Just what I was hoping for.

Come work for a wizard, he said. I'll teach you magic, he said.

And now here I am: a glorified janitor.

On a Sunday.

It's official: I'm working for a supervillain.

 

[Hyperbola]

Cleaning sucks, and no, Dad, not just because of vacuums. I'm pretty sure some of the ashes I scraped off the floor the other day used to be some kind of animal. With how putrid it smelled I dread to contemplate how bad it must've been when it was fresh. Even after hanging four of those minty air freshener things up there my stomach still rolls whenever I pass too close to where the carcass used to be.

If I ever discover time travel, step one will be to go back in time and slap myself for agreeing to this job.

Two weeks now I've been slaving away after school trying to get this place in shape. The top floor's far from spotless, and will remain so until we can replace the broken windows, but it's at least starting to look like a decrepit room instead of the middle of a war zone. I've been avoiding the second floor as much as I can since hanging the air fresheners. Hopefully the stench will be gone by the time I've finished the ground floor. Granted, he did say to clean from the top down, but without a proper staircase I don't think we'll be able to do a whole lot with the space up there. OSHA would probably have words with us if we required customers to climb an unsecured ladder to see half the wares.

Anyway.

Still no sign of any of his promised 'magic lessons'. Sure he said the crystals needed time to grow or whatever, but I'm starting to think I just got taken for a ride by tinker Myrddin. At least the pay's decent. Dad wasn't too happy to hear that I'm working for a cape but he could hardly deny that we need the money. I was a little worried he'd think I was trying to hide something when I couldn't give him this guy's name. He just cracked up, though, which seems a little unfair. There were more important matters to attend to when we met, and can you imagine asking now? After this long? It'd be super awkward.

"Kid!"

Also that. He seems perfectly content not knowing mine.

Wait, shit, Lina calls me that too. Am I that short?

"Yeah?" I holler back with a distinct lack of voice cracks. 'Kid'? Pah! Fricken old people.

"Come down here, I've a pleasant surprise."

Well now, an excuse to stop cleaning? Color me intrigued. "Coming" I call, pulling my gloves off and heading to the stairs. The basement has changed a fair bit over the last few weeks. Now, I'm a curious person by nature, but I've been steering well clear of the area ever since the day a wave of purple smoke came pouring up out of it. The stuff burned something fierce, grated like sandpaper, and smelled like electrified death. Fortunately, having no windows means you get pretty good ventilation. Still, I had to camp out on the top floor for a half hour or so until it dissipated. Even if I hadn't heard the standard advice to avoid tinker labs, that would've been a good enough deterrent.

The air is blessedly free from mysterious poison gas this time, and I take the opportunity to look over the stuff he's managed to accumulate. A pile of scrap metal sits propped up against one wall next to a few ingots of some kind of yellowish orange metal. Across the room he's assembled a crude table out of scraps of wood and coated it with an eclectic array of tools and materials—lenses, slivers of metal, tweezers, rough hewn gears, lumps of clay, a mortar and pestle, haphazardly strewn drawings and diagrams, and a dozen more things I can't name.

"I chose this building in part because it is taller than those around it. While cleaning the top floor have you noticed any convenient roof access?"

"Yeah?" I offer hesitantly. Please tell me I don't have to clean the roof too.

"Good. You'll need to fetch a planter capable of housing a small shrub. A watering can as well, and some kind of cistern. Fill the planter with good soil. This takes priority over your cleaning efforts."

You couldn't have mentioned I'd need to lug pails of dirt through the entire building before I spent the last few weeks sweeping it? Man, what a dick.

"However, before you begin, I've a gift for you." He holds up a pair of thick-rimmed glasses. The frames look to be made of the same yellowish metal as the ingots on the floor and the lenses are visibly foggy even from a few feet away.

Uh. "Thanks? My eyesight's pretty decent, though."

He does not look impressed.

I take the glasses and hastily put them on. Turns out the fogginess is the least of my concerns. The room is suddenly awash with color. Scrap metal shimmers with an iridescence usually associated with bubbles or oil spills. Where before the desk was coated in a fine layer of knickknacks it now sits covered in prisms and rainbows that fight each other for my gaze like children clamoring for a parent's attention. The tinker himself is a kaleidoscope of hues, flickering wildly from one to another with a speed nauseating to behold. Behind him, the crystals that sit along the wall glow with a frightening intensity, but of everything in the room, their tones alone are constant—a safe bastion for my eyes amidst a storm of shifting shades.

Closing my eyes I take several deep breaths, forcing the bile back down into my stomach.

"What…" I begin, once I've swallowed my gorge "the hell?"

He chuckles. "I forgot that it can be a bit much your first time." He says in a tone that conveys plainly that he did not forget, and is, in fact, greatly amused by my suffering.

Don't do something stupid and get murdered. Don't do something stupid and get murdered. "Thought you'd promised a pleasant surprise." I manage to grit out. "Lunch wasn't tasty enough that I'm eager to experience it again."

"I'm glad your humor is not always so pedestrian. This, my apprentice, is your first lesson in Thaumaturgy."

"What, that you need a strong stomach?"

"Perhaps I was too quick with my praise. No, the lesson is thus:" his tone takes on the cadence of a lecturing professor, "everything around you, every facet of this universe, tangible and otherwise, is comprised of Vis. It is the metaphysical counterpart to atoms and molecules, at least where physical materials are concerned. As the term 'atom' is used to quantify the smallest unit of a variety of substances, so 'Vis' is used to quantify essentia—ignis, ordo, perditio, lux, and so forth. Each essence contributes to the function and nature of an object. Combine enough Vis in the right ratios and you can synthesize anything. Splice Vis of a proper ratio into something and you can endow it with new functions. What did you see when you looked through the glasses?"

I slide them off so that I can bear to look at him while we talk. "Everything was super bright. It was like staring at the aftermath of a crash between two semis full of neon paint, except the paint was punching me in the face. Probably makes LSD look black and white in comparison."

"You've described what you saw, not what it was."

Well, given his explanation I suppose there's only one thing it could be. "Was it showing me Vis?"

"Indeed. Those glasses render the essentia composition of objects as the colors you see permeating them. Thaumaturgy is the science of manipulating Vis in a structured fashion. Before you can manipulate something, however, you must first understand it. And so we come to your first academic task: you are to wear those glasses as you go about your life. You are to catalog the colors that you see and the objects that you see them in. When you have identified at least twenty forms of essentia and can present a reasoned hypothesis as to what each embodies, come before me with your findings and we shall discuss them. Do you have any questions?"

Somehow I don't think 'you mean I have to put these on again?' is the question he's looking for. "Can I paint them?"

"Hm?"

"Like, this metal's kinda shiny. If I'm gonna be wearing these around a lot it would probably be better to make them less noticeable. Paint the frames black or something."

"I'm not aware of any complications your proposed crime against aesthetics would cause. Then again, I suppose with what you've told me of this city, wearing something as pleasing to the eye as my alchemical brass may well result in their being stolen. Very well, I will, with a heavy heart, condone this sacrilege."

Not sure a guy with purple samurai armor is the best judge where aesthetics are concerned, but I'm smart enough to keep the observation to myself. "Cool. Well, I'll go looking for a planter then?"

He hands me a few bills in answer to my unvoiced request. I tuck them into a pocket and, after a moment's consideration, tuck the glasses into another. I'll start my homework sometime later. Those animal carcasses won't dispose of themselves you know.

 

[Hyperbola]

I pull the car up alongside the building as gently as I can manage, disregarding at least three laws about what constitutes valid parking in doing so. Despite my efforts, Dad still growls in pain. "I can't believe you convinced me to go along with this" he grouses, awkwardly stabbing at the seat belt's release with his left hand.

"It'll be fine you cantankerous oaf, come on" is my casual reply. So sue me. You'd run out of patience too if you had to listen to his whinging all day.

I pop the hood and disconnect the battery while he awkwardly maneuvers himself out of the car. It's totally not evidence of the car being a broken down, decrepit piece of trash. No sir. It's an… an advanced theft prevention mechanism.

He hobbles over to the door, grumbling all the way, and I lever it open for him.

"Boss!"

No response.

"Boss!" I try again.

"I am in the basement. For reference, that is the room underneath you where I have been during every one of our interactions since meeting, as you seem to be having trouble locating it all of a sudden."

I wince a bit, already anticipating Dad's response. "What an asshole." Yep, there it is. "And this stuck up cape bastard's supposed to be some kinda Mother Theresa, huh?"

"Uh huh, a proper saint, I'm sure you two'll get along great." Turning bodily away from Dad's retort, I call down again "could you come up for a minute? I need some help."

An exaggerated sigh makes its way up to us and I pointedly continue not looking at Dad. A minute or so later the telltale sound of boots on creaking stairs is heard and the faux-cape graces us with his presence.

"Who's this then?" He asks, not seeming overly interested in the answer. Still, his eyes glance to the makeshift splint and tighten slightly.

"This is my Dad. Dad, this is—" wait, shit, I still don't know this guy's name "—the guy I've been working for the past couple weeks." I continue smoothly. "My Dad got caught up in the tail end of some… unpleasantness the other day and, well, we can't exactly afford to go to the hospital. Is there any chance you could use some of your healing stuff on him?"

He glances between Dad and I for another thirty seconds. "Very well" is his conclusion. He flexes a gauntleted hand at his side and a swirling stream of golden light weaves between his fingers. The same light envelops Dad, who straightens with a gasp. An instant later, the light cuts out. Dad stares down at his hand in wonder, wiggling his fingers through the bandages. Then, seemingly recognizing his display of weakness, he coughs and affixes a look of polite indifference.

"Right, well, thank you for that, Mr. guy," Dad offers, flicking a quick smirk in my direction. I resist the urge to facepalm and instead help him to unwrap the layers around his arm.

"You are most welcome, father of a favored whelp."

Yep, noooooooothing's happening. Nothing at all and this was all a great idea, why do you ask? "Okay, thanks again, Boss. Let's get you to the car, Dad. That job's not gonna work itself eh?" Dad's a lot tougher than I am but his resistance to being bodied out the door has fortunately been lowered by his restrained chuckling.

Once Dad has pulled away safely, I let out a long breath and head back inside.

"Sorry about him," I offer without prompting. "He's had it out for capes ever since… well, we've got our reasons. I mean, I know you're not like the rest of those assholes, but he hasn't…" I trail off. Hang on a second, do I actually know that? I mean, he healed Dad with a twitch. Fully healed. In an instant. From across the room. Even that Panacea chick isn't supposed to be that good. I think. The hell's he doing playing with cauldrons in a basement?

"Something on your mind, kid?" He asks. Apparently I'm not all that great at dissembling. Still, this is probably as good a time as any.

Now, how to phrase this without pissing him off? "Was that hard to do?" I ask casually. That should be safe enough.

"For me? No. Such applications are trivial to any with sufficient practice."

"Cool. Cool." Right, persuasion. Come on junior year English, don't fail me now. "So, I was wondering: is there a reason you don't do more stuff like that?"

He arches an eyebrow.

"Like, I mean, I can sort of see the appeal of a magic store. Giving people a taste of something more in their lives? Great. But, I mean, don't you feel like you could make a much bigger difference if you made more use of that? The healing, that is?"

He heaves a weary sigh, and I sense that my persuasion is not going well.

"I mean, there's Panacea, right, and she heals tons of people. I can't even imagine the number of lives she's saved already, and she's still a teenager. You could—"

"Enough, child."

I cut myself off, suppressing a wince at the manner of address.

"You are yet young, but you've at least a modicum of sense between your ears and so I shall commit once again the folly of the experienced: explaining something which must be learned firsthand and hoping that this time, of all times, shall be different. How many people do you suppose this Panacea will save in her lifetime, hmm? Think carefully now."

"Well, if she took up healing full time, she could probably go through a hospital a day. Granted, most of those people would probably recover without her intervention, but that's still a lot of suffering being avoided. For lives inarguably saved, though? Maybe 20 per hospital per day, 365 days in a year for another 70 years? That's, uh… around half a million?"

"Half a million, assuming that she lives that long and that the constant, crushing guilt at the thought of those she is not saving does not drive her to madness long before. Yes, I see from your expression that was something you failed to factor into your analysis. You are young, yes, and so it is forgivable, if barely, but a consideration for others is something I strongly recommend you develop." A subtle shift of his hand is enough to drive the point home and I wince, looking away. "Indeed, those who tend to the health of others often find their own to suffer all the more, but we shall put that aside for now. By your generous estimate, the great Panacea, cure of all the world's ills, shall save perhaps half a million lives. Very well. Suppose I construct a chalice which cures the wounds of the afflicted who drink from it. If it takes me ten years to develop such a device, even constructing two and supplying them to hospitals will accomplish more good than Panacea ever would."

"But, that's—"

"Am I then honor bound to devote my life to their manufacture? But then what other breakthroughs would I fail to uncover, hm?"

"Sure, but I mean, are you looking into these great breakthroughs to move humanity forward? Cause, like, running some tiny shop in Brockton Bay of all places doesn't really scream 'desire to innovate'."

"You question my motives?"

Shit, abort, abort! "No, no, I just. Look, what's really the point of this store? If you don't want to be distracted by running around and healing people, why not let me? Your time as a researcher is valuable, I don't disagree, but I can still barely stand to look through those goggles for longer than ten minutes! My time is worthless right now, but so is trying to run some brick and mortar shop of curiosities on account of some sense of whimsy or whatever. I could be out helping people, though, making actual useful use of the magic you promised you'd teach me."

"Marshal your emotions, child, I will partake only of rational discourse."

Oh fuck you you sanctimonious old person! Alright, calm. I am calm. "I could improve the caliber of my arguments if I actually knew what it was you wanted out of this store."

"A reasonable question. I sell my services as payment to the social contract, which I make frequent use of. I could simply steal all of the materials and resources I require, but that would be counterproductive in the long run by driving away the suppliers I am reliant upon. Additionally, when Thaumic artifacts are circulated among the populace, the average individual is less likely to react… poorly… should they come across a less successful experiment."

Wow. Man, I guess I shouldn't be surprised that the weird extra-dimensional cape is also a dick. Still, be polite. "Ah, but people here are already used to weird stuff happening. Capes are all around us, especially in the Bay, and as for buying and selling things, a physical store is hardly the way to go about it."

"Oh?"

Now to butter him up. "Yeah. I mean, if you sold things in internet auctions, you'd make way more money. People pay top dollar for tinker tech, and when word gets around that your stuff is more reliable, you'd have more money than you knew what to do with."
"Describe this, internet, for me."

Describe the—what stone-age hellscape did this guy come from? "Uh. It's like, imagine you could talk to anyone anywhere in the world super easily, and that everyone in the world could come together in the same place to sell stuff or talk about stuff, but also you could find whatever you're looking for really easily."

He stares off into the distance. "Fascinating…"

"Yeah, it's super cool. Plus it's easier to be anonymous, so you don't have to worry about nazis kicking in your front door and trying to kidnap you and force you to work for them. Which, you know, is a definite downside of having a widely-advertised physical store." Cough cough.

His gaze darts back to me. Lightning rings around his body, lashing out wildly in every direction with the sound of a raging hurricane.

I stumble backwards and it cuts out as abruptly as it began.

Right, careful with the Wizard.

Steady breathing now. "I suppose that's not much of a problem for you, but I sure as hell can't fry gangbangers on command, and you'll have a hard time convincing me that you'd want to be the one at the register dealing with all the customers."

"Hmm. I suppose a healthy respect for one's mortality is indeed an important quality for any budding Thaumaturge. I shall supply you with a suitable means of protection in a few days."

"Well, I certainly appreciate that. Even if they can't get what they want by force, though, what's to stop them from just buying things the normal way. If anyone can afford magic items in this city, you'd better believe it's the gangs and not the regular folk."

"And?"

That catches me off guard. "What do you mean and?"

"If these gangs purchase my wares, what difference does it make to me?"

"I… what? Weren't you just talking about valuing the social contract?"

"I fail to see why it should be my responsibility to police the dregs of this society. Is there no constabulary to handle them?"

"Sure there's technically the PRT and the Protectorate, but they hardly do shit to help out. The gangs are too entrenched and their capes are too strong."

"So it comes back to these 'capes', does it? You seem not to like them very much; have you tried shooting them?"

"…what?"

"You and your father have expressed distaste with their existence, and you have now expressed distaste with the inefficacy of this society's handling of them, so why have you not killed them yourself?"

"I… I can't? Wait, have I ever explained about capes before?"

"You have not."

Mm. Right, that's a definite oversight on my part. "Well, suffice it to say that shooting them would just piss them off. One of the worst ones turns into a literal dragon. Fire-breathing, wings and all. Seven hells, man, they say he fought Leviathan to a standstill. Aaaaand that probably also doesn't mean anything to you. Well, suffice it to say it would take a hell of a lot more than some idiot teenager with a gun to solve the gang problem here."

He offers a thoughtful "hmm" but nothing more. Minutes tick by as I try to recenter myself. Finally, he continues with "so what is your desire then?"

Alright, we're in the home stretch now. Don't cock this up. "Let's table the physical store for now. We can always revisit it later but we don't even have any inventory right now. A display case with a single item doesn't make for good first impressions, no matter how magical that item may be. In the mean time, I'll set up something to sell stuff online and we can use that to get whatever funding you need for your research. As for me, I want you to teach me how to heal like you do. Help me to help people right here and I'll be way more motivated to try to master it. You committed to teaching me anyway so it shouldn't be any more of a drain on your researching time than you were already willing to spend, yeah? Please?"

He hums thoughtfully, time stretching out uncomfortably as he ponders his response. "Provided what you have spoken about this internet is true, your arguments have some merit. Very well, here is the arrangement I shall offer: you will do as you have said and prepare to sell something on the internet. If I am satisfied by the process, I will not require your duties to emphasize caring for the physical store. Furthermore I shall provide you with two foci and a means of protection. However, these shall be the final artifacts I shall gift to you. All others you shall have to make yourself. Your newfound free time during the days shall be spent with me in my lab learning as much as you can. Evenings you may have free to spend as you wish, provided you demonstrate adequate progress in your understanding of Thaumaturgy. I will not have you slacking off in your studies to pursue base parlor tricks like some two bit illusionist. Is this acceptable?"

"Yessir, thank you."

"Very well, then come with me and we shall commence your first lesson." He turns and I follow him back down into the basement.

Rummaging in his bag, he pulls out a strange circular crystal. Or lens maybe? It looks to be almost translucent, but the colors visible through it don't quite correspond to what's actually behind it. A delicate band of silver traces the outside of it, coated in tiny symbols.

"This is a focus of healing. Its purpose is to aid a Thaumaturge in performing the essence transfusions and distillations required to facilitate restoration and regrowth in humans. Generally they are affixed to the back of a glove for ease of use. I trust you shall be capable of accomplishing that much on your own." He holds the crystal out for me. "For now you will hold it in your dominant hand."

"Right." Bracing myself for more weirdness, I grab it. Nothing happens. I look at him, confused.

"What, were you expecting something?" Dick. "No, in order to use this focus, you must first understand it. How is it affecting the Vis of the atmosphere, of the patient? Can it be misused? If so, how? What are the consequences? If it is overused, will it cease to function or will it destabilize the natural Vis fields that permeate this world?"

Mm. That sounds like it would be bad.

"We shall begin with shallow cuts. Affix your goggles, hold out your arm, and pay careful attention."

"I, wait, what do you mean?"

"Think, child, how are you going to learn how to heal? If your determination wavers in the face of a little pain you might as well get back to sweeping."

Ah double shit.

Still, fuck him if he thinks I'm gonna back out that easily.

I pull my goggles out, clench my stomach, and slam them on. My sleeve comes up a moment later and my arm reaches out in front of me.

I look up to meet his calculating gaze. "Well? We doin this or what?"

His eyes search through mine but I'm set on my course. He nods and pulls out a weirdly long knife oh fuck why did I do this come on man don't you have any shorter knives—OW!

FUCK!

 

[Hyperbola]

You'd think that after the preponderance of bad decisions I've made lately, I'd be more inured to the prospect. Still, though, I find myself second guessing the latest addition to that list as I stare at the cheap plastic mask in my hands in an alleyway across from the hospital. It's hot garbage to be perfectly frank. Unsurprisingly, trick or treating has never really been a thing in the Bay, so there aren't any low-cost costumers to take advantage of. There are, however, a plethora of dollar stores eager to peddle whatever junk they can get their hands on. In this case, that happens to be a knock-off Eidolon mask painted gold and noticeably deformed by the moulding process.

It'll go great with my ratty black trench coat and janky leather gauntlet. Yep, totally a hero here, guys.

Right, enough dithering. I knew this was a bad idea before and I still pre-committed. Time to face the music. Or would that be sirens in this analogy? No, that's enough. There are people who need help.

I slide the mask onto my face and despair at both the loss of peripheral vision and how the poor design causes some decidedly cold and rough plastic to press into my nose. Putting aside the discomfort, I make my way out from cover and toward the hospital before me. Somehow, despite being of an automatic sliding variety, the doors still manage to creak while opening. The cop in the corner straightens from her slouch as I enter the lobby, hand going to the pistol at her waist. With some difficulty, I ignore her and head to the receptionist, who is surprisingly unfazed by my appearance.

"Insurance?" Is the first word out of his mouth.

"Uh, no, I'm a healer. Or, I can supply parahuman healing. I came here to offer my help." The far too long that I spent practicing my intro mostly saves me from the unexpected opener.

"Are you registered with the PRT?"

This, though, I was not prepared for. "Am I what?"

"Are you registered with the PRT as a parahuman healer?"

"No?"

"Are you licensed with any medical associations?"

"Uh. No?"

"Well, I appreciate your desire to help, but you'll need to register with the PRT before you can offer your services here. Liability's too high otherwise."

"I. Uh." How did I not foresee this? That's actually kind of obvious in retrospect. You just always hear about Panacea popping in and saving people, but I guess having some random cape walk in could be a little sketchy. "Aren't there, like, terminal cases I could help with right now? Surely if given a choice between dying and accepting healing from a new cape, they'd choose the latter?"

"That doesn't remove the liability. If they only partially recover, or recover but suffer some other side effect, we'd be the ones liable for letting an unverified practitioner operate on them."

"So they just die?"

"Until you're certified, I'm afraid so."

What the fuck? Some of my disquiet must've been visible even through the mask, as his expression softens a bit.

"Look, if they managed to make it here alive, we'll probably keep them that way, and we haven't got the resources for long-term care facilities. Go get registered and they'll point you to where you can do the most good, kay?"

"Right. Right, okay, I'll do that. Thanks."

"No problem, kid. You take care now."

I nod politely and head back out onto the street where I can twitch in peace. Seriously? Even when obviously dressed like a cape, I'm still 'kid'? Shit, maybe I am short.

Alright, focus, PRT building. That's halfway across the city, because of course it is. Heading back into the conveniently located alleyway, I stash my costume in an equally raggedy rucksack and make for the nearest bus stop, rubbing my nose along the way.

I've suffered far too much to be denied. I will help people, even if I have to brave the depths of bureaucracy to do so.

 

[Hyperbola]

(AN) - Knowledge of Fallout 4 shouldn't be required to understand the events of the story. I intend to downplay the more supernatural elements while I explore this fascinating backdrop for analyzing corporatism, nationalism, and what it even means to be human. Of course, I also intended to write more than one snippet a year, so...

(Tags) - OC, #NoBetasWeDieLikeMen

"I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't leave armed mines laying about like this. Sure, your positioning's obvious enough that a child could spot it, but I'd hate to be awoken in the middle of the night just because a mole rat wasn't so perceptive."

The stranger's amused baritone leaves Nate a little more comfortable with the situation. Credit where credit is due, he had nearly missed the man's approach, and Nate didn't make it through the War on accident. Clearly the man is no slouch where stealth is concerned but he still chose to announce himself first—suggesting either supreme confidence or a willingness to cooperate. Hopefully the latter, and if the former, well, that's what the contingency is for.

Of course, a brazen distraction for a knife in the back is also a common pattern. "I'd no intention of leaving it there once I was done. Waste not want not," Nate tosses out, buying time for another scan of his surroundings. He backs into a corner of the construction trailer he'd chosen as a recon spot, eyes glued to the windows for any hint of motion that might betray a hidden foe.

If the stranger hears Nate's silent repositioning, he makes no mention of it. "That's reassuring. Done with what, though, if I might ask? I do hope it's not scouting me out for yet another gang of raiders. I'm running low on cleaning supplies." The stranger's tone holds no trace of bravado, merely the same dry amusement as before.

Nate offers a polite chuckle in return. "Hardly. I'm no raider, and the last ones I met with met with an unfortunate fate." Seeing nothing on the horizon, he leans over slightly to check the broken monitor he'd jury-rigged as a rough mirror. Its black screen is only mildly reflective, and the angle is poor, but from the vaguely singular splotch he can see, it appears as though the stranger is alone.

The splotch shifts faintly. "Sounds like we may get along alright then. Though if not raiding, what does bring a gentleman like yourself to this fine hole in the ground?"

And what a hole it was. The iconic layers of smooth white stone span the whole of the hillside into which the quarry is dug. The quarriers, seemingly discontent with the haul they had extracted from above, then dug down into the ground at the base of the hill, deep enough that you'd have to stand practically at the edge of the pit to see the bottom. The walls are dotted with blocky artificial caves, born from the excavation of deeper veins.

It is, in other words, the perfect place to get shot in the back by your enemy's sneakier friends. If this turns south he'll have to hightail it to more neutral ground.

Pulling himself from his musing, he replies, "I'm looking for my son. Shaun. Some friends of mine thought Diamond City would be the place to start, but with the raiders nearby I figured it would be safer to take a less direct route. Noticed this place when I was circling around and figured I should check it out in case it was also harboring combatants."

"Ah, a reasonable concern. To be frank, though, I'd be more worried about the beasts roaming the wilds than those roaming the streets. Most of the real nasty ones stay further south but I had to clear out a whole host of mirelurks when I was first scoping this place out."

Nate offers a noncommittal hum in reply. "I suppose you'd know better than I would. This place was… well, it wasn't quite so dangerous when I lived here last."

"Oh?"

"It's a long story. Anyway, I didn't mean to make any trouble for you. I just wanted to know if I'd be having to watch my back around here."

"I save my energy for finishing things."

"A respectable policy. That mean there won't be any guns in the way if we were to talk face to face?" The stranger doesn't appear to be holding any, but the quality of Nate's impromptu mirror isn't something he'd bet a cola on, let alone his life.

"None that I put there."

Keeping his own pistol out of sight, Nate steals a quick glance past the doorframe. The stranger is standing several paces away from the mine that Nate had carefully sloppily placed by the door to the trailer. Or, where a door presumably used to be, anyway. He doesn't appear to have any weapons in hand, though it's impossible to guess how many weapons may be hiding beneath the voluminous folds of his enormous patchwork overcoat. The garment drapes over the man like a tarp, covering him head to boot, deforming roughly over bumps and ridges that hint at an abundance of makeshift armor underneath.

Nate's… borrowed ten millimeter had proven more than a match for the leathers worn by the bandits in Concord, though he'd aimed around the plates they'd riveted on. He'd not be keen to try his luck against whatever metal monstrosity must be adorning the stranger's chest. It's a wonder Nate hadn't heard him sooner.

Still, landmines don't much care for armor, so there's no real cause for concern.

Nate scans the rest of the surroundings but there's no cover that could be concealing any accomplices—a primary reason he chose this particular trailer for his reconnaissance.

Satisfied that the stranger is indeed alone and wouldn't be able to draw faster than Nate could dodge aside, he holsters his gun and steps the rest of the way out into the doorway.

No bullets find their way into his person, which he counts as a promising first step. "I appreciate the cordiality. I'd hate to seem rude in return, but I can't help but wonder if you've a face for this face to face meeting?" His Pa always told him never to trust anyone who wouldn't look him in the eye, a difficult task at the moment. The stranger's head is obscured by what appears to be several layers of scarves wrapped up underneath his overly large hood. Nate isn't entirely sure what season it is, or if indeed there are seasons at all now, but regardless, it's plenty hot out. The guy's gotta be sweltering, to say nothing of how he can possibly see out from under that pile of cloth.

"Alas, I used to." The stranger heaves a theatrical sigh, the sound coming across as slightly tinny, hinting at a metallic helmet as well. "Unfortunately, I've been the victim of a witch curse, and until I bring her the appendix of a five-legged frog, my face remains in escrow."

"…I see," he lies.

"Mhm."

"…Don't frogs not—"

"Mmhm."

"…Right."

"Fortunately, I managed to get my name back due to a clerical error. Seth. And you are?"

Blinking away the stranger's possible insanity or possibly stunted sense of humor, he replies in kind: "Nate."

"Nice to meet you, Nate." Seth shifts again, bringing his thick-gloved hands more clearly into view. "So, Diamond City, huh? That's a long walk from here. You got enough rations?"

"I've got some, and the foraging's been reliable."

"Yeah, the soil's nice up here. Part of the reason I picked this place out. Enough rads in the dirt to get mut fruit to take but not so many as to leave the groundwater untreatable. I've got plenty extra from when I was looking around for bushes to transplant; you're welcome to take some with you. I'm also experimenting with some mirelurk jerky courtesy of the prior denizens. Probably tastes like rotting sewage but I'm hoping it'll pack well."

"Ah. Rotting sewage. My favorite flavor. Still, thats mighty generous of you."

Seth chuckles. "Humanity only got as far as it did by helping each other out. Some people seem to have forgotten that but I strive to be better."

Nate hums in what could be taken as agreement. It sounds a little Red to him, but a debate isn't gonna bring him any closer to Shaun. Still, he owes the man for the offered rations, so how to return the favor?

Ah, of course. "You sound like you'd probably get along well with those friends I mentioned earlier. They're trying to rebuild a community a little ways east of here. Make a place where farmers, settlers, and folk that just want to live and let live can do just that. If you're worried about more raiders dropping by, I'm sure they'd love another set of hands."

"I appreciate the offer, but I'm content here. It's a good location: spacious, defensible, close to major roads. I've even managed to get some of the heavy machinery up and running again. If I stay, I can maybe turn this into another bastion of society for the Commonwealth. If I leave, it'll be overrun by bandits in a month and used as a staging ground to ambush caravans, crushing trade."

"Heavy concerns. You sure you can manage alright by yourself?"

"I am, though I appreciate your concern. Still, I shouldn't bore you with talk of my plans for the future. There's an old drive-in movie theater south of here but north of Lexington. Nothing nearby to make it appealing to bandits, and your handgun should be enough to handle the fauna. I suspect you could reach it a little before nightfall and there are some rooms there with solid doors that you could barricade for the night."

"I'll keep an eye out. My thanks again."

"Happy to help. Though while I'm already giving unsolicited advice, you really ought to give a little more thought to concealing your mines. Raiders may not usually have access to them, but the vast majority would at least know them by description."

At that, Nate smiles. "I'd hope so."

He approaches the mine carefully, cautious both of the known volatility of its construction and the unknown volatility of Seth's constitution. Sidling around it, he crouches next to one of the many innocuous piles of clutter littering the grounds, never letting Seth out of his peripheral vision. He flips a switch buried deep in the pile before gently coaxing it free, ensuring the wire it attaches to doesn't catch on anything as he liberates the assembly. Following the wire back to the mine, its arming light now dark, he coils it around the explosive, securing it with a few makeshift clamps, then attaches a backup safety pin to the device for added peace of mind.

Seth hums in approval. "Clever. I'll have to remember that one. I assume you've rigged up the regular arming switch as another trigger?"

"Yeah. Pain in the ass to rewire everything nicely, but that just makes it less likely they'll have encountered it before."

"I suddenly find myself far less concerned for your safety. You come up with that yourself?"

"Learned it from an old friend." He replies, securing the mine in a hefty rucksack.

"Fair enough. Now, I believe I promised you some food for your journey, and I've got a bit of clean water that you're welcome to as well…"