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Lesion [Worm/Arknights]

Lesion [Worm/Arknights]
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It's 2012. Bakuda is plotting the ABB's ascent to true city wide power. Browbeat is struggling with the pressures of leadership. Uber has discovered the profitability of complaining about politics in Video games.

But in the middle of it all, a Taylor Hebert has learned to build weapons that harness the power of Orginium Arts.

Shame about the disease, though.
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Arc 1: 1.1
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    • Estro

    Estro

    Sassy Bitch Stargazer
    Councillor
    Location
    Wörms, the half continent
    1.1
    I banged my hands together to keep them warm in my gloves, my breath misting in the cold February morning, and grimacing slightly beneath my scarf. Brockton bay had been having a warm winter up until the last few weeks of January, when a polar vortex had come down and dropped the temperatures to the far side of comfortable. The industrial park was still open, however, the steel sheds being warmed by a variety of means, and everyone I could see was just as wrapped up as I was, or possibly even more.

    Nodding at the barrel chested man who was reassembling a differential, I left his shed, re-shouldering the long bag on my shoulder. That bag was why I was here, and more it was why I was willing to be here. I was a tinker, and in that bag was one of the few devices - inventions? Gadgets? - I had made. The industrial park was not in one of the best places in Brockton, squatting between the Railyard and the docks, and you could see the years of decay it had suffered - more than half the lots were vacant.

    Wandering further down, I passed by the gutted hulks of half a dozen Dodges stacked on top of each other when a grey streak jumped out of the mess, barking and leaping up at me, mouth open and tongue lolling.

    "Down, down, get off me, please." I tried pushing the dog away, but it just licked my hands and kept pawing at my leg. Stepping away quickly, the dog started circling me, barking happily.

    "Angelo! Angelo! Heel!" The man who emerged from behind the chassis was wearing an unzipped puffer jacket, clearly put on in a hurry, even as he called to the dog. "Sorry, dreadfully sorry. Angelo! Angelo! Here! C'mere you idiot!"

    The dog ignored him, happily yapping around me as I tried to extract myself from the situation. The man in the puffer jacket gave up patting his knees and calling its name, vanishing back into the building I could just see behind the cars.

    "Can you help get your dog a-"

    "Just a second! A second!"

    I sighed, and pushed the dog off my upper body again, before the dog suddenly halted, bouncing away from me and back to the man, who had re-emerged, holding a small device in one hand.

    "Sorry about that, she's far too excitable. I keep trying to get her to respond to commands, but the clicker is the only thing that works." Pocketing the device, he took a few steps towards me. Without the dog bouncing around me, I could see that the man, although he clearly had more than a few years on me, was around my height, which put him on average for a man. He had oil marks on his face and a few around the edges of his fingers where he'd clearly hastily wiped his hands before coming out. His hair was a medium brown and blowing wildly in the cold winds of the area. He reached a hand up and scratched at the stubble lining his face, mouth open as if he was looking for something to say. The silence continued for a while, growing slightly more awkward, and I considered leaving.

    "Oh, sorry. Right." He stuck his hand out, looked at it, and hastily wiped it on his jacket before sticking it out again. "I'm Liam Breuer. Sorry about all that."

    I returned the handshake awkwardly, two quick shakes before letting go. "I'm Taylor Hebert. It's fine, don't worry about it."

    He nodded, twice, almost to himself. "She's a beautiful dog, but got no regard for anything. So, uh, um, uhhh, what brings you to Westrail?"

    I swallowed, sticking my hands in my pocket, glad I'd prepared a lie for why I was searching through piles of components and parts. Tinkers, according to the internet, were some of the most sought-after capes, and I had no desire to be pulled into one of the gangs or even the protectorate before I'd had a chance to do things on my own.

    "My father, he bought me a car, but it's a real fix-up job, and well, I'm here to get bits to fix her up."

    "Oh, that's cool. Not many women into mechanics. So, uh, what parts do you need?"

    "I, uh, don't really know their names? My father's taught me a lot about cars and stuff, but it wasn't exactly formal training." This wasn't even that much of a lie, more stretching the truth. Ever since my trigger, I'd had a greater aptitude for mechanics, and even though his position was administrative, my father was a dockworker and liked to work with his hands. We'd done some work together on various projects around the house, like fixing the doorstep, and he'd really seemed to enjoy it.

    "Cool, cool. Cool." Liam scratched his head, before turning with a gesture to follow. "Well, I can't promise anything, but I've probably got enough parts to build at least two cars in here, so I should have what you need. No promises though. What car is it?"

    "A GMC Sierra 1500," The same model my dad's actual car was, just in case he caught me with the parts. Walking into the building, Liam closing the door behind me to keep the heat in, I was astounded by the amount crammed into the shop.

    Beyond a few clear feet around the half disassembled car he was clearly currently working on, every available surface, shelf and cabinet was filled to bursting with car parts, tools, and other parts I couldn't identify. I spent a minute or two staring at it all, wondering just what I could make from it all, various weapons and designs popping into my head as I did. I shook my head, trying to stop the same mindset of excitement and inspiration that had caused the creation of my spear. PHO called it a 'tinker's fugue', but PHO also kept suggesting that Legend and Hero were once lovers.

    "I've also got a couple other projects going, so I might take stuff for them," I added, trying to cover for my pause.

    Liam nodded as I covered for anything else I might want. Just because the spear on my back was made mainly of a spare axle and some miscellaneous parts didn't mean that I'd only ever use car parts. Not unless I was secretly another version of Squealer. God, I hoped I wasn't another Squealer.

    "I can see why you'll need parts then. Not reliable, the old 1500s. I think I've got some AMC parts lying around here somewhere, although, uh, not the most organised place, I know."

    I nodded, still looking around the room, before I noticed a large poster on the wall, partially hidden behind a bunch of engine dials. It was Leet and Über dressed up as some people I didn't recognise, striking a cartoony pose.

    "Not a fan, I take it?"

    I looked at him, before realising I'd frowned when looking at them.

    "I've watched a few of their streams, but they just seemed dislikeable."

    Liam looked at me, a strange look on his face.

    "Streams, you say? This would have been some of their early stuff, then, right?"

    I looked at him, confused, before he decided to elaborate.

    "They used to just stream stuff unedited and on a delay, but they stopped doing that after '10 or thereabouts. It's mostly edited videos, nowadays."

    I made a vague noise of understanding and started digging through the parts on one of the workbenches he had, the one where Angelo had curled up on a blanket beneath. Liam waited, probably checking that I wasn't going to break something, before going back to the car he was working on.

    After a few minutes of me finding nothing and Liam doing whatever he was doing with the suspension, he started to speak again.

    "You know, they're actually quite good nowadays, or at least I think so. Über is pretty good at video editing, what with his power."

    I made another small noise, not wanting to get into this as this pile of parts was looking increasingly promising, but Liam seemed to take that as interest and went on.

    "Like, most of their stuff isn't even the old run around stuff. Uber's got game reviews and speedruns, while Leet has discussions about capes and stuff. You like capes, right?" he said, before looking at a gauge and swearing into his arms.

    "Yeah, I guess."

    "He's got good stuff, like, how the protectorate works internally, or how PHO is wrong about the unwritten rules. You should watch it. Or, like, don't, I'm a random man fiddling with the guts of a car."

    I grabbed a small carburettor, my power suggesting a number of weapons it could be turned into and smiled. "The unwritten rules?" I said. I'd been following PHO to learn more about capes, and from what I knew it was part of these rules to stop people attacking people in their cape identities.

    "Yeah. I, uh, Leet, uh, he says it's bunkum."

    I turn to look directly at him. The idea of the unwritten rules, even I'd only heard about them on an internet forum, had been reassuring. It'd keep my Dad safe, when I went out to be a hero. "What?"

    "Oh yeah. Like, he says all the idea of 'cops and robbers' and all that is so much dung. There's really only one rule. Well, two, if you include fighting the Endbringer. You attack someone's family, they'll attack yours, so it's kept off the table. But not all capes abide by it. Even discounting the lunatics, like, do you think Lung or Oni Lee keep to that? Well, they do when fighting the Wards, and the protectorate to some extent, but the Nazis? The merchants? Nah. And so people don't want to escalate, and they don't want to risk, so fights are kept… relatively non-lethal. You don't want the other capes to pull out any tricks they've kept hidden, and so thing stay at a low boil. Until someone does, of course. Like when the Empire were dismantling the Marquis."

    I blinked, a slight frown on my face. As he'd continued speaking his voice had gone from reedy and slightly hesitant to something smoother. He clearly was a true cape geek, like Greg back in school.

    "What about Fleur," I said. "Didn't Kaiser go ballistic on the guy who did that?"

    "Oh, yeah, Fleur. This is mostly a rumour, I've heard, uh, from Leet, but if you remember the attack, it was at a funeral. The rumour has it that is was her nephew's funeral, and Kaiser had sent flowers to it, because he likes to look like a gentleman and not a Neo-nazi bastard. So Kaiser is like 'ah shit, now it looks like i can't control my gang of murdering neo-nazis' and so he offs the dude. Or well, that's what I've heard. But if you think even the heroes don't unmask people when they get pissed enough, just read some court documents. Well, that's what I heard. Don't actually read them myself."

    He stands, wiping his hands on his jeans and leaving stains, before pointing at the carburettor in my hand.

    "So, that looks good?"

    "Uh, yeah." I considered the amount of money I'd brought and the few other pieces I'd already bought today, and tried to work out if I had much budget left. "How much will that be?"

    "Oh, take it. I've got a bunch of those, I think. Won't notice one going. Consider it recompense for Angelo dirtying your pants."

    I looked at the device, then back at Liam, before deciding to just take his generosity.

    "Anyway, if you need anything else, remember where this old thing is. I'm in on most weekends, but I've got parts for days. Don't think I'll be quite so generous next time." Liam tried what I think was supposed to be an ironic grin, but with his weak chin just looked unsure.

    "Uh, thanks. Really, Liam."

    The walk from the park to the bus stop wasn't too long, no more than a block of walking past abandoned warehouses, a shuttered factory, and one long siding of decade overgrown boxcars. Reminders of better times, ones I was too young to remember, back when Brockton was the largest port north of Boston. Passing the bus driver a couple of dollar coins, I sat down in one of the rearmost seats, my backpacks on the seat next to me.

    The bus was almost empty, an old black man with a shock of white hair and a couple of middle-aged Asians chattering away in some language I didn't know the only other occupants. As such, I felt safe enough to open my backpack and check the results of my little shopping spree. Quickly counting my money, I had just under fifty dollars remaining, out of the just over a hundred and seventy I'd started the morning with. But what a haul I'd gotten. Ignoring the carburettor, I'd managed to get a couple feet in half inch steel - dowels? Billets? - solid circular rods. I had a couple of stone tiles a woman had been willing to give me for free, the leftovers from some paving jobs. I had a half gallon bottle of etching acid, which I'd wrapped in several plastic bags before putting in my bag and had required me to not entirely lie about my age. The guy selling it didn't really seem to care, and my power had suggested almost more designs than I could handle. And finally, I had two piston heads, one piston liner, and a very rusty crankshaft my power had still liked.

    Frankly, the only problem I had was that I could barely lift the bag.

    Getting off the bus and walking the couple of streets to my home, I let myself in, stamping a couple of times on the newly repaired step just to get a feel to it. It'd been broken since before I'd entered middle school, and the change somehow still felt exciting, even a week later.

    I dropped my two bags just inside the porch, almost carelessly. My dad was out this morning, gone to Kurt's place for some reason I'd forgotten, but it meant that I could be a little more free than I usually was. My only two existing pieces of tinkertech had been crafted in the hour or two I'd had between school and my dad coming home, which had made the process more than a little nervewracking. Especially as I was finishing the spear, as I somehow managed to miss my father arriving home, and didn't realise I was in the basement polishing it until he'd called for dinner.

    Having changed out of my winter wear and drunk a nice cup of tea to warm up, I dragged both bags down the stairs to the basement. The basement below our house wasn't that large, but over the Christmas break I'd cleaned it up with my dad, turning it from a cluttered storage for things neither of us really used into a pseudo workshop and much less cluttered storage space.

    It was mostly mom's old stuff.

    Steadfastly ignoring the dust sheets that covered about half the room, I unpacked my bag on top of the bench that had appeared down there one day while I was at school this year. It wasn't the best workshop, honestly, and half the tools would be in the garage upstairs at any time. But with the amount of broken down items that had accumulated in the years since this had last been used, at the very least I could hide my materials in the dozen or so projects spread over the table.

    Having looked over the hiding places several times and feeling hopeful that my dad wouldn't use the materials preferentially - I'd spent most of my savings on them, after all - I went to start the other thing I'd been looking forward to since my dad had announced he was going out for the day earlier this week. Unzipping the ski bag I'd been keeping the spear in and unclipping the plastic sheath for the spearhead that I'd somehow made.

    I'd looked up early tinker tech projects online, and compared to the usually slapdash affairs that tinkers seem to make, my spear was pretty well put together. Then again, it was basically just a spear. My tinkertech was weird. Grabbing onto it, I twirled it in the air, feeling it almost come alive in my hands. I'd used it once before, and I knew that there was a point I just hadn't quite reached, something I hadn't quite done to make it… work, I felt.

    Stopping it spinning in my hands, I tried holding it more sensibly. Spreading my feet wider, I made a few tentative thrusts forwards. Slicing it sideways, I dodged an imaginary opponent, quickly stepping to the side and using the haft to block the imaginary blow. Leaping up and over them, I spun in mid-air and kicked off the ceiling, driving my spear right through where they should have been. Landing on the floor, I panted, half crouched, my hair over my face, the deep purple fringe flopping into my eyes.

    Pushing it back, I rose, visualising four enemies around me, all armed with swords. Stepping forwards, I parried the closest one's strike, and twisted my leg around his, sending him tumbling to the floor. Stepping over the fallen enemy, I twisted in midair, pushing one of the blades into the swing of the other, before the butt of the spear lashed out, catching the one at my left in the throat. Slashing down, I opened the throat of the fallen one before stepping forwards.
    Dobermann had always taught me to never leave an opponent behind you.
    Pressing the attack further, the three of them joined together, each covering for their own weaknesses, even as the one I'd struck panted slightly with his collapsing airway. Leaping to the side, I pushed off the cabinet and then the wall, getting behind them. Slashing forwards, I caught the middle one in the shoulder, and drew a line of red across his back. Kicking away one of the other's swords, I followed with a counter into the stomach, before having to quickly twist away to avoid the last one standing.

    Rolling on the floor, I almost slammed into a box of old clothes before I instinctively twisted away. Pushing off of the floor in one smooth motion, I used his sword as a foothold before…

    As I slammed into the floor, my hands barely catching my fall, my knee twisted awkwardly and my glasses and spear bounced away onto the floor. Breathing heavily for a moment or two, I slowly brought my legs under me and sat there, hands gingerly reaching for my glasses and putting them on.

    What was that?

    I'd known how to fight, how to use that spear almost instinctively. I'd been able to jump off the walls and do flips in midair. I'd thought there was someone… no, I'd been fighting some imaginary enemies. Shadowboxing. Right? Remembering one aspect, I hurriedly pulled my hair in front of my eyes. Black and curly. Good. Good. For moments there, I could have sworn it was a dark purple. I looked at the spear, lying on the ground only a foot away almost warily. Was that what my power was?

    I'd been almost annoyed with my first creation, a black sort of wand I'd made out of a car ariel, a plunger handle and an old tin of varnish. It had sort of thrummed with power in my hands, but nothing had happened that I could obviously see. Even standing in my room and chanting spells from Harry Potter like I was Myrridin or someone didn't have any effect. And so I'd made the spear, and I'd been sort of disappointed. Kid Win's first tinker tools had been laser pistols or something, and everyone knew of Hero's first weapon, the famous Silence cannon. I'd spent almost all my money on the hope that with some better materials I could make something better.

    But now, I was much happier. My weapons gave me… fighting skills? And powers? It was perfect. I could go out and be a hero without joining the wards and all the drama in there. I could do some good for the city.

    I reached out and touched the spear, and I could feel something had changed. There was something I could grasp, something that would give me all the skills and powers I'd just had. That was reassuring, that I wouldn't instantly get whatever mover powers and physical changes whenever I touched the spear.

    Standing up, and gingerly testing my leg, finding it slightly painful but no more than a stubbed toe, I walked over to the ski bag with a smile on my face. I could go upstairs and test that wand, see if I could find the switch for that one. I could make more, see what skills and powers the other designs could call up.

    I started making my way up the stairs from the basement, my grin not even dying as I tried to force it down. I was going to be a hero!

    The rumble of the car pulling into the driveway jarred me into motion as I was halfway up the stairs, and I hurriedly rushed up the stairs and then up the next, opening my room's door and hurriedly stuffing the bag under my bed. I wasn't quite ready to tell my dad about my power, even as we'd grown closer since Christmas, as I knew he'd stuff me off to the wards and to deal with teenage nonsense and more people telling me what to do. I was struggling enough with my homework, all the nonsense at school and my new tinkering. I didn't need to sit around doing "Just Say No" speeches to middle schoolers.

    I heard the door opening, and stepped out of my room.

    "I'm back, Taylor," said Danny, calling up the stairs. "Want me to make some tea and then we can work on the radio some more?"

    I smiled, climbing down the stairs. "That sounds great."

    ---

    I muttered several swearwords as my cold gloved fingers failed to get the key in the lock again. Angelo barked from my legs as she scratched at the door.

    "I'm trying, I'm trying, come on."

    Crouching down slightly, and putting some weight on the handle, I carefully slotted the key into the keyhole, and grinned, before the door opened and I fell into it, onto the floor. Angelo padded over, licking my face, and I sighed, rolling over and looking at Jason.

    "You alright there, Liam?" he said, all mock concerned. "You seem to have tripped."

    "I goddam knocked, you bastard." I groused from on the floor, pushing Angelo away with one hand as I struggled to stand up. "I knocked like, for a minute straight."

    "This was funner."

    "Funner? It's funnier, you hack."

    Finally getting up off the floor, I looked up at Jason, who stood a full six foot two and revelled in each and every inch he had over me. He had an insolent grin on his face, as he pushed the door closed. Visibly composing himself, he gave Angelo a couple of pats as she whined at his knees. I stood there, my arms folded, waiting for him.

    "Oh, fine. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I just thought it'd be amusing. You used to have a sense of humour, you know." He pushed his hand through his lightly tousled hair, his shirt riding up and exposing a thin line of toned but pale flesh. "Oh, I meant to ask," he deflected. "You were late back today, get the car done?"

    "I almost have it done, everything is in place and working, I just need to get the wheels back on and give it a quick wipe down. Come over with me Sunday, won't be more than an hour's work."

    He nodded, and we both walked further into the house we shared, grabbing a couple of beers and I shoved a ready meal into the microwave. I watched through the open door as my dinner slowly turned in the humming device, Liam picking up his game of Dark Souls, dodging and weaving through the lumbering knights with his character.

    "Oh, there was something else interesting today."

    "Oh?" He demurred, half turning to look at me and still playing annoyingly well.

    "There was this, uh, college girl, I think? Angelo bothered her, and she said she was looking for some car parts, but she had that, uh, 'new tinker' look about her when she came into my 'shop. Wanted something for a Sierra 1500, wouldn't say what, and walked out with a carb that clearly wouldn't fit. If that pickup uses a carb, can't remember."

    Jason actually looked interested at this, as the microwave pinged and I started shovelling cheap rice into my mouth.

    "So, what do you think? A new member for the Duo Dastardly?"

    I shrugged.

    "She noticed the poster I have there, and she didn't seem too enthused with us. Talked about the early stuff."

    "The glory days."

    I wrinkled my nose at him as I dropped onto the other end of the couch.

    "C'mon, don't start that goddam argument again. We're doing better now than we ever were then, and you can't say you don't like not having to wonder where you're going to be hit this week."

    Jason shrugged, his attention turning back to his game.

    "But, well, the more tinkers the better."

    "For you."

    "Yeah, well, you get press copy of games now, and I'm not allowed to touch them, so who's really come off the better."

    Jason laughed, using the deep rolling one he had as Über, and handed me the controller.

    "Not your most subtle of attempts. This is an Aleph import, too, and a pretty good one."

    "Got any ideas?"

    "Well, I was thinking…."

    AN: I originally wrote most of this for NaNoWriMo 2020. At present, I have fifteen or so more chapters written, and am hoping the actual feedback will get my past the writer's block I'm currently suffering from. In the meanwhile, perhaps some other people will enjoy reading my fic.
     
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    • Okay. Arcknights fics are rare as hell. Being fairly well written on top of it - definitely watched.

    For some reason I can see Originium-infected Rachel to act similarly to Lappy...
     
    Im on my mark when the guy kept talking and giving advice to Taylor that he's one of the Duo, though! Love to see another Arknights xover fic, looking forward for more!
     
    So one thing that will be interesting to see is what symptoms Taylor will deal with,like will she lose parts of a sense, deal with Mania, nervous system issues or something else
     
    1.2
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    • 1.2

    Monday morning dawned bright and clear, the weak winter sun doing nothing to alleviate the cold that had deepened yet again. I actually sighed with relief when I walked through the doors and into Winslow, a reaction that would have been unthinkable under almost any other consequence. The furnace was doing its job wonderfully as I walked through the crumbling forty year old corridors, even as I yawned, last night having been slightly later than usual as I'd worked with Dad on a radio he said belonged to Gramps.

    Opening my locker with a few deft flicks of my wrist, I dumped most of my books into it. Keeping stuff in your locker over the school day was generally okay, in my experience, but leaving anything there over the weekend was begging for something to happen to it, like when some skinheads put paint bombs in a couple dozen back in October. As such, every monday morning and friday afternoon I shuffled too and from school, almost bent double under the weight. Dumping my coat and gloves in there, I grabbed a few tissues and blew heavily into them until my eyes started watering. I'd had a vague malaise settle over me since Christmas break, and I was starting to get annoyed that it wouldn't resolve into an actual cold which I could get over, or just go away.

    Shaking my head fitfully, I double checked I had all the books I needed - Mr Quinlan was notorious for giving detentions if you'd forgotten yours, even if it was just in your locker - and smiled as I saw the black rod tucked away in one corner of my backpack. I'd still not managed to get the same feeling that I'd gotten with the spear, even with a few extra tries last night, but it was still reassuring to have it nearby. As far as I could tell, it just looked like a vaguely crystalline stick, nothing that could reveal it as tinkertech.

    Of course, if they started looking through people's bags for weapons the Teachers would find enough knives to start a cutlery store, so it wasn't going to happen. Slamming the locker and starting the long walk to homeroom holding my bag - there was a block of lockers like, ten meters away from it, but for some reason we were assigned the ones basically at the other end of school - I happily sunk into ideas for what I was going to do this week.

    With my spear proving to give me… powers, I guess, I was a lot more prepared than I thought I'd been. I'd triggered sometime over Christmas break, I think, which would make it almost a month and a half since I'd had them. The spear almost seemed like it was giving me a disguise, but I still needed a mask, because even with the physical change I was still pretty much Taylor Hebert, just one with hair dye and a straightener, too wide mouth and all. I'd made my costume, if you could call it that, a few weeks ago, although it was basically just a warm coat and set of trousers, in a deep purple, with a black "half cape" over one shoulder that wasn't me just repurposing the cape from my seven year old Alexandria hallowe'en costume.

    I started considering if I could just tinker up a mask, and had been considering if I could do anything for that when I rounded a corner and flat up walked into someone. Ignoring the chuckles of the people around me - something I had far too much experience with at this school - I grabbed at the pens and loose change that had fallen out of my pockets as quickly as I could, before hurriedly standing up.

    Sophia Hess stared back at me, a pen in her hand. Sophia had been one of the worst people in my life last year, but the summer between Sophomore and Junior year had changed her, and Emma too. The few rumours that I heard said that Emma and Sophia had a fight over the holiday, but I didn't really know anything. She'd grown, too, and was probably the next tallest girl in school after myself - although I was still beaten out by a few Seniors (and one Brobagingian frosh). What was more notable, especially when she'd rolled up the sleeves of her usual button-down shirts as she had now, was her muscles. She had a runner's build, but even then you could still see the slight cords of muscles in her forearms. No wonder she apparently didn't attend track competitions with the rest of the team but had her own competitions she was going to.

    "Are you just going to look at it, Hebert, or are you going to take it?"

    I blinked, looking up at her and not her arms, and responded with an eloquent "huh?"

    "Your pen," she said, waving it an inch from my nose. "Because if you don't want it I'll take it."

    "Oh, uh, no, uh, thanks for picking it up." I took it, stashing it in my pocket with the rest (my pencil case having been ruined with glue a week ago) and tried smiling slightly at her.

    "Whatever. Just fucking look where you're going next time, Hebert."

    I nodded as she stalked off like a proud cat, sticking her hands in her pockets and loudly asking what everyone was 'fucking staring at her for'. Slipping away, I took the distraction she was providing to get to homeroom.

    Junior year had been a bit of a mixed bag for me so far. Sure, Sophia had drifted away from Emma which meant less shoving in corridors and being beaned with 'misaimed' softballs in PE, but Charlotte had stepped into her spot excellently, pairing with Madison to come up with a wider range of social snubs and methods to feel isolated than I knew existed. Although, that was kind of the point, wasn't it? But I had powers now, and I was more used to it all.

    Slipping past a bunch of chinese girls loudly talking about a party, I took my customary seat in homeroom - one row off the back and far to the side, near the door - and took out my books. Today felt like a good day, my slight ill feeling notwithstanding. Nobody had harassed me in the halls and Sophia had been vaguely polite to me. Today was going to be a good day.

    ---

    Slamming the key home, I let myself into my house and just slid down the wall after closing it shut behind me.

    Today had been an awful day. I ran my hands through my hair, feeling a few more spitballs tangled there and screaming, a wordless shout of frustration just pouring out of me.

    Blinking back the tears that threatened to flood my vision and tightening the grip on my hair I started mentally counting to ten, while trying to focus on something good that had happened today for each number. Remember the good things, remember the good things, Taylor.

    One. Sophia picked up my pen for me. Two. I got an A on the last piece of homework for Mr Quinlan. Three… I successfully submitted my coursework for my computing class. Four…. I had a nice cookie with my lunch?

    Oh, fuck this, like I have ten things.

    I kicked out, sending the umbrella stand clattering to the floor, scrubbing at my face as the tears rolled down. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. I hated myself for being hated, and then I hated myself for hating myself. Is this what a hero would do? Go home after idiot girls said idiot things and cry about what they said? I pushed the heel of my palm into my eyes and rubbed at them until they started to feel raw, trying to breathe regularly.

    Come on, Taylor. You're better than this. You're better than them. They're going to go to winslow, get a shitty retail job and marry some dumbass and achieve nothing of value. You're going to be a hero! I'm going to be a hero! I will make the world a better place! It doesn't matter what they say about you, you'll prove them all wrong easily. They don't know anything about you. They don't know who you really are.

    …. Why then, why does it hurt so bad when they hate me?

    ---

    It was Wednesday afternoon before I felt up to the task of trying to prepare for my first outing as a hero again. Dad was out extra long tonight, a regular dinner with the union higher ups at one of their houses. I think it was Percy hosting, this time. It didn't really matter.

    I'd assembled everything I had in front of me, as well as all the materials I'd squirrelled away. I'd decided against going out in my horrid attempt at a costume, and so it was down here as well, in case I thought of a better way to use it. Mostly, I was here to try to make a mask. Masks were important for heroes. Not only did they hide their identities and thus allow for a separation between their civilian and cape lives - although a little voice in my head brought up Liam's words - but they also were what they were recognised by. Miss Milita's flag, Armsmaster's helmet (and beard), even Oni Lee's opera mask were all instantly recognisable when you saw them on TV, on merchandise, or spray painted fifteen feet high on the side of a water tower.

    Plus, I was holding out hope for something that would be useful, as well. My dad had given me a little canister of pepper spray a while ago, and I wanted something that would protect me from that. I'd be a terrible hero if anyone could defeat me with a thirty dollar bottle of pepper spray.

    And so, I sat at my bench and focused. I'd gotten a bit of a handle on my power after my first failed attempt at tinkering produced the wand (although I still held out hope it might be useful one day) and had managed to produce my spear. However, I'd only started reading up on what other tinkers were like afterwards, where I noticed the difference. Most tinkers, apparently, started tinkering with an aim in mind or something they wanted to do, and produced their tinkertech like this (although there were great debates about if certain tinkers did do this, such as Dragon or some chinese thinker called Ashul Macseth I'd never heard about did this). Others just took stuff they already had and improved it, adding on new capabilities and functions, but were still fundamentally limited by what they started with.

    I, however, did neither. When I focused on materials or even saw particular ones, I got vague flashes of dozens of weapons I could make with them, each one having a few vague feelings associated with each one. However, when I actually focused on crafting, the same images came flooding back. The first few times I'd tried crafting anything, the number of possibilities had been too overwhelming, and I'd given myself plenty of headaches. But it was better now. Focusing on the plans in my head, I discarded the ones that oozed menace and danger. Some of the plans felt sharp in my head, like they'd be dangerous to even me if I used them. Others just had vague shapes and almost felt insulted by the materials I had in front of me. Perhaps when I joined the Protectorate, I could build them.

    Ignoring the upper layers of my designs (which, thankfully, was where almost all of the sharp ones were), I focused, trying to feel if anything felt like they had a mask. A couple of ideas flashed past, but they didn't feel substantial, and one felt the same as my wand so I threw it away. But there was a vague feeling in my mind, like a sense that someone was looking at me through a frosted window. No, that wasn't quite right. It was more like hearing someone talking about something you were thinking about, but looking around and seeing no-one there.

    I grimaced, displeased at my own analogies. I was the daughter of an English professor, but english simply lacked the words for it. Powers were like that, sometimes. I kept mentally trying to focus on that strange feeling, to bring it closer. Until suddenly, something clicked, or twisted, and all the designs flickered, new ones appearing, thudding into my head with beats of pain. They weren't in layers, like my other designs were, beyond a dozen or so seeming to float on the top and as unimpressed with my materials as the upper layers of the other designs were.

    I sighed, and pulled a small stack of white tiles towards me, ones that looked like the bathroom's walls. The new designs felt like they had masks in abundance, and so I pulled a few of them to the forefront of my mind, trying to get a mental feel for them. Smiling, I started to get to work, grabbing a hacksaw and starting to cut away at the tiles.

    ---

    The mask sat on the table, and I sighed. It was white, almost featureless, and perfectly sized to fit my head. It also had a black mark just above the eyes that was just refusing to come off, and one that I couldn't remember making. I'd finished the mask first, and set it to the side, before grabbing the coat and… had I hit it with my elbow? I twisted my arms about, trying to see if there was a corresponding mark on my sleeves, but couldn't see anything.

    The costume, in comparison, had been a much greater success. I'd somehow turned a purple coat, trousers, and a few other items into a green hooded jacket that had some emblem on the side, with gloves (black with a yellow trim and some grippy parts I was sure didn't exist earlier); a set of black trousers with spaces for kneepads and a waterproof feel; a set of green boots that I had no idea the provenance of; and a long green scarf I rather liked. Stacked, slightly to the side, were the main components of the costume, and the parts I was happiest with. And most surprised about. The kneepads lay on top, one of them slightly scratched from where I tested my spear against them. Below them was a light set of armour plates, constructed from the patio tiles and what used to be a dust sheet I found in the corner. And, still strapped around me, was a plate holder festooned with pockets, currently filled with a bunch of files and needles. I was going to put my pepper spray there when I went out, maybe a small medical kit and a lot of zip-ties, as well as my wand, just in case.

    Taking the bundles upstairs, I got dressed into my costume, and admired myself in the mirror. I looked much more fit for a New England winter than a lot of the capes I knew. Glory Girl must freeze half to death whenever she went outside, let alone Browbeat's tight blue spandex. Smiling at myself, I put the mask on, and struck a pose I remembered from one of the old cartoons.

    "Freeze, evil-doers, for Mouse Protector is here!"

    I chuckled at myself, the mask muffling my voice, but not that badly, and the black smudge was almost unnoticeable under the hood. Grabbing my spear, I pulled at the power within it, and started spinning it around my hands, before suddenly lunging forwards in the mirror. The hood stayed up, thanks to a small hook that connected to the mask, and you could only see my hair if I twisted my head really far to one side or another. Plus, it would be purple, so who could connect it to Taylor Hebert? Taking the mask off and setting it to the side, I decided that tonight would be the night. Tonight would be the first night for… whatever, I didn't need a cape name. It was better to do good than speak of good, or something like that.

    Pulling the armour padding over my head - which had the welcome effect of suggesting at attributes that would be hidden without it, not that I was bothered about that, not at all - I inhaled and retched. Whatever my powers did to change clothes and fabrics when I built stuff apparently didn't extend to cleaning them, the apparatus smelling rather fiercely of the mildew and damp that the dust sheets had.

    Looking at the clock, I quickly gathered up my new costume and ran down the stairs. New plan: I wash my costume tonight, and tomorrow I go fight crime. Yes, that would be it. And I could paint over the black smudge on my mask. Turning the washing machine to the delicates setting - I didn't know what my new fabrics could take, and didn't want to risk it - I looked at the washing machine filling up and sighed as my stomach rumbled.

    I bet the protectorate didn't have to worry about their clothes smelling of mildew and old paint. They probably even had people to wash their costumes for them.

    My stomach made another gurgling sound, annoyed that I'd tinkered over the time I usually ate dinner.

    Life truly was unfair.
    AN: Small prize if you know what the costume is fairly obviously taken from. Also taking slightly from Impurity (Worm AU) which made a good point about how Brockton Bay's unseasonal weather doesn't matter when she doesn't need insects that don't live in New England. Also, colder weather is more fun to write in.
     
  • Threadmarks
    • Thanks for the chapter, it was a pleasure to read!

    Despite having some ideas of what her costume might be based off of - I'd rather wait and see if someone knows for sure xD
     
    Doccer said:
    I have never played Arknights. Don't intend to either. What is Orginium Arts?
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    Basically magic. Manipulation of physics of the world through the usage of Originium infused into a catalyst. If you're infected - you don't need a medium (staff/wand/weapon) to use Arts but it will severely affect the user with varied effects (ranging from mental disabilities to additional limbs to anything else) until the user ends up dead (prolonged exposure to Originium will lead to infection anyway so RIP Taylor probably). You also apparently can't be infected through person-to-person contact. Only exposure to Originium or (possibly?) something like blood transfer?
     
    Qro said:
    Basically magic. Manipulation of physics of the world through the usage of Originium infused into a catalyst. If you're infected - you don't need a medium (staff/wand/weapon) to use Arts but it will severely affect the user with varied effects (ranging from mental disabilities to additional limbs to anything else) until the user ends up dead (prolonged exposure to Originium will lead to infection anyway so RIP Taylor probably). You also apparently can't be infected through person-to-person contact. Only exposure to Originium or (possibly?) something like blood transfer?
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    Pretty much though to add to this I think through person to person contact you need to be fairly direct like getting getting cut by crystals exposed on a persons skin. I think this was cover in the Side story with Grani and Skadi when Grani had to treat Big Bob.
     
    Might want to fix your summary. You spelled Taylor's last name wrong.
     
    I like where this is going so far. Also going to be interesting to see what happens when the Pandora's box of Originium is opened in the Wormverse.
     
    I wonder if any Arcknight Expy's are going to appear? Alongside all the equipment I'd kinda like to see Taylor make friends with Grani since she is a really good person.
     
    1.3
  • Threadmarks
    • 1.3

    The streets west of my house, heading towards Captain's hill, were the site of a long running dispute between the ABB and the E88, according to the newspaper I'd started reading a few weeks ago. It wasn't put exactly in those terms, but there were consistent references to gang fights and people being arrested for graffiti in the area. Plus it was in the area my Dad would have warned me away from had I told him I was walking there, so there was probably some form of activity here.

    However, these thoughts were of cold comfort as I ran down the streets at 11pm, toes numb in my boots. The temperature had improved since the start of the week, but with the improvement came clouds and it was now gently snowing as the clock ticked ever closer to midnight.

    A traitorous voice in my subconscious whispered that even criminals would rather stay indoors than get into fights when it was 25 outside and dropping, and I could just go home to my nice warm bed and central heating. I ignored it, of course. I was going to be a hero, and heroes didn't give up just because it was slightly cold!

    Trying to distract myself from my heating issues, even with my lovely new and warm costume, I ran and lept over six feet straight up, one hand grabbing onto the edge of the roof of the convenience store. Pulling myself up, I rolled onto the roof before standing up, quickly brushing the snow out of the folds of my scarf. I'd learnt just an hour ago that I didn't need to be actually holding my spear to keep the power it granted going, so long as it was still on my person. And that I didn't touch the wand at my side, I noted ruefully, glad nobody had seen me face plant onto the sidewalk as my preternatural grace suddenly left me.

    Looking around from the slightly elevated vantage point, I failed to spot any crime going on, or really anyone outside at all. I saw a lone car turn away from me, a block down, but beyond that the area was living up to the phrase dead as night.

    Sighing, I lept off the roof, landing lightly on the snow - I had powers, some part of myself gleefully shouted, as I dropped 12 feet - and kept walking down Wiltshire street. The small patch of shops was soon left behind, as I trudged onwards through the night. The streetlamps were working only irregularly past the stores, the yellow green light of sodium lamps showing how long it'd been since someone had maintained them.

    I heard the crunching of snow, and stopped, looking down a sidestreet, eyes straining in the darkness, hand reaching towards the spear on my back. The noise kept moving forwards, until we both stood in the yellow pool of a streetlight. The old black man looked at me, stopping short, before he nodded.

    "Evenin' " he said, the movement of his lips obscured by the mountain of stark white facial hair he had.

    "Evening," I said, my mouth moving before my brain caught up with it. "Cold night for a walk."

    He nodded again, muttering something I didn't catch, before walking past me, trudging along in the night. That was a Brocktonite, for you. Meet someone dressed as a cape in the middle of the night? No big deal. The bay wasn't a cosmopolitan centre, like New York, or even that large a city, but we had the attitude of one, the world weary disregard for the strangeness of life, especially capes.

    A few more minutes passed, the snow building up along the pavement and in the road, before I noticed anything strange. I stopped, almost admiring it, the mural painted twenty foot high on the side of the bar, nobody having challenged it even after all the years. I knew where I was precisely, now, as the place had become a landmark in it's own way. The bar was called, according to the sign, The Senator's Rest, but everyone called it The Butcher's.

    The mural was crude even by the standards of graffiti, a giant drawing of bloodied fangs. Above it, painted in blood red paint, was the word Butcher's, and below it was Teeth. In the middle, being crushed by the teeth, was the numeral VII. No wonder that old man had been carefree about meeting me. A decade ago, this place would have been the home of the Teeth, before they left for other cities, forced out by the expansion of the ABB. But the respect owed to the gang lingered here, even if it was just the remains of fear.

    Stuffing my gloved hands deeper into my pockets, I turned the corner, not looking at the mural any longer. Kicking the pace up, I decided that if I didn't find anything by the time I stopped seeing ABB gang signs, I'd start heading home. I still had school in the morning and I didn't want my Dad getting suspicious about why I was tired.

    ---

    By the time I found the Empire gathering, I had been mentally debating how long I needed to go without seeing ABB gangsign before I could say I had stopped seeing them.

    There were five of them, all dressed in heavy coats, as they loaded boxes from one van into another, but what made me sure they weren't just doing late night work was the woman sitting nearby. Smoking through the gaps in her wire frame mask, Cricket wasn't one of the big names of the Empire Eighty Eight, but she had featured on enough news reports that even the blurry photos the tv station could get their hands on allowed me to identify her. Her mask cast strange shadows across her face as she sat almost directly beneath the streetlight.

    I tried to remember what the media had said about her power, but the cold was numbing my brain. She wasn't one of the flashy members of the Empire, like Hookwolf or Kaiser, and I was struggling to remember what had been said. She had some sort of movement power, I thought? Agility or something. That felt right, and made me more confident. I had agility too, with my spear, and a longer reach. I could do this.

    Drawing my spear from my back, I started making my way towards them, keeping to the edges of the sidewalk, near the houses. As I got closer, one of the van's rumbled, starting to pull away. I briefly regretted that I hadn't made a note of it's licence plate, before realising I didn't bring any paper with me. Something for next time.

    Cricket stood up at this point, and I froze in my half crouched position near a rotting wooden fence. I couldn't quite make out what she said at this distance, but she gestured a lot, and the men seemed to hurry up, banging the boxes as they shoved it into the van. I took advantage of the noise and commotion to quickly cross the street, now standing only about thirty foot away. Two of the remaining men were in conversation with Cricket, and I stepped back into the road to see where the third was.

    The noise of the vans engine deafened me for a second, and I blinked as suddenly the headlights flicked on, silhouetting me against the snow and fog. There were a couple yells, each a variation of "cape", and I abandoned trying to sneak up on them.

    Rushing forward, my feet somehow perfectly secure on the snow, I quickly made for Cricket. The driver of the van gunned for me, lights still on full blast. I threw myself to the side, and it missed me by inches. With it gone, I could see again, a few dark spots dancing in my eyes. The gangmembers not in the van were fleeing down the street, but I blinked faster, trying to clear my vision. I didn't care about them, not really.

    Cricket was coming at me.

    I ducked under her first swipe. My momentum carried me on, my spear supporting me, as I turned my dodge into a legsweep. She lept over me, no, onto me, forcing me onto the ground. I grabbed her ankle and rolled, trying to put her on the bottom.

    She contorted, her legs somehow folding under my body, and I was kicked away. I wiped the snow from my mask with one hand, the other holding my spear as I braced it with my foot. She spun her weapons, whatever they were, in a needlessly excessive flourish, my power granted skill noting the gaps in her stance they caused. She tilted her head, and I thought she was smiling beneath the mask.

    I let my free hand drop down near where my pepper spray was, a plan forming in my mind. Cricket didn't let it happen, lunging forwards, blades flashing yellow in the light. The motions were almost dizzying, a slight sick feeling rising in my gullet.

    My feet stepped backward unerringly as I defended, giving up ground to keep the advantage I had. She kept pushing forwards furiously, clearly trying to drive me out of the light. I let her attacks drive me to one side, pushing closer to the garden walls, until I stepped on top of them in one fluid motion.

    With the height advantage, I started moving forwards, spear pressing at her defences. I thought I heard her whistling as she flicked one of her sticks in a circle, pushing my spear away for a moment. I pulled back, heading towards the street light again, feet dancing unerringly on the icy tops. I pulled back level with the lamp and reached down for my pepper spray, eyes flicking down for a second-

    My balance twisted, the feeling of nausea I had overcoming me for a second. Everything spun. I landed heavily on the ground. My bones ached, the cold magnifying the bruises I'd surely have come morning. I looked above, and she was there, her weapons raised high as if in adulation. My heart hammered in my mouth, and I furiously scrabbled away.

    She kicked at me, almost lazily. I twisted, the blow missing my body, but my spear was jarred out of my hand.

    Cricket kicked it away. I felt the connection break.

    I could hear the blood rushing in my ears now, my mouth dry. I swallowed, once, a hard lump in my throat. What a stupid plan, Taylor. To go out in freezing cold with one and a half weapons and no real idea of what to do. Be a hero. Be a hero. What a hero you will be. I kept moving backwards, until I felt the edge of the pavement under my back. I'd moved across the entire width of the street, and she was still there, keeping pace with me.

    As Cricket walked closer to me, her weapons raised high like a showman presenting the next act, I had the strangest thought.

    God, Dad's going to be so upset at me.

    Cricket pushed her foot into my knee, and I screamed as I felt my knee try to bend the wrong way for a second. I looked up at her. Satisfaction glimmered in her eyes as she used the edge of her blade to tip my head upwards.

    I felt calm, strangely, as my death examined my mask for something. My fingers brushed against something at my side, and I felt a warmth spread through my fingertips.

    Calm?

    Why the fuck was I calm?

    I kicked out at her, violently, trying to do anything for another second of life. She stepped away, almost laughing, until the snow shifted beneath her as she moved, and she fell into the street.

    I took the miracle for what it was, and got up, starting to run pell mell for my spear. I was faster than her with it, I was sure. I could get away. A wordless yell came from behind me, and I threw myself to the side, ripping whatever it was I had from the side.

    I pointed the wand I had at her as she charged past me, hands trembling. She was between me and my spear now, but she seemed wary of the wand. I moved up to point it at her, and she dodged to the side.

    I felt like an idiot in the moment, as I realised she didn't know it was a dud. Swapping it to my left hand, I moved it near her again, and she flinched, before straightening again.

    If I could just get her to do that another few times, I could grab my spear again. But, sooner or later, she'd risk it as my actions failed to produce results.

    It was the only plan I had.

    Flicking it at her, I was surprised when the snow slicked surface left my hand and flew across to her. Cricket threw herself to the side. I did the same, and felt like crying as my hand touched the base of my spear.

    Pulling myself off the ground, I let the strange warmth of my tinkertech flood me. She looked at me, her costume covered with snow from her two falls. I'm sure I looked much the same. I looked side to side, wondering which way would be better to get away from her.

    The strange nausea that started coming over me earlier was back, and I looked askance at Cricket. Was this part of her powers? Some kind of sickness inducement?

    It didn't matter. I was out of here.

    Breaking to the side, I started running as fast my powers could take me, adrenaline pushing me faster than I ever had before.

    I stumbled, the dizziness getting worse the longer it grew, before I stumbled again, this one due to surprise. A black cloaked figure stood in the centre of the road, watching us both.

    "Half marks, newbie. The fight was good, but you ran. She's not much better than you, might actually be worse. Also, weirdly quiet fight. Wouldn't have even noticed it, if the van hadn't decided to do sixty miles in snow."

    She chuckled, her arms drawing a baton from inside her cloak. I turned, to keep an eye on Cricket. To my shock, she was just standing there, looking at the cape.

    "Stalker." Cricket's voice was rough, almost garbled, as she identified the cape in the road. Shadow Stalker, one of the wards. Relief flooded my bones as I realised I wasn't alone.

    "Nazi. Want me to arrest you now, or later?"

    Cricket didn't respond, turning and running. Two capes, apparently, was too much for her. Stalker's outline flickered, and then there was a shadow ghosting across the ground.

    The mist overtook Cricket, and solidified, the nazi almost clotheslining herself. I started up towards them again, hoping to assist the ward. Shadow stalker was never still, her outline flickering between smoke and human as Cricket tried to slash her. They'd fought before, I was sure. Cricket had abandoned any attempt at defence, just trying to make connections. The strikes did nothing to Stalker, passing through her harmlessly, but she couldn't hurt Cricket as smoke.

    I pulled up, going for a low strike, and cricket jumped over it, passing through Shadow Stalker as she chose to mist rather than get caught up in a tumble of limbs. She started running then, and I followed.

    Stalker vanished behind me, before a trail of smoke passed me again. She solidified for a second between me and Cricket, running as fast as she could. Why didn't she just trap her again?

    I saw the answer quicker than I expected as I saw the van that had charged at me, flipped onto its side at the next turning. A purple shape turned, and Shadow Stalker misted again, pushing past her.

    She was trapped, in a triangle. On one side was me, blocking off the road we'd both run down. The van blocked most of the street to the side, and Browbeat was standing near it, threatening to block any further forward movement. Stalker was to her side, blocking the other turning. She made that strange whistling noise again, echoing strangely in my ears.

    The moment, the trap, could only have lasted a few seconds, but it felt like minutes to me, my heart running a mile a minute.

    This is what a cape fight was? In maybe two minutes I'd been winning, losing, almost died, had a second wind, and was finally saved. My palms were sweaty, I couldn't feel my left leg, and my ribs complained with every breath. It was everything I thought it would be.

    The moment broke as I ran forwards. Cricket twisted, deciding Shadow Stalker was the best bet for escape, and slipped past. I turned on nothing, my momentum vanishing in a second, and made to follow her as Cricket slashed forwards.

    As before, her blades passed through nothing by mist, but Shadow stalker's baton still caught Cricket, just behind the ear. She jerked, and I came level with her, slamming the back of my staff into her lower back. She fell over, and the baton came down again, and her legs twitched on the ground.

    Stalker took if off for a second, pausing for a second, before pressing it again at her back. I stood there, panting.

    "You know, they told you to stop doing that." The voice was a bassy rumble, Browbeat walking over almost leisurely.

    "Yeah, yeah, active resistance, whatever. I can't secure her and zip tie her, so get over here. You'll make the newbie think we're incompetent."

    I stood there, not quite believing what I'd done, my spear still held loosely in my hand. Stalker stood over cricket, her taser baton or whatever it was still ready to be pressed into Cricket's back. Browbeat bent over, kneeling in the snow, and started zip tying her.
    AN: Taylor should have more pride for her city, I think. Also, a fight.
     
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  • Threadmarks
    • Kinda hard to have pride for BB when the place is kind of a festering sore in the grand scheme of things.
     
    Thanks for the chapter, it was a an interesting read!

    So, Browbeat is apparently not a novice in this and is a leader of the Wards team? Well, we truly are off the canon rails. I wouldn't be surprised to see Blackout in Protectorate at this point.
     
    Still Taylor needs more powerful devices maybe Black Lock and White Key as candidates?
     
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