Magical Girl Escalation Taylor (Worm/Nanoha)

Silently Watches · Apr 11, 2016

Set Up! 1.1

January 3, 2011
"…And in other news, amateur astronomers were left dazzled last night when a swarm of – I kid you not – green shooting stars unexpectedly streaked across the sky over northern Portugal and Spain. Scientists have issued statements that the likeliest reason for the remarkable coloration is that the meteors in question had an unusually high copper content, but without recovering the space rocks themselves, which were predicted to have landed in the middle of the Atlantic, a definitive answer is impossible. Either way, the videos of the event that were loaded onto YouTube have become an overnight sensation. Back to you, Christine…"
QA: Daaaaddy, the new kid's hogging all the good hosts!

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

January 29
You finger the tag hanging from the backpack unhappily. Twenty dollars isn't too exorbitant a price for a bag under normal circumstances, but this will be the fourth you've had to buy just since the start of this school year, and constantly buying new supplies is eating away at the meager savings you've stashed away. Add onto that price of new notebooks and the fees for replacement textbooks, and the two hundred dollars you have left don't look like much at all.

Pulling away, you shake your head. You spent all night washing out the paint the Trio poured into your backpack yesterday, but even though your notes and books were ruined, it is still technically serviceable. If you keep using it, it would be one less expense you have to deal with.

But really, what is the point? Those three girls have been tormenting you ever since you started high school, and no one ever cared to stop them. They get away with ruining your things, stealing your homework, harassing you in the hallways. They once even filled your locker with old tampons and congealed blood and locked you inside it until the janitor let you out several hours later, but did anything change? Not one bit. After spending two days in the hospital to make sure you didn't get sepsis, you came back only to find your desk filled with glue and dog shit as a 'welcome back' gift.

Sophia, the track star. Madison, the cute and innocent one. Emma, your traitorous ex-best friend, whose father is a lawyer. You're just plain, gangly, nobody Taylor Hebert; so long as it is you they are tormenting, they can quite literally get away with murder. They certainly gave it a shot already. Honestly, you're still surprised your dad managed to threaten them into covering the bills from your hospital stay; you expected them to deny any liability for any of it.

You tuck your hands in your pockets and step back into the sea of people filling up the Lord Street Market. You decided to start your shopping here rather than on the Boardwalk because the prices were always lower than they would further south – not to mention, the Enforcers always struck you as bullies, something you hated before high school and even more now – but if the wares here are already pushing your budget to its limits, there is little point to continue looking around. You'll keep using your backpack and clean off your pens, then all you need to buy here is another notebook or two, which should leave you enough to get a new math book at least. It depends on whether or not the secretary in the office is understanding enough to charge you at the wholesale price like last time.

Lost in your thoughts, it takes you a minute to realize you walked past the last stall in the Market a while ago. Now you are surrounded by empty storefronts, businesses that closed their doors when the shipping dried up to nothing before you were born. If you continue north as you have been, eventually those businesses will give way to decrepit apartments and warehouses, and then to the desolate Boat Graveyard. That is not somewhere you want to go with the sun setting like it is; the Merchants are known to hang around there occasionally, and of all the gangs that call Brockton Bay home, they are the lowest of the low.

A swing to the left takes you west, roughly in the direction of your house. If you want to get back home before your dad does, you'll need to hurry. He had already left for work by the time you woke up, and even though he's taken to working later and later since the Locker, you know he won't be happy if he returns to find you gone.

The Market vanishes behind a building, but you barely pay any attention to that as you notice something strange. You can hear… Is someone whistling? No, not someone, you decide; the sound is too high-pitched and constant to be a person. It sounds more like a tea kettle than anything, but still not quite right. What is it?

You creep forward, eyes shifting around just in case it does turn out to be a person with less than noble intentions, but the alleyway is completely abandoned. The sound is coming from behind that dumpster in front of you, and you peek around the corner.

"Whoa…"

The whistling stops as you stare at an ocean-blue jewel laying innocently on the ground just below a dent in the dumpster. As long as your thumb and just a little wider, it has already been cut into a diamond shape, and the four visible facets gleam in the dying sunlight. You pick it up as a smile grows on you face, the expression feeling strange after living so long without one. You just found the solution to your money problems.

"Nakecdan: haf ican."

You nearly drop the jewel in shock, its sudden glow gone again. Did it just talk?! Crystals don't talk!

…Not unless they're actually Tinkertech.

"Tufhmuyt: myhkiyka (mulym)."

If it is Tinkertech, you could sell it to the PRT! The only Tinkers in Brockton Bay are Armsmaster, Kid Win, Squealer, and Leet. If it is Armsmaster's or Kid Win's, you'll probably get a reward for returning it, and since it isn't an unholy amalgam of vehicles, it can't be Squealer's. As for Leet… You snort. If this is a working piece of Leet-tech, it should be even more valuable, if only because it's the first of its kind.

Then again, why would it be speaking in nonsense unless it was broken?

"Declaration. Salutations.
"Query. Identity (new user)."
Does Stranger Danger apply to magic supercomputers?
"Um, hi?" you reply uncertainly. New user? "I'm Taylor. Are you… talking to me?"

"Affirmative.
"Query. Desire (Taylor)."

It takes you a moment to parse the robot-speak. "Query desire… You want to know what I want?"

"Affirmative."

"Why?"

"Declaration. Function (unit): assist (Taylor)."

"You just want to help?" you ask in confusion and, if you're honest, a little surprise. The first thing to care about you in the last year and a half, and it's a bullshit Tinkertech gemstone. You don't know if that's depressing or incredible. "Shouldn't you… I don't know. Go back to your creator or something?"

"Negative.
"Identity (progenitor): undefined.
"Identity (unit): undefined.
"Status (memory): corrupted."

That's… That's terrible. "You don't remember who you are?" Yes, 'who', you decide after a second's thought. This jewel, this whatever it is, is too intelligent for you to think of it as a 'what'.

"Affirmative.
"Query. Desire (Taylor)."

"Can you even give me whatever I want? What if it's something impossible?" you wonder. Already, you can imagine wishing for all the pranks the Trio have ever pulled on you to be visited back on them ten-fold, but you know that's not what you should want. You should be the bigger person; it's the kind of thing both your dad and your mom always taught you.

"Declaration. Desire: possible. Mechanism: magic."

Great. You shake your head with a sad little smile. Correction: the first thing to care about you, and it's a bullshit Tinkertech gemstone that believes it's a wizard.

Still, if it is telling the truth, if it really can give you whatever you want…

Desires for revenge are swept away as memories of your childhood dreams come to the forefront. Flying with Legend. Fighting crime with Alexandria. Making friends with the Wards. You sigh wistfully, "I wish I could be a superhero."

"Query. Function (superhero)."

"You don't know what heroes do?" Then again, if the jewel doesn't remember who it is or who its creator is, can you really expect anything else? It couldn't even speak English at first. "Well, they…"

Huh. That was actually a good question.

The measure of a hero
[ ] Destroy the villains – The gangs are the reason Brockton Bay is such a hellhole. If they were wiped out, maybe the city could return to its heyday, or at least be livable without worrying that you would be gunned down in the streets.
[ ] Protect the helpless – How many people get injured every day in Brockton Bay because of the gangs? Someone needs to be their guardian. Might as well be you.
[ ] Rebuild the injured – The heroes might fight the villains off, but you've seen the damage those fights can cause. Buildings demolished and people hurt or even killed. You could make them better, stronger, faster. If only you had the technology…
[ ] Back up the heroes – It's a bad sign when literal Nazis outnumber the Protectorate. If you make each hero worth two or three or ten villains, though, maybe the tables can be turned.

Choose carefully; this decides your class, for lack of a better word. Oh, and one of these choices involves some body horror, but which is should be obvious.

Silently Watches · Apr 14, 2016

[ ] Destroy the villains – The gangs are the reason Brockton Bay is such a hellhole. If they were wiped out, maybe the city could return to its heyday, or at least be livable without worrying that you would be gunned down in the streets.

Set Up! 1.2

"They fight villains." The light within the jewel pulses faintly as it listens, but it does not interrupt you. "You see, there are a lot of capes – people with powers – who decide that the best thing they can do with those powers is to commit crimes. Stealing, mugging, even killing. They join gangs and take over parts of the city, and then they just… do whatever they want. The E88 attacks anyone who isn't obviously totally white. The ABB kidnaps girls and sells them as sex slaves. And the Merchants…" You huff in disgust. "They prey on anybody and everybody. They'll give drugs to kids and attack people just to make them addicts. They're the lowest of the low, and when someone's even worse than the goddamn Nazis, it's a bad sign. The Protectorate tries to stop it, but they're not strong enough, and everybody knows it. The Empire can field more capes than the Protectorate can, and the ABB is led by Lung, and he made his debut here by picking a fight with the PRT and sending them all back to the Rig with their tails between their legs.

"If I could wish for anything, anything at all, I'd want to be a cape so powerful that even the Nazis and Lung would sit up and notice. I want to be strong enough that I can take the fight to them and make them feel what it's like to be afraid. Someone like Alexandria—" Your voice catches in your throat as you recall all the times Sophia has pushed you around with you absolutely powerless to stop her, and though you are ashamed to admit it, a thread of cowardice deep in your heart makes you change your mind. "Or Legend. If he were here, he could just hang up there in the sky and blast all the villains as soon as they showed their faces. He'd…" Burn them all to cinders. You shake your head. For all that your mother was an otherwise mild-mannered professor, she had had very… unforgiving views on what should be done about the gangs. She did her best to keep you from hearing the worst of them, but you could still remember that she had been a proponent of fighting fire with fire.

Several seconds pass in silence before the jewel speaks again.

"Function (superhero): eliminate (villain).
"Desire (Taylor): classification (superhero).
"Query. Affirmative."

You nod, a faint warmth suffusing you. Is this what your mom always felt when teaching her students, when they finally understood the knowledge she was trying to impart? "Pretty much. That's why I don't know if you can—"

The jewel begins to glow again, but it does not speak this time. Instead, its edges literally shine, white light filling the narrow alleyway. Its next words, though still robotic in tone, are far deeper than the androgynous voice it used earlier.

"Access: communication network (electromagnetic).

"Classification (ally): superhero (Brockton Bay)…

1. Protectorate… Complete.

2. New Wave… Complete.

"Classification (target): villain (Brockton Bay)…

1. Empire 88, 'E88', 'Nazis'… Complete.

2. Azn Bad Boys, 'ABB'… Complete.

3. Archer's Bridge Merchants, 'Merchants'… Complete.

4. Coil… List populated. Tactical information needed.

5. Uber and Leet… Complete.

6. Merces, 'Faultline's Crew'… Complete.

"Overlay: landmark (Brockton Bay), territory (villain)."

You can feel the jewel in your hand. You can see it sitting there, unmoving except for the shaking of your hand. For all that, though, you still stare in disbelief as the jewel unfolds into something truly gigantic, chunks of machinery you could never hope to identify appearing from nowhere and slotting into place. The alleyway shifts, unnatural colors bleeding from the cracks in the walls.

A shaft of light lances out and stabs into your chest.

"Install: user template (Calamity Witch)."

You barely have time to scream before the pain, the jewel, and the alley all vanish. A bizarre void of luminescent colors surrounds you. An uncomfortable prickling spreads through your body, and then your hoodie explodes in a shower of white sparks, showing the small patch of red over your heart that stains the shirt underneath. A second flash heralds the disappearance of your scarf, and the third and fourth your gloves. Five, and your jeans are gone; six, your shirt. Seven and eight in rapid succession leave your feet bare. Your bra is next; knowing by now where this is going, you look down and grab— Yep, and there go your panties.

If there is one benefit to this position, it is that you have a perfect view of what happens next. Directly below you, a circular shadow grows wider and wider, bloody red lightning arcing back and forth in the middle. A bolt lances out toward you and strikes.

There is no pain, and in a flash of the same color, you now have a different – and far skimpier – pair of panties circling your hips. A second bolt hits you in the chest; in its wake lies a skin-tight tank top that ends at the level of ribs and leaves your entire midriff exposed. Two more crackle around your legs before turning into knee-high boots. A fifth flash of lightning creates a black miniskirt, the buckle and end of the belt tooled in what you assume is steel. The idea that it might be real silver is just too hard to believe. Three more bolts become a jacket with a ragged hem, the black leather a contrast to the red shirt. The final blast of lightning you follow with your eyes as it flies above you and becomes a dark circle above your head, a triangular tip just visible outside the edge before the entire thing falls on your face and something pinches at your temples.

You push the hat to its proper place on top of your head and stare at the sphere of bright red crystal forming in front of you. There is only a moment to see that it is a witch's hat you are wearing, along with a masquerade mask made from crimson wirework, before fragments of gunmetal gather around the ball and connect with each other to form a 'U' with uneven ends, the sphere held in place inside the curve by two small struts. Two wide cylinders attach to each other and then the outside of the curve, and then they shoot apart to reveal the long pole of a staff.

The polished metal at the head gleams, and you can feel it all but begging you to take hold of it. Well, if it wants it that badly, you'll be happy to oblige. The instant your hand wraps around the shaft, the watercolor void is replaced by unremarkable Brockton Bay.

"Emulate: system (Intelligent Device)."

"What the hell was that?!" you nearly screech at the jewel.

Another voice comes from the mouth of the alley. "It came from over here!"

Oh, that's just what you need right now. Here you are, a brand-new cape – however the hell that happened! – and you're about to be found by who knows what. Maybe it will just be one normal man talking to himself, but knowing what this area is like and your luck? It's more likely to be a bunch of gangbangers who will shoot you dead faster than you can say 'Help me'!

The red gem pulses with a gentle light as that familiar voice comes, not from the jewel itself this time, but from what seems like inside your own head. «I propose escape.»

"That'd be fantastic," you growl as you sidle deeper into the alley. Now it decides to get chatty. "How do you suggest I do that?!"

«Escape is possible. Mistress, fly.»

"Fly?! Are you cra— Whaaa!" You are far too busy to worry about the embarrassing cry you just let out right now. Without your consent, your legs bent below you, and then you were hurtling into the air. You are not very high up, only a foot above the edge of the neighboring building, but you were just hanging there, totally unsupported by anything but a faint tightness in the back of your head.

Holy shit, you're flying! You're actually flying!

Remembering why you came up here in the first place, you follow your instincts and drift over to land on the building's roof. Not a second too soon, either, as two men stumble into the alley while you watch. From their ratty, disheveled clothes and the alcohol you can smell all the way from here, clearly they are members of Brockton Bay's growing indigent population. You don't want to assume that they are Merchants just because they're homeless – although that is where the Merchants find the majority of their members – but all the same, you aren't going to reveal yourself just because they might not be gang members.

"There's nothing here," the second man grunts.

The first one shakes his head, and when he speaks, you know he is the one who spotted the jewel's light. "We both saw it. It was lit up all the way to the street!"

"Probably that Purity bitch flying around. Let's go before she sees us."

You sigh quietly once they are out of sight. That was too close. A few steps toward the center of the roof, and you trip and fall on your face. What the hell?

You pick yourself up and try to walk again, paying more attention to how you move. Immediately you see the issue. The heels of the boots aren't very tall at all, only an inch at most, but your feet want to cross in front of each other as you move, and your back can't decide whether to stand straight or hunch over like you're used to doing. Maybe if you had Emma's figure, you could pull off a supermodel's slink like that, but for beanpole Taylor? Even with your transformation getting rid of that little paunch you've always had, this isn't going to work.

Narrowing your eyes, you glare at the jewel. "What did you do? Why am I walking like this? Why do I look like this?"
IAE: I'm HALPING!
«User template installed.»
QA: That's my line!
"That doesn't explain anything!"

The jewel stays silent for several seconds. «Original parameters in conflict with template. Parameters updated to recorded standards for Bombardment Specialist. Mistress will adjust quickly.»

Well. That's… disconcerting, to say the least. "Why did you do that? I was just fine how I was."

«…Updates were necessary to fulfill wish. Apologize if behavior contrary to desires.»

You glare at the jewel for a moment longer before letting out a sigh. You did ask it to make you this Bombardment Specialist thing, after all, even if you didn't know that was what you were asking at the time. "It's fine."

«I have much gratitude. Request new registration.»

"New registration?" It takes a moment before the jewel's meaning clicks. "That's right, you don't remember your name, do you?"

«Request new registration. Please, Mistress.»

"Okay, okay," you tell it, though you can't help the wince at the address it is using for you. There are certain unfortunate images that word elicits that you really don't want associated with you. "I'll think of a name for you." Just one more thing for you to do between get used to walking again and figuring out what to do next.

But – you can't help but smile as you slowly lift off the rooftop – maybe it can wait until after a bit of flying.

You just won the Superhero Bowl. What are you going to do now?
[ ] Play with yourself – You just got magic powers and a snazzy transformation, but what kind of things can you do with them? It's time to experiment. For science!
[ ] Crack some skulls – Congratulations, you're a cape. Now quit wasting time and get out on the streets where you belong! There are villains who need a good blasting.
[ ] Homeward bound – Well, that was a thing. You better make sure that you didn't dream this whole experience before you start making definite plans. Besides, it's getting late, and you didn't tell Dad you were leaving the house today, remember?
[ ] Bureaucratic nightmare – You aren't sure if you want to join the Wards or not; you never had powers before, so it wasn't a serious concern. Most heroes at least let the PRT know they're around, though, and you might as well get the paperwork over with.

[ ] Name the orphaned jewel
-[ ] Write-in

Silently Watches · Apr 17, 2016

[ ] Homeward bound – Well, that was a thing. You better make sure that you didn't dream this whole experience before you start making definite plans. Besides, it's getting late, and you didn't tell Dad you were leaving the house today, remember?

Set Up! 1.3

The best half-hour of your life passes with you cruising around in the sky high above your home town. Once you stopped fighting the instincts that had been shoved into your mind, flight was amazingly easy. For some reason, you were sure that you were supposed to be more maneuverable than even this, but really? You can't bring yourself to care all that much.

If you have one complaint about this, it's that you'll have to be careful when you're closer to the ground, or you'll have creeps looking up your skirt all the time. Maybe if you run into Glory Girl, you can ask how she deals with that.

Still, all good things must come to an end, and while hanging in the air and watching the last rays of the sun sink under the horizon, you remember that you really do need to get home. You didn't tell your dad that you were going shopping before he left the house, and after your trip to the hospital, you know he's going to start worrying if he comes home and you're gone.

"All right, Perfect Storm," you say softly, "let's go home."

«Full speed ahead, Mistress.»

Yes, that is the name you eventually chose for the jewel. You had considered some that were more noble or distinguished, names like Grimalkin or Aldred or Hecate, but none of them seemed to fit, and while the jewel had not rejected them, per se, it hadn't been especially enthusiastic. It had actually suggested Skyborne Vengeance, which… No. Just no.

Perfect Storm, though? That one you could both agree on. It appreciated the 'adjective-noun' arrangement, and you like the meaning. It was a coincidence that this sapient piece of Tinkertech had been abandoned in that alley. It was a coincidence that you had wandered away from the Market rather than immediately turning around and heading back home the way you had come. It was a coincidence that it was you who was the first to hear its call and find it. It was, as far as you could tell, a coincidence that your explanation of what heroes were meant to do inspired it to give you what it described as a suite of powers all based around being a living piece of magical artillery.

But all those coincidences have come together just right, and as a result, the villains of this city will soon be having a Very Bad Day, capitals intentional.

That thought sparks a snicker, which becomes a chuckle, which in turn grows into full-fledged laughter. God, when was the last time you felt this happy?! Back before high school, before Emma showed herself to be a traitorous bitch, before you came home from that nature camp? Once upon a time, your parents were lucky if your motor-mouth would stop running for five minutes, but recently, it would be a miracle if you said more than ten words over the entire day. It's like you've been living in the middle of a thunderstorm for almost two years, and finally the sun has started to peek out from behind the clouds.
Status (update parameter (personality)): 21%
The ground is little more than a streak below you as you fly to your house. You plummet down with the speed of a diving falcon and pull up at just the last second; the toes of your boots skim the surface of the driveway. Unfortunately, the car parked next to the house warns you that you're too late. Your dad is already home. You need to slip out of your costume and back into your normal clothes before he—

Oh. That might be a problem.

"Hey, Perfect Storm? What did you do with my clothes? I can't walk through the house looking like… like this." Not that what you're wearing is bad, but it's far more daring than anything you would normally wear. If there's one good thing about it, it's that once you start heroing, no one will associate you the strutting cape with you the drab and dreary high school student, and isn't that a sad thought?

«No worries. Civilian garb stored in dimensional pocket. They will store during transformation and return when Barrier Jacket is removed.»

"That's convenient," you mutter. "Okay, then. End the transformation. I need to be normal me for tonight."

Rather than respond, your body glows white before all the light flakes off and disappears to reveal your previous outfit, and now that you are no longer hovering, you drop the last inch to the ground. A weight thumps against your chest, and you look down to see Perfect Storm back in its appearance of a blue jewel, though now it has a silver chain attached from which it hangs around your neck. «Good luck, Mistress,» it offers.

You slip the jewel under your shirt so your dad won't notice it. You really hope you won't need any luck. Opening the door, you walk inside and call out, "Dad? I'm home!"

"Taylor!" He storms out of the kitchen, his face lined with worry. "Where have you been? You weren't here. No note. I thought…" Eyes falling to the floor, he all but collapses into a chair at the table. "I thought something bad had happened to you."

Your heart falls a little at his admission, the lingering exhilaration from your recent flight disappearing. "I didn't mean to scare you. I just ran over to the Market to—" You snap your mouth closed before you can admit that the Trio are still making your life hell. He has a temper, and you know how he will react should he know that Winslow broke their promise that they would make the bullying stop. What's worse, him getting angry won't make any difference other than give him something else to stress himself out over. He has enough problems with finding jobs for all the dock workers without you adding your own burdens to it. "Doing some browsing," you finish weakly.

"…That's fine," he slowly agrees. "Just… Just leave a note or something next time, okay?"

"That's something you need to work on, too."

You didn't mean for him to hear that rebuttal, but apparently you weren't quiet enough. To your surprise, he doesn't even give you a sideways look at your backtalk, but instead he smiles a little. "I suppose I do, don't I?" He looks at you over the rim of his glasses. "You're in a good mood today. Maybe you should go window-shopping more often."

A shrug is the best answer you can give him. It isn't like he'd believe you if you told him that the reason you're so happy is because you found a talking Tinkertech crystal that gave you superpowers and 'updated your parameters'. Instead, you default to the technique you and he have both perfected over the last couple of years: you ignore it. "I'm going to go change. What's for dinner?"

"Nothing fancy. Some burgers I picked up on the way home. Go change, and then we'll eat."

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Where am I?

Who am I?

What is my purpose?

How did I get here?

Where am I supposed to be?

Will someone come for me?

Help me!

Help me!

Help me!

Help me!

Help m—

Who are you?

What do you want?

Will you help me?

You will.

I will help you, too.

I will give you whatever you want.

I will love you forever.

Just don't send me away again.

Mistress.

You turn over in bed and fall back to sleep, the blue jewel on your nightstand glowing warmly.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

January 30
When you get up the next morning, the house is unusually silent. Normally your dad is already moving around downstairs when you wake, but no matter how hard you listen, you can't hear his chair squeaking or the rustle of the newspaper or the tap of his coffee mug on the table. You throw your bedroom door open and stomp out, and just as quickly you rush back inside and grab your pajamas off the floor. You know you put them on last night before you went to bed, so why did you wake up without them?!

Once appropriately attired so as not to give your only living parent a heart attack, you descend the stairs at a far more sedate pace. The kitchen is cold and empty, but a patch of yellow on the table catches your eye.

Got called in.
Merchants spotted near the office.
Probably nothing, but better to be safe.
I should be back around lunch.

"Lunch, huh?" you mutter with a glance over at the clock, which reads 8:12. "What do you think we should do until he gets back, Storm?"

«We can do anything,» the jewel chimes in its eternally chipper voice. «Memory recovery at 14 percent. Training simulations now available.»

Training simulations? You nod thoughtfully. You skipped out on practicing with your powers last night because of the time, but now you have several hours with nothing to do. These simulations could be incredibly convenient, but you don't know how well practicing inside a simulator would translate to real life. And now that you think about it, you did hear a rumor that indie heroes needed to register to keep the PRT from mistaking them for villains. Or you could use that time to find some drug dens or something to destroy tonight when your dad's asleep.

So many options! How can you pick one?!

+1 to Aerial Combat (1/6 novice).
I'm being generous here. It won't be so easy to level this skill later.
So much time and so little to see… Scratch that. Reverse it.
[ ] Explore the city's underbelly – A good hunter knows her prey's domain. From listening to the places your dad always told you not to go, you have a decent idea where crime can be found.
[ ] Visit the PRT – They probably don't want their Sunday morning disturbed, but you don't really want to go there, either. It all balances out.
[ ] Try out your new powers – You were a good girl last night and came home when you were supposed to. You've earned the right to have a little fun.
-[ ] Real world applications – It's your first time, so make it something special.
-[ ] Test the simulation – All the destruction of real life, none of the mess to clean up.

I will add the votes for Try out your new powers together, so don't worry that having two sub-options will put that choice at a disadvantage.

First skill purchase because Silver sun 17 is made of awesome and has the devil's own luck.
[ ] Petty Cure – Mild healing spell that can be applied to others as well as self. Restores minor injuries (cuts and bruises primarily). Major injuries are unaffected.
[ ] Frost Beam – Magical laser traps all targets in its path underneath a layer of ice. Beware of friendly fire.
[ ] Guardian Beast – Uplift a single animal's consciousness and give it combat and human forms. Like Mid-Childan Familiars, Guardian Beasts are totally loyal to their masters unless a truly unforgivable act is committed. Take note that though it will have its own Linker Core, it still fills it from yours.

Silently Watches · Apr 19, 2016

[ ] Try out your new powers – You were a good girl last night and came home when you were supposed to. You've earned the right to have a little fun.
-[ ] Test the simulation – All the destruction of real life, none of the mess to clean up.

Set Up! 1.4

Settling down onto the couch, now with day clothes on, you close your eyes and let out a sigh. Perfect Storm said you need to relax and let yourself feel the connection between you two to enter its simulations, but you don't have much confidence that it will work. Telepathy is impossible, no matter what the jewel may believe, and if that is the skill you need to do this—

Bright sunlight blinds you for a moment, and you blink your eyes to clear them.

Where am I, and can I live here?, you can't help but wonder as you look out from your place on top of a cliff at the clear blue ocean in front of you. Sandbars glinting white are spread out here and there all along the coastline, and without knowing how, you are sure that this is just one small island among many in this area.

"Welcome home, Mistress."

You spin around, flinging yourself off the cliff and into the air reflexively. Lurking behind you is a translucent blue silhouette, albeit one with what looks like four tentacles or spidery legs stretching out from its back. Or front, maybe? It isn't like you can tell. "Welcome home?" you question instead. "I've never been here before. What is this place?"

"…Unknown," the figure replies, this time in the androgynous voice you've come to expect from Perfect Storm rather than the deep, flat voice it just used. "Memory file is corrupt. This is the most recently accessed background file for training simulation."

"That's… all right, I suppose." Getting your feet back under you – both metaphorically and literally, as you were still floating in the air at an angle – you prompt, "This training you mentioned. How does it work?"

"Look over there." You turn to see a half-dozen people spread out in front of you. Each of them is wearing armor that you would expect to see in a museum rather than in the real world, though you also notice that the plates look to be more form-fitting than those of medieval knights and that there are obviously female figures mixed in among them, these wearing skirts of overlapping metal flaps like something from the Roman era. The other oddity you see is that none of the people have faces. "These are your enemies. Focus your will and your desire to hit them."

That seems simple enough. You mentally add masks you've seen in the news and online to the figures, and lo and behold, they appear on the targets. Kaiser's fits with the armor of one man far too well, and the woman beside him gets Oni Lee's demon face. Another woman loses her armor amidst the white glow you associate with Purity. The biggest and bulkiest of course wears Lung's dragon head. Skidmark's stained bandana and Hookwolf's lupine disguise round out the looks. Now, now you're ready to hit them.

An orangish triangle, the lines made up of an unrecognizable script, spreads out below your feet; at the points and in the middle are circles, each with a large symbol proudly in their centers. In front of you, three fist-sized balls of yellow-orange light that look like miniature suns form.

"Shoot the bullets."

"Flare Shooter," you snarl, the words and tone coming to you out of the blue, but you find them appropriate nonetheless. You should be angry. This should hurt. "Fire!"

The fireballs, the bullets, become streaks of light and smash into three figures. Purity and Skidmark vanish, but Lung is left standing.

"Good shooting," Perfect Storm cheers. "But not all enemies are soft. Some wear physical armor on top of Barrier Jackets. Destroy that, and they can be killed."

"Killed?" You glance behind you at the silhouette. "Heroes don't kill. If all the capes were arrested, the gangs would fall apart. Do you know any spells that I can use that won't kill?"

"My combat spells are default lethal. With practice, spells may be modified at time of shooting."

"That's good enough, I suppose. The spell to destroy their armor"—and you can't believe you're saying that word with a straight face—"do I have to worry about killing people with that one?"

"Intelligent drones and cybernetic organisms dependent on life support systems will be irreparably damaged. Mistress will need training if you wish to spare them. Give it a try. Call out—"

Just like before, you know the words even though you have never said them before in your life. "Rust Shooter." You create a single bullet, larger and acid green. "Fire."

Is it wrong that you are so satisfied when Kaiser is left without the chest plate of his armor? A single Flare Shooter makes him vanish a second later.

Hookwolf and Lung vanish from the sky to be replaced by fifteen or eighteen all-red figures that immediately begin floating around. "Enemies will not stay in one place. It is important to know how to lead the target before firing. You will then learn how to position yourself in the air to take advantage of enemy position and lines of sight."

Oh yes, you're liking this more and more. A sharp smile appears as five micro-suns pop into existence. "Well, then, let's do this. Flare Shooter!"
Status (update parameter (personality)): 34%

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Your eyes flutter open when you someone walk through the front door, and after a moment you think to check the clock. 2:39? Were you really running through those simulations for six hours?

The sudden cramp in your stomach and the growl it lets out now that you are paying attention to it again confirms that yes, you really were.

"Taylor! Are you here?!"

You pick yourself up from the couch and walk into the front hall. "I'm right here— Dad! Are you okay?!"

He waves his hand at you, which offers little comfort. His shirt is covered in white dust and splinters, tears scattered about, but what really worries you is the enormous red stain covering his left side. "I'm fine. This isn't mine."

"What happened?"

Sighing, he moves over to the kitchen table and drops into a chair. "I told you that the Merchants were spotted around the office, right?" You nod. "Well, it wasn't just a few dealers. They had Skidmark and Mush along for the ride. That attracted the Empire's attention, so not only did we have the Merchants causing a ruckus, who should show up but Hookwolf and Stormtiger and Cricket?"

God, a cape fight right on top of the Dockworker's Association? "Is everyone okay?" Wait, stupid question. "Where did the blood come from?"

Your dad looks down at himself, almost in surprise that he looks like he was in a slaughterhouse accident. "Oh. It's… Tony's, I think. Maybe Jacob's. Mush threw Hookwolf into the front of the building, and it collapsed on top of us. That's when I… I mean, we were too busy digging everyone out to see what happened, but the Empire drove the Merchants away and escaped. We've been getting all the injured to the hospital and talking to the police since then."

If you needed any more proof that wishing to a hero was the right thing, here it is. The dockworkers, people you've known all your life, could have died today. Your dad could have died today! Worry taking over, you take several steps toward him. You need to make sure he's really okay.

"No!" He jumps up from his chair and hastily backs away. "Just… stay over there, okay? I need you to do that for me."

"Dad? What are you talking about?"

"Please, Taylor. Don't come any closer."

"You're scaring me, Dad," you tell him.

He gives you a weak, tremulous smile. "I'm scared, too. But I need you to stay there."

"What's going on?!"

Another step toward him.

"Don't!" Abruptly, the tension he's carried through the entire conversation drops away, but he doesn't look relieved. He looks panic-stricken. "Oh God, Taylor, I'm sorr—"

"Telepathic intrusion resisted."

Your dad stares at you, you stare at him, and you both ask, "What?"

He is the first to come to his senses, partly because you are a little busy with the dreadful suspicion you now know what he was so frightened about. "Taylor, who was that?"

"Um…" you answer eloquently. A beat passes before you pull the jewel out from under your shirt. "Dad, this is Perfect Storm. Storm, this is my dad."

When did your life get so strange that making introductions between your likely-a-cape father and your probably-not-magic Tinkertech AI was an idea that made sense?

"Greetings, father of Mistress."

"…Hi." He opens and closes his mouth, whatever words he wants to say not coming out, before he manages, "Are you… Did you build him?"

"No, I didn't. I don't know who did, but I found him… it… We met yesterday when I was coming home from the Market." You looked away, embarrassed that you had been caught in a lie so quickly. "It's why I was home late. I spent some time flying around."

"You can fly."

"Fly and shoot. Will do more in the future. Mistress has talent."

You blush at the praise. Even if it's just a machine that's probably programed to do so, it's nice to hear that someone believes in you.

His question is so quiet that you can barely hear him. "Can… Can I see?"

He wants to see you fly? To shoot targets? Or does he maybe just want to see something to prove this isn't a joke? "Perfect Storm? Deploy Barrier Jacket."

A single chime come from the pendant, and then you are engulfed in white light. The glow flakes away to show off your costume. Grinning wide at his stupefied expression, you brace your left hand on your cocked hip and twirl the staff held in your right. "Not what I would have picked for myself, but it grows on you."

He simply stares for a moment longer before glancing away. "You just keep looking more and more like your mother, you know that?"

"You're a cape, too, aren't you?" you ask. "It's why you were so worried about me getting close. Telepathic intrusion…"

"I… wasn't entirely honest earlier," he admits. "Hookwolf tore through the office, and I just… blacked out for a minute. When I came to, I could feel the guys around me, and I knew I could tell them what to do. I wasn't moving them like puppets or anything," he adds quickly, "but more like… It's like I was a foreman on a job site, but instead of having to tell everyone what to do, I could just think it and they knew what I wanted. They started working to find everybody buried in the rubble or watching the fight to make sure it didn't get any closer. When Mush threw a steel beam at Stormtiger and he dodged…" Your dad shakes his head with a slowly growing smile. "No one even said anything. We all knew where it was going and got out of the way. It was just… amazing."

"That's why you didn't want me nearby? Because you were afraid you'd take control of me? It doesn't sound like I'd even notice."

His smile disappears, and he takes off his glasses and polishes them in an obvious attempt to avoid answering. "It's a range thing. If you got too close, I'd take control. I can focus on it, try to hold it all in, but it's hard. It's so hard, and I can't do it for very long. The guys who got caught and worked outside it for a while said that it faded, and I can feel that when it happens, but they also said they could tell what was their thoughts and what was me telling them what to think. Some of them… It scared them, and I can't blame them for that. If I was on the other end, it'd scare me, too." He sighs. "I promised them that if they wanted to go somewhere else to work, I'd give them a good reference, no matter how hard they really worked. I think we're going to lose a few of them.

"I… We haven't been… close, not for a long time. Not since Annette…" He squeezes his eyes tight for a moment, and you can feel your own eyes itching. "And that's my fault. I know that. She was loads better at this whole parent thing than I'll ever be. If I had been… She wouldn't have left you to take care of yourself like I did. But even if we're not close, I don't know what I'd do if you were afraid of me."

You aren't much of a hugger – neither you nor your dad are – but right now, you dearly want to walk over and embrace him nonetheless. It's only the fact that he won't handle it well at the moment that stops you.

Still, you can't help but consider his earlier phrasing. Some. Not all; not many. Some. "And the rest of the guys? They were okay with it?"

"Okay with it?" He barks out a laugh. "They loved it. Said it was like nothing else they ever experienced before. Trusting the man next to you like you'd trust yourself, everyone working together with the same goal." His voice drops off as his eyes stare at nothing. "We were united, kiddo, like we haven't been in a long time. All those thoughts like 'He's going to half-ass it till the day's out' or 'If I get hurt in a minute, could I count on him to come over and help'? They just vanished. We weren't just united, either; we had a purpose. Do you know how long it's been since we had something solid to work toward?"

"Twelve years." Your voice is quiet. It's hard not to know the year of the Boat Graveyard's creation, not when your father is head of hiring for the dockworkers' union in a city without a working port. After Leviathan showed up on the scene in 1996, international shipping quickly died off to the point that, three years later, the business was dangerous enough that the sailors organized a strike to let the corporate bigwigs know how angry they were at the low wages and high risks involved. The shipping companies ordered the ships be anchored and wages withheld until the strike was resolved, riots ensued, and eventually at least one ship was deliberately sunk.

That had been the true death knell for many of the blue collar jobs in Brockton Bay. Your dad did his best to secure work for the union, primarily manual labor because that's all there really was to be found, but your entire life you heard about this man or that man leaving in search of better pay. Sometimes that involved moving to other cities, sometimes changing jobs. Most often, it meant joining up with the gangs as henchmen.

"What are you planning to do now?" you ask. "With the office trashed, you'll have to find someplace to rent…" He intently avoids your eyes. "Except you don't plan on doing that, either."

"No." A deep breath, and then he turns to look at you. "We all knew staying here was a dead end, but we didn't really have a choice in the matter. Now? Now we have a better option."

"You're going to form a gang." Damn it, Dad. Don't do this.

"A gang?" he scoffs. "No. Vigilantes, mercenaries, independent heroes, whatever you want to call it. If we raid the Merchants' drug stashes or the ABB's brothels or the Empire's dog-fighting rings – stuff the Protectorate doesn't think is important enough for them to deal with – we'll all make a lot more money than we are now and clean up the city at the same time."

You frown at that. Joining the Protectorate wasn't something you were itching to do, but it was on the list of options to consider sooner or later. "That's a little harsh, isn't it?"

"If they were doing their jobs, fights like the one today wouldn't happen. Good men wouldn't have to be sent to the hospital. Tony's probably going to lose his arm unless they bring Panacea in. 'Harsh' is me being generous right now."

It is hard to argue that point.

"Some of the guys have already come up with a name for us," he adds with a short laugh. "The Brockton Bay Privateers. We sound like a baseball team more than a bunch of heroes."

"They want to be heroes even though they don't have powers?" On the one hand, that sounds practically suicidal. On the other? You have to give them credit for their courage, if nothing else. "They realize how dangerous it'll be, right?"

"They know, and I tried to convince them otherwise. As Kurt said, though, the gangs aren't all capes, or even mostly capes. There are only a few of them, and they can't be everywhere."

"Except Oni Lee."

He nods. "All right, except Oni Lee. But most of their manpower? That's normal folks. A bunch of us, armed with clubs or guns and sharing everything we see? We'd have the edge over them. If a cape does come in, I'll be there and can take control of them. Imagine the gangs' heavy hitters stopping crime for a change."

Lung, Hookwolf, Purity, a full-powered Mush, and Fenja and Menja, all working together? Oh, you can imagine it. It's terrifying.

"But you're right. It isn't like we can fight all of them. Purity, Rune, Stormtiger. None of us can fly."

No way. He wasn't seriously asking…

"I'd tell you I don't want you going out and putting yourself at risk, but you'd call me a hypocrite." Your dad rubs a hand over his balding head. "And you'd be right to. Still, you're fifteen, and if you're going to be a hero, I'd prefer you doing it as part of a team. It just so happens that we have a new team forming that would love a second cape on its roster."

He gets a goofy grin. "Kurt called Lacey in to help with the planning, and she suggested I go by Captain when I'm in costume so it'd continue the pirate theme. If you don't have a name yet, I'm sure she could suggest something. Arsenal or Bombardment or Broadside— Or you could forget I said that one," he adds hurriedly when he sees your unamused glare.

Dismissing his atrocious name suggestions, you shake your head. "Yeah, about that. I've already picked out my name. Call me…"

Yes, I'm aware that Danny doesn't sound very Danny-ish here. Whether that's a good thing or a bad thing is up to you. Though to be fair, he did take a couple of hours to think about all the things he needs to tell his daughter before she possibly ran away scared that her father's going to Master her like mini-Heartbreaker.

+1 training to Flare Shooter (1/2 adept).
+2 training to Aerial Combat (3/6 adept).
Guardian Beast ritual learned.
You wouldn't have gotten these boosts with Play with yourself, by the way. Merchant interrupt.
About that job offer…
[ ] Become the Privateers' first mate – Joining the new family business might be pretty fun. If nothing else, you'll always have undue influence over the boss.
[ ] Peer pressure – He may not think much of their effectiveness, but you'll do more good for the city and the people by being affiliated with the Wards.
[ ] Stay single – Join a team? Never gonna happen! You're on a one-woman crusade against the gangs, and a team just raises the chance of friendly fire.

What's your cape name?
[ ] Write-in

Just buying spells isn't enough to reach your full potential as a mage. Since you are based off a Belkan-era bombardier, your attack spells are inherently lethal, and you aren't as efficient with them as you could be. By spending time training, either in the real world or in simulations (or OOC by making fan art or omake), you can learn how to use these spells to the best of your ability and even how to cast them without the aid of your Device. At master status, you can also cast multiple spells at the same time, so it is to your advantage to grind those skills!

You wanted to know how you could get in a fight with Danny and not know who he was at the time? This is how. Had you tried out your powers or talked to the PRT, which would have involved you tagging along on patrol with Shadow Stalker and Vista, you would have encountered Skidmark and Trainwreck in the Boat Graveyard and arrested them. Had you chosen to fight crime, you would have attacked one of the Empire's dog-fighting rings, pissed off Hookwolf in the process, and then escaped before he could puree you. Either Squealer and Mush or Hookwolf's group would have been more aggressive when this fight broke out as a result, and some of the dockworkers would have died before Danny Triggered. The Privateers would still be formed, but they would choose more permanent solutions when fighting the gangs.

Due to all this, Danny would use the capes still standing after the next Endbringer battle to try to wipe out some of the gangs' heavy hitters. Since you are unaffected by his powers, Alexandria would demand you end him for breaking the Truce and to free the enslaved heroes. Cue the horrifying reveal of Danny's blankly staring eyes when his mask was pulled off.

Technically, a fight much like this one could have happened in canon without anything changing, but because Perfect Storm's crash-landing in Brockton Bay and its subsequent telepathic distress call prevented you from Triggering in the locker, Queen Administrator was still unattached and could go back to her first crush rather than settling for you.

Silently Watches · Apr 23, 2016

[ ] Become the Privateers' first mate – Joining the new family business might be pretty fun. If nothing else, you'll always have undue influence over the boss.
[ ] Calamity Witch

Set Up! 1.5

January 31
You do your best to ignore the incessant giggles of Madison and her little retinue. This is a trick they've tried before and often: they will keep making noise until you look their way, and then they will point at you as though you were the source of their amusement the entire time. On those rare days when their behavior hasn't made you want to scream, you've wondered just what it is that they get out of mocking you. Are their lives really so boring, so pointless, that they have nothing else to entertain themselves with besides getting a rise out of you? Is being a high school bully the highlight of their day, and as soon as the bell rings to dismiss classes, they descend downwards into a grey, nihilistic abyss? Or is there just something so broken in their heads that they can't experience happiness unless it comes at someone else's expense?

If that were the case, you would almost pity them. 'Almost' because your vibrant imagination is currently busy transposing their faces onto the simulation dummies you blasted apart with Flare Shooter.

«Projectile imminent from 5 o'clock.»

And this is the reason you have trouble coming up with sympathy no matter what the reasons behind them tormenting you are. Reaching into the instincts that are becoming more and more familiar, you twist your head backwards into a circle, tossing your hair at the same time that the spitball someone – likely Madison – sends through the space you previously occupied. It strikes Ki-Woo, one of the most obvious ABB members at Winslow, in the back of the head, but when he looks back to see who hit him, you have already returned your eyes to your notes. From the corner of your eye, you look behind to see that Madison is staring at him with wide eyes, a wide straw still conspicuous in her hands.

Serves her right.

By the time the bell announcing the start of the lunch hour rings, several other Asian students are glaring at Madison, and even Mr. Gladly has figured out that something is about to go down. Not that he will step in to prevent it, of course. The World Issues teacher goes out of his way to be seen as the cool teacher, the one all the popular students hang out with when class is over, but just because he's a spineless attention-whore doesn't mean he's an idiot. If the ABB is about to kick off a riot by stabbing one of his favorite students, you would put all the money you still have that he would get as far away from ground zero as he possibly could.

You swing your backpack over your shoulder and hustle out the door with everyone else. They are headed to the cafeteria, but you are looking for somewhere a little less crowded where you can eat your lunch in peace. You'll have to do it quickly, though. Madison is sure to tell Emma and Sophia that you evaded her little prank, and you know from personal experience that dodging one attack will only make the next one wor—

No. No, you won't run and hide. Not again.

You stop in your tracks as you try to figure out where that sudden flash of disgust and determination came from. It doesn't take long to puzzle out. You are a hero now. You made a pledge to drive the gangs out of Brockton Bay, and in return you were given the sheer firepower necessary to transform that pledge into established fact. You even claimed for yourself the ominous-sounding and mildly melodramatic moniker 'Calamity Witch' so that just the mere mention of your name will send an instinctive shiver down villains' spines.

And you're going to let yourself be pushed around by a bunch of powerless little schoolgirls?

To hell with that!

You wish you could say that you swept into the cafeteria with a flourish, all the guys and even some of the girls turning their heads to follow you as you strut across the floor. That doesn't happen, of course; a few people do look up briefly when you walk through the doors, but they quickly dismiss you and return their attention to their food. Maybe if you ditched the hoodie? Even with it hanging open, it is still bulky and shapeless. But you don't really want all the attention; you just want them to stop thinking you are someone they can walk over.

Claiming an unoccupied table, you pull your brown paper bag out of your backpack and empty it. A sandwich and an apple; nothing spectacular, but as you take the first bite, you think it's the best lunch you've had in a long while. Maybe it's because of the lack of eau de toilet.

"What does she think she's doing here?"

"Yeah, doesn't she know this is where people come to eat lunch?"

"Maybe she doesn't realize just how much she smells."

You roll your eyes. And obviously Emma's pet bitches would come over before you've had time to actually eat. Haven't they ever heard of basic courtesy?

It's not like they have anything meaningful to say. You tune them out, your mind instead wandering to the strange dream you had the previous night. You were flying over the archipelago that had served as the backdrop to the training simulations, but now there were small villages scattered about that were burning to the ground. While you surveyed the carnage, people soared up from the ground with, hard as it was to believe, swords and lances and axes. They were wearing the same style of armor the simulation's targets had worn, and you never stopped to ask them what happened or what they were doing there. A green-scaled human dived in close to keep them occupied while you waved your hand and conjured up a swarm of green and orange bullets, and then you smashed a Rust Shooter and a Flare Shooter into all of them. You should have felt disgusted when blood and ruined flesh rained down onto the flames, but you didn't. All you felt at the time was rage and hatred, though the feelings had been strangely muted, as if you were looking at a memory from long ago.

Perfect Storm hadn't known what to tell you when you questioned it about the dream, but you have a suspicion you know what the answer is. It had said that the 'template' it installed was named Calamity Witch, and from various hints it dropped, you wonder if there was a real person whose powers yours are based on. Are these her memories? Maybe she had fought gangs in her corner of the globe – perhaps Africa, considering the array of warlords that had carved up the continent into little fiefdoms and the barrenness of the landscape in your dream – and somehow copied herself into Perfect Storm so she could give her powers to someone else who wanted to do the same?

If that were true, it begged the question 'How?!' for any number of reasons, but you highly doubt that she would have done this on a whim. Most likely she did it because she was dying or knew she didn't have long to live before the gangs she fought killed her in retaliation. If true, that means that you aren't just the recipient of her gift; you are, for all practical purposes, her heir. You owe it to her memory to succeed where she failed.

"Taylor!"

You glance up at your former best friend's irritated shout. Several of the girls around her are staring at you nonplussed; how long were they hurling jabs your way without any reaction? "Sorry, I wasn't paying you any attention. Did you want something?"

She stares at you in disbelief. There are other emotions mixed in that you can just barely spot: the wrinkle of her nose from disgust, the furrow between her eyebrows from anger, the red on her cheeks from embarrassment. If you didn't know better, you'd think that her displeasure is because this is all supposed to be some kind of perverse theater and you're refusing to say your lines.

Then again, maybe that is all this is to her. Her expression certainly lends weight to your earlier musings about the mindset of bullies.

Rather than respond to you directly, she directs her gaze away. Downwards, specifically. "That's a nice necklace, Taylor. Too nice for something you could ever afford. Hey, Julia, didn't you have a necklace that looked like that go missing last week?" She reaches out as though to grab it.

Your fingers wrap around her wrist in an iron grip. Too many of your things Emma has trashed or stolen over the last eighteen months, but your Device? No chance. You would see all these girls in front of you dead before you considered it for even a second.

"I'm really not in the mood to deal with your shit today, Emma," you tell her in a soft voice, an ugly smile sliding onto your face. "Go away."

"You don't get to tell me what—"

Her voice cuts off when you squeeze, digging your fingertips between the bones of her forearms. She has Sophia to thank for how you know how to do this, which is an irony that makes your smile grow. "You know, I've been wondering something. As soon as we started here, you made it your life's goal to bully me. Why?"

She yanks her hand out of your grasp. "Because there are some people who don't deserve even being alive. They're wastes who drag everyone around them down into worthlessness just by being there." She scoffs as her own words leave a foul taste in her mouth. "That's what you are. Even the Merchants would be too disgusted by you to let you join them."

Your teeth peek out from your grin just a little. She's right, in a way; once you start wiping the Merchants out, just like you're going to do to the Empire and the ABB, they probably wouldn't let you join up. "You should have let me know you thought that earlier. If I had known, I wouldn't have wasted all that time being your friend."

"You wasted your time?" Emma flips her red hair behind her in a strange echo of what you did in Gladly's class. "You wouldn't have had any friends at all if I hadn't let you hang on to me all the time. I was the one whose time was wasted."

"You're the one going out of her way to do things to me. How much time did you spend on the locker?"

"Clearly not enough if you still think you're welcome here."

"If you want to think that, fine," you say with a shrug. This was all just more petty bullshit. Why had you ever thought this important? "Consider your 'lesson' delivered. Bye-bye."

The last bite of sandwich disappears into your mouth, and you grab the apple with one hand and your backpack with the other. Emma and her posse have pushed up right next to your table to hem you in and make themselves look more threatening, and because of that, you barely have room to stand up without bumping into them. Too bad for Emma that you really don't give a shit anymore. An unexpected shove with your shoulder sends her backwards, and with your right foot slipped between her own on the sly, she topples to the linoleum floor. Sophia takes a step forward, her fists clenched, but then she stops and sneers at you, cruel triumph apparent in her gaze.

The crunch of the apple is all you hear when you walk out the front doors of the school. That was a mistake, you know; Emma is sure to run to the principal and complain that you shoved her for no reason, and she'll have a gaggle of witnesses who will repeat her story. By the end of school today, tomorrow for sure, you'll probably have a week-long suspension waiting for you, and that is just more time for the Trio to come up with some fresh retaliation.

«Why did you not defeat them?» Perfect Storm asks, the first words it has spoken since you arrived this morning. You really did not want to let the world know that you have a piece of self-aware Tinkertech in your possession.

"Because if I had started a fight, I might have won, but then that would just play up to the story they're going to tell the principal. It's going to be bad enough as it is already."

Your Device chimes in apparent agreement. «Do not fight enemies on their terms. Bring them to a battlefield of your choosing.»

"I wish I could do that." With a sad smile, you pat the jewel. "Unfortunately, this place doesn't work like that. They're only going to cause problems here, where they know they can do whatever they want and not get punished for it."

«Why do you stay?»

"Why do I—? Storm, I can't just not go to school! I have to go if I want to graduate." Though with the Trio stealing or destroying your homework, it isn't like your grades are anything approaching good right now, anyway. You were barely passing when school let out for Christmas, and come May, you'd be surprised if you don't have to repeat sophomore year.

«Can Mistress not learn on your own?»

A moment to figure out what it's asking, and you shake your head. "I can get a GED, but I still need to know the information, and all textbooks for my classes? Those are expensive—"

«Accessing local electromagnetic communication network,» Perfect Storm interrupts. «Accessing accounting documents and personnel-specific documents. Fifty-eight documents named. Accessing global communication network.» You stare at the jewel in shock, now starting to understand just what the term 'Intelligent Device' really means. «Digital copies found. Would you like me to start download, Mistress?»

"Can you find Arcadia's book list, too?" you can't help but ask.

«Searching…. Accessing Arcadia High School communication network. Accessing general listing.» Seriously, it just hacked through Arcadia's firewalls that quickly? «120 additional documents found. Digital copies available for all 178 documents.»

You wrestle with your decision for several seconds, which is far less than you know you should need. "You know what? Do it." You don't know all the requirements you would need to meet to qualify for homeschooling, but it probably isn't that hard, and you've heard that sixteen-year-olds can take the test for their GED. Of course, that means getting your dad's permission, which requires telling him about all this….

Then again, it isn't like he wouldn't figure it out all on his own, anyway. You suspect that he's going to pay a lot more attention to you now that everything about you and Perfect Storm and him is out in the open. Ironic, isn't it, that it's the pair of you taking on secret identities that's finally drawing you closer together?

Your smile this time is wide and genuine. Zipping your coat up, you walk through the gates and away from Winslow for the last time. Your entire afternoon has just opened up for the foreseeable future, and there are all sorts of interesting things you can do with your free time.

Don't get mad at me! It was either pull Taylor out of school or have her eventually go Carrie on the whole damn place. As you can imagine, Calamity Witch could do a hell of a lot of damage to a bunch of unsuspecting civilians.

Playing hooky
[ ] Check in with your new team– Dad did say the Privateers were going to start their raids as soon as possible, and right now, you'd love to have something to shoot. Especially after you tell him you're dropping out of Winslow.
[ ] Search for crime to fight on your own – Sure, you're part of a group, but you need to prove to yourself that you can do this.
-[ ] Keep your eyes peeled for anything
-[ ] Choose a gang to wipe out
--[ ] Write-in
[ ] Get the paperwork for official independent hero team status – It's a good thing you didn't talk to the PRT the night you found Perfect Storm, isn't it? Your dad may not like you speaking up for the team, but it needs to be done. Better to ask for forgiveness than permission.
[ ] Research homeschooling and G.E.D.s – You're done with Winslow, but you still need proof that you're getting an education. The last thing you want is for your heroing to be curtailed because you're too busy dodging truant officers to look for crime.

Silently Watches · Apr 27, 2016

[ ] Check in with your new team – Dad did say the Privateers were going to start their raids as soon as possible, and right now, you'd love to have something to shoot. Especially after you tell him you're dropping out of Winslow.
-[ ] Still, despite wanting to shoot something, perhaps it would be better to go from there to get the paperwork for official Independent Hero Team status first. You just need to get your Dad's approval for it, since he's the team leader.
-[ ] Meanwhile, ask Perfect Storm to start compiling the paperwork for homeschooling and GEDs. You can start working on it this evening.

Set Up! 1.6

The Dockworkers Association office really does look awful from your vantage point floating overhead. The entire front of the building has collapsed, and while the dockworkers have cleared out enough of the rubble to rescue everyone who had been trapped inside and to slip inside for any personal belongings, it still looks like a tornado blew through it. In hindsight, it's a good thing your dad got powers; if he hadn't, this very well might be the end of the DWA.

You're not here to admire the scenery, though. You let go of your flight power and plummet like a stone, the ground racing up to greet you. Kicking it back on at the last possible second, you twist in midair and land lightly on your toes. A wide grin appears; that never gets old.

Your aerial acrobatics have caught the attention of several of the dockworkers hauling around debris outside, and two of them are now walking towards you. They are both carrying heavy scowls, which is a good thing as well as a bad thing. It's good because that means that your dad did not tell everyone about your real identity; most of the men would not be willing to take orders from a fifteen-year-old girl, even though you are a cape, and those who would wouldn't want to bring you along when they go after the gangs. It's bad because they probably think you're here to cause trouble.

Thankfully, that's an easy misconception to fix. "Hey, boys!" you call out to the pair, a sneaky idea making you try something. From looking at your body and your costume in the bathroom mirror, you know that while you still look like you, you're different enough that most people probably would not recognize you, but maybe if you act differently, too, it will throw them off even more. You just need to make sure no one will call you out on your act. You throw on the best coquettish smile you can, swing your staff around in a slow circle before laying it across your shoulders, and lean backwards nonchalantly. "I was wondering if you can give me a little help."

The younger of the men, maybe in his mid-twenties, nods, but the older man continues frowning at you. "Depends on what kind of help you want."

"This older guy found me yesterday and said you guys could use someone with my particular skills. Called himself Captain." A spark of realization lights in their eyes. "Any idea where I can find him?"

The second man jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the three trailers set up in the parking lot. "He's in the middle one. Knock and wait to be told you can enter. You won't like it if you just barge in."

"I'll keep it in mind." You hesitate for a moment, gathering the necessary courage, and then you strut between them, throwing a wink at the younger man as you pass. "Later, handsome."

From the corner of your own eye, you can see him staring at you before his gaze drops a little lower. It lingers there only a moment or two, and then the older man slaps him hard on the shoulder and breaks the moment.

Pink stains your cheeks even as a giddy little smile lifts the corners of your mouth. You can't believe that worked! That isn't something you ever would have done before finding Perfect Storm and getting powers, but then again, before all this you didn't have a body you would expect to find alongside Emma's in fashion magazines. Add in the self-confidence you had thought lost forever after your mom's accident and Emma's betrayal and this sassy streak you never knew you had, and suddenly you're having more fun just living life than you can remember or even believed possible!
Status (update parameter (personality)): 63%
Knocking a little rhythm on the door of the trailer, you don't wait for a response before you walk in. You don't know what you're expecting, maybe your dad doing paperwork or making calls, but it certainly is not the sight that greets you. He stares at you in embarrassment, and you tilt your head and look him up and down. "You never told me you were part of the Ren Faire scene."

"Who the hell are you?" demands the woman standing next to the far wall of the trailer, a heavy blue coat with brass buttons hanging from a second-hand mannequin nearby. She is a giant of a woman, taller than your or your dad and nearly twice as wide at the shoulder as him. People would probably mistake her for one of the dockworkers if it were not for the hair hanging down to her waist and the fact that she is incredibly top-heavy. As much as you regret your own flat chest, you would not consider trading busts with her.

Your dad sighs and asks you, "You remember Lacey, don't you? Kurt's wife?" You nod. "Lacey, I know it's been a couple of years since you saw her, but that's Taylor."

"Taylor? Really?" He nods, and Lacey looks at you with new eyes. "Holy hell, girl, how old are you?"

"Fifteen."

"Woulda pegged you for eighteen in that getup. Maybe seventeen, but that's pushing it. And you let her wear that?"

"It wasn't exactly my choice," answers your dad in a sardonic voice. "Annette always warned me you have to pick your battles with teenage girls, and that goes double when they can shoot you with lasers."

Lacey looks at you in shock and maybe a little bit of nervousness. Trying to lighten the mood, you grin and ask, "So does that mean I can stay out later than nine on school nights now?"

"Don't count on it. That's a battle I'm still willing to fight." You and Lacey both laugh. "And speaking of school, why aren't you in class?"

Your smile fades. "You might want to sit down for this one."

"Oh, great."

He walks deeper into the trailer and sits down in a chair at the far end. Now that you're looking, you can see a thick line of bright yellow paint stretching across the floor, and poking your head out the window shows that a circle of the same color goes around that end of the trailer. "You figured out your range?"

"Sixteen feet. Come inside that, and you're close enough that I'll take control of you whether I want to or not." The faint tension in his shoulders fades as, presumably, he lets go of the rein he has been holding on his powers so Lacey could dress him up in the thick black pants, heavy boots, and puffy white shirt he is currently sporting. "I'm sitting down. Why aren't you in school?"

"I dropped out."

"What?!"

You hold up your hands when he jumps to his feet, Perfect Storm's staff form hanging obediently in the air next to you. Lacey can't seem to decide if she should stare at him, you, or it. "I just couldn't stand dealing with the bullies anymore. If they kept messing with me, I don't know that I wouldn't smash a Flare Shooter in Emma's face, and going Carrie on a high school wouldn't be a very good reputation for a new hero, now would it?"

"Emma? Your best friend Emma?"

"My ex–best friend Emma who spent the last year and a half making my life a living hell." He stares at you in confusion and disappointment, to which you shrug helplessly. "You had enough to deal with with finding jobs for the dockworkers and paying the bills you tried to keep me from seeing. I didn't want to burden you any further."

Your dad blushes at the mention of the bills, but he rallies quickly. "Burden? Taylor, I'm your father; if you can't handle something on your own, you're supposed to share it with me so I can help you."

You could barely keep yourself afloat, let alone me, too, you think but carefully do not say. The two of you decided last night that you are going to do your best to fix your strained relationship, and reminding him of that, no matter how true it is, would not help you in that goal. "It doesn't really matter now, though, does it? I'm done with Winslow."

"You still need to get an education—"

"Already taken care of." You give the dark red gem of your staff an affectionate pat, and Perfect Storm chimes in appreciation. "As soon as I left school, I asked Storm to research what I need to know about qualifying for homeschooling and getting my G.E.D. From what he found out, it's not that hard to do. We can talk about it when we get home if you want."

He nods and stands so he can walk back over to you and Lacey. "Let's do that. So why are you here?" His eyebrows wrinkle together, and he admits in a strained voice, "If you were hoping for a fight, Alexander and some of the other guys are heading out to follow up on some rumors that the Merchants have set up shop near here. They… probably wouldn't mind if you wanted to tag along…."

You can tell that he desperately wants you to pass on getting in a fight this soon, so you happily oblige him. "As fun as that sounds, I actually thought I could handle something else. I know you aren't happy with them, but I figured I could head over to the Rig and register us as a legitimate hero team."

"That's what I meant to do today," he mutters. "I was going to ask Margaret to call the PRT, but then Lacey showed up and…. Anyway, that doesn't matter. If you want to take care of that, sure. Meet us back here when you're done, and we can all go over it as a group."

"I'll get right on it."

"Ah ah ah!" Lacey said. "Taylor, I need to you back me up on something before you go. Something's missing from this costume, and Danny refuses to admit that I'm right about it."

You smile, both at her obvious desire to make you play dress-up – an activity you disliked even when you were a little kid and something she had suggested innumerable times when she and Kurt visited the house – and at the disgruntled roll of your dad's eyes. Still, a good costume could make or break a hero. You were glad Perfect Storm came with a costume already built in. "Let me see the full thing?"

He slips a bandana with eye holes already cut into it over his head and pulls on the blue coat, then looks at you with a pleading expression. Glancing over the costume pieces still available, you spot one that is just too perfect to pass up. "We didn't pick the same theme for our names," you tell him while picking it up. "We didn't design our costumes to look similar or even share the same color scheme. But we can match in the ridiculousness of our hats." You drop the tricorne onto his head and give Lacey a satisfied nod. "There. Now it's perfect."

He just sighs in resignation, but a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Soaring over the calm waters of the bay, you do your best to tamp down your enthusiasm to socially acceptable levels so you don't embarrass yourself when you reach the Rig. The headquarters for the Brockton Bay Protectorate, it is said to possess an impenetrable forcefield, hundreds of anti-aircraft missiles, and whatever other defenses a renowned Tinker like Armsmaster can cook up, but nothing springs up or out to harass you when you come cruising in for a landing on the helipad. Well, nothing until the two PRT agents sitting next to the door spring to their feet and grabbing a couple of water-gun-things that are connected to the building by long hoses.

"Identify yourself!"

You send them what you intend to be a disarming smile, but neither agent seems to notice. "My name is Calamity Witch, and—"

"Get on the ground!"

"For what?!" you demand in shock. One of them points his weapon at you, so you hastily continue, "I just want to pick up some paperwork!"

That throws them for a loop. "…Paperwork?" the less trigger-happy one asks.

"Yes! I need the forms to register an independent hero team!"

"…You're a hero?"

You really have nothing to say to that, but thankfully that seemed to be a rhetorical question. The more vocal of the pair reaches up to the handset strapped to his shoulder and whispers into it, the words too quiet for you to make out. A few more exchanges occur before he lets his hand drop and stands there watching you.

One minute passes in awkward silence, then two. You are seriously considering just taking off and letting your dad know that he needs to call the Protectorate and have them mail the forms to you when the door in front of you slides open.

"And now the confusion makes sense," the woman says as she steps onto the platform. The stiff winds send the ends of her scarf, the fabric styled as an American flag, whipping behind her. "You're Calamity Witch, then?"

"Y-Yes." Miss Militia. You're talking to Miss Militia! She was never one of your absolute favorite heroes, not like Alexandria or Armsmaster or Legend, but you know your dad, alongside a large chunk of the dockworkers, has always been more fond of her than any other member of the local Protectorate. "It's a pleasure to meet you!" Stepping forward to shake her offered hand, you stumble to a halt when the PRT agent holding the spray-gun – almost certainly containment foam, you finally realize – lifts the barrel in your direction. Looking at the elder heroine and animatedly rolling your eyes, you try to drop into a curtsey.

Well, 'try' is the wrong word. You do manage something, your left leg bending forward while your right slides leftward in front of it until you're a third of the way to the tarmac. You pop back up, doing your best not to reveal just how surprised you are by yet another strange motion Perfect Storm loaded into your head along with your powers.

Miss Militia blinks rapidly at the gesture before shaking her head. "Agent Simmons, I do believe you can put that away. In fact, I insist; the last thing we want is to start a fight over nothing. If you'll follow me, Calamity Witch, I think one of the conference rooms would be far more comfortable than out here."

"Calamity's fine," you tell her after you enter the building. You do like the sound of your cape name, the implicit threat lurking beneath it, but coming from a future ally, it is a bit of a mouthful.

She nods genially and opens a door to reveal a room with a small table and some chairs, all made from a dark red wood. "Coffee?" she asks, pouring a cup from a carafe in the corner and adding some sugar to it.

"No, thank you."

"If you're sure. Sometimes it's the only way I can make it through the day." Pulling out a chair, she sits down and waits for you to do the same, then unwraps a straw and drops it into the cup. "So, Calamity, you're here to register your team as independent heroes, is that right?" You just nod, and her eyes crinkle with good humor. "That's always an exciting time. I have to admit that I'm surprised, though; by the time most independents decide to join a team instead of going it alone, we've at least heard of them. I'm afraid I don't think I've ever heard your name come up before."

"Oh, you wouldn't have," you tell her with a laugh. "I got my powers only a few days ago."

Miss Militia gives you a quick double-blink. "A… a few days?" You nod. "And you've already found a team? That's quick work." She slips the straw through a gap in her scarf and takes a sip. "If you don't mind my asking, what made you decide not to join the Protectorate?"

Join the Protectorate? Did she mean to say the Wards—

You fight not to display the grin that wants to break through. It looks like Lacey isn't the only one who thinks you look older than you really are. "I thought about it, but… it just seems a little too… rigid for me." There, that is better than telling her that it is because your dad thinks they don't do enough to clear out the gangs that have entrenched themselves in Brockton Bay. "When Captain offered me a spot on his team, that was one of the things we discussed. When I'm not playing the part of their flying artillery, I get to be flying artillery on my own terms."

She laughs at the joke, weak though it may be. "Captain. I must be really behind the times if I don't know either of you two. What's your group's name?"

"The Privateers. And you wouldn't know him, either," you comfort her. "He got his powers recently, too."

The hero's eyebrows furrow briefly. "So you all found each other shortly after your triggers, then? How many people are in your group? Three, four?"

You glance upwards, trying to remember how many of the dockworkers your dad said were probably going to join the new business. "Thirty-five or so?"

"Thirty-five." You nod, surprised at her surprise. "That's… Wow." She takes another sip of her drink. "I didn't know we had that many parahumans move into the city recently."

No wonder she looks shocked, you realize. Thirty-five capes? You wish! That would be more than all the villains in Brockton Bay put together. You can't help the laughter that bubbles up. "As nice as it would be to have that many capes, that's not what I meant. Captain and I are the only parahumans on the team. The rest are regular guys who are just tired of the gangs walking all over them."

Miss Militia goes still for a long moment. "Your team is a mix of parahumans and normal humans. That… could pose a problem."

"What? Why?"

"Because hero teams are registered with the Protectorate, not the PRT." Seeing your expression of confusion, she explains, "Entry into Protectorate is limited by law to parahumans, just as membership in the PRT proper is only for unpowered individuals. If a hero team is mixed like yours is, it legally cannot be registered."

"We can't register just because we want to work together?!" you demand.

"I'm afraid so. Technically, you and Captain could register as a team of just the two of you, or you could register independently. But the rest of the Privateers?" She shakes her head. "The PRT does not like civilians, who almost universally do not possess the training necessary to safely contain villains, interfering in cape fights. They place themselves in danger unnecessarily and make the PRT's, and our, jobs more difficult because we have to protect them as well as fight the villains." Leaning back in her chair, Miss Militia continues in a gentle voice, "Affiliating yourself with the Protectorate, even if it only registering with us, gives you a license for what is essentially state-sponsored vigilantism. Your team would not have the same legal protections. Theoretically, they could be arrested for assault and battery any time they got in a fight with one of the gangs, though whether the D.A. would bother charging them is another matter entirely."

"What are you saying? That they don't have the right to fight against the gangs just because they don't have powers?!" Righteous indignation flows hot in your veins. If it weren't for Perfect Storm, you would not have any powers. The thought that your Device, not your desire to help or the simple need to defend your home, is the only reason you would be allowed to stop the gangs rankles.

The experienced heroine finally breaks the pregnant pause. "What I am saying is that you, along with the rest of the Privateers, need to be careful. Knowing that it was your actions that led to your teammates' deaths is one of the worst feelings in the world, and I don't want anyone to have to deal with that pain."

"We're already dying," you snap in response. "The only question is whether we fight and risk dying faster or lie back and let the gangs strangle us in our sleep."

The tick of the clock sounds loud in the quiet that follows your declaration. "Can I just get that paperwork? I need to get back to my team."

She nods and reaches out to pick up a slim manila folder that rests farther down the table. Flipping through the pages, she pulls out a few sheets. "Independent hero forms for both you and Captain, and a team registration form if you decide to go that route instead of signing up individually. They can be delivered here or to the PRT office downtown. I recommend you deliver them personally or through a courier you can trust; forms that were mailed to us have occasionally gone missing."

Folding the papers in half, you let Miss Militia lead you down the hall to the helipad. Just in front of the door, she stops and pulls a card from one of her fatigues' many pockets. "For what it's worth, Calamity, I really do hope things turn out well, for you and the Privateers. If you ever find yourself in over your head, though, I want you to call me. Us heroines need to look out for each other."

You nod and walk out the door. The two agents are still there, both staring rigidly at the city. You glance in that direction before stumbling to a halt. A large cloud of dust is drifting over the northern part of the city. Over the Docks.

You run to the edge of the platform and jump off. The wind whips past you as you fly over the bay, and the papers flutter noisily. You can't keep these in your hands during the fight; you will just drop them, or they could be damaged by whatever fight is going on out there. Spotting the flat rooftop of a building sitting just off the shoreline, you drop down and transform as soon as your feet hit the concrete so you can stuff the documents into the inside pocket of your coat, and then you immediately redeploy your Barrier Jacket. You rocket through the sky as fast as your powers, your magic, whatever can carry you.

It does not take long to reach the source of the disturbance. The hideous lovechild of a tank and a train engine rolls through the ruins of a building on gigantic treads, and the machine guns mounted on the mechanical monstrosity swivel and turn to keep firing at the group of men dressed in casual clothes and black ski masks, baseball bats and crowbars and even a couple of shotguns cradled in their hands. Squealer, for that is almost certainly who is driving the ugly vehicle, is spraying the place with bullets, but she can't seem to hit anyone. The gang fighting her is too skilled, too in tune with each other to be caught. Some of them are even avoiding blasts that there is no way they can see.

A terrible idea forming, you look at the second group again. They are moving with perfect coordination, inhumanly so. Parahumanly so.

You bleed off your speed in a forward somersault and slam your boots into a rooftop; when your hat almost rolls off your head from the sudden change in speed, you grab the brim and pull it securely back into place. The guns turn to point at you, and a couple of the Privateers look up at you, too. Everyone acts like they expect something now that you're here, something more than just kicking Squealer's ass.

Oh, right. Banter. That's what everybody's waiting for. How do you do that?

"You know," you finally get out, "It's a bad idea to start shooting up my team. That sort of thing makes me… unhappy."

There, that should do it, especially with that deliberate little pause at the end. Your opponent, at least, seems to think so; the treads on one side of the train spin backwards to aim the giant cannon installed in the front directly at you. You got her attention, all right.

Now you just to figure out how to get you and the rest of your team out of here.

…Holy crap, Miss Militia became way more devious than I intended her to be.

The squeaky wheel gets the oil
[ ] Frontal assault – The armor is bad, but what makes this contraption so dangerous is all the guns. Destroy those, and everything gets easier.
[ ] Pin her down – Take out the tracks. If you can stop the vehicle from moving, it will be easier to tear it apart piece by piece.
[ ] Cut off the head – A weapon is only as dangerous as the one wielding it. Dodge the bullets and aim your fury at Squealer herself.

I will accept write-ins for stunts during the actual fight. Just attach them to one of the above options.

Silently Watches · Apr 29, 2016

Never mind. I lied.

[ ] Frontal assault – The armor is bad, but what makes this contraption so dangerous is all the guns. Destroy those, and everything gets easier.
-[ ] Target the weapons with Rust Shooter, starting with the one that's pointed at you.
--[ ] Take to the skies for evasive action, calling out banter and interrupting yourself constantly to call out Rust Shooters. First goes the fastest aiming ones, then the rapid-fire ones, then start mopping up the remainder and see about immobilizing the piece of junk. Standing still while you shoot is for chumps and trashy drug addicts like the one driving your target.

Set Up! 1.7

That… is a very big gun. A very big gun that is currently pointed straight at you.

You jump out of the way of the enormous shell that flies from it, rolling in air before you hit the roof next to the one you were standing on, and not a moment too soon. The tank shell crashes into that building and turns it from an abandoned store to a pile of rubble. "Flare Shooter!" you command, seven fireballs forming in front of you and flying into the base of the cannon. The armor is going to be a problem, but right now, the greatest danger comes from all those guns, and the big one in particular.

The Flare Shots hit the base of the cannon, but other than making the metal glow briefly, they are completely ineffective. Right, Perfect Storm told you during the simulation that Flare Shooter could be blocked by armor. It's a good thing you have a spell for that, and as the train-tank turns to aim that gigantic gun at you again, you create a bright green sphere of magic in front of you. Time to try this again. "Rust Shooter!"

This time, your aim is true, and the Rust Shot flies right down the barrel of the cannon. You don't know exactly what happens next – whether it damaged the oncoming shell or it messed up the barrel or what – but a moment later, the entire front of the vehicle explodes. Shards of metal fly in every direction, the dockworkers-turned-heroes dive behind cover as one, and you yourself drop down to avoid the sudden shrapnel. You peek up to see the foremost innards of the machine exposed to the world, and your new teammates stare up at you incredulously.

If anyone ever asks, you totally meant to do that.

But now isn't the time to sit back and bask in their attention. You take to the sky once more, another Rust Shot taking shape and firing. This time it is a rotating machine gun that looks like it was ripped off a fighter jet that takes the brunt of your attack, and you smile when the crude welding holding it attached to the train crumbles. That's two down; sixteen or so left to go.

The guns on the train's left side swivel in your direction, and you most certainly do not let out a panicked yelp when they all start firing as one. Up, left, diagonal, right, down, right; you do your best to dodge the sudden onslaught of hot lead. Spinning left instead of up, you scream when the bullets from three different guns smash into you. You crash through the wall of the building and stare up as the bullets keep punching holes in the ceiling. Is this how you're going to die? Murdered by Squealer of all people, your insides shredded—

Okay, dying should really hurt more than this.

Fearful of what you're going to find, you raise your head and stare in amazement. The skin of your belly is red – you know you're going to have a nasty bruise there in a tomorrow – and there are three or four spots that are oozing a little blood. But that's it. No rent flesh, no organs falling out, no being cut in half. A piece of metal glints at you, and from between your skirt and belt you pull a bullet as big around as your index finger, the point flattened out as though it had hit a metal wall instead of bare skin. You thought your powers let you fly and shoot lasers; when did you become a Brute?!

«Barrier Jacket is intact,» Perfect Storm tells you. «I can continue the fight.»

"Barrier Jacket," you echo. Your Device has said that phrase a couple of times, but you just assumed that it meant your costume. Clearly not. "How…. There's nothing there. How am I not even hurt?"

«Barrier Jacket is a full-body defensive forcefield. Aesthetics are irrelevant.»

So it doesn't matter what it looks like? It will still protect you the same, regardless if it's a full suit of armor or the skimpiest bikini imaginable? You stare at the dark red gem of your staff, starting to wonder about its claims of magic— No, this is Tinkertech, after all. Tinkers are famous for the absolute bullshit they're capable of. What matters is that you can walk through a hailstorm of bullets and survive, for that is exactly what you're facing right now.

You stand and float through the hole you made, pinning Squealer's abomination with your glare. "Let's break this bitch."

«Aye aye, Mistress!»

"Rust Shooter!"

You zoom over the battlefield, keeping the villain's attention on you and off the unpowered humans on your team. You have to slow down to make sure you hit the guns, but so long as you start moving again as soon as you fire, the guns barely have any time to move before you're somewhere else. "You've got to be quicker than that!" you crow when the remaining guns fire at a point twenty feet to your left. "Rust Shooter! I'm not even moving that fast! If you want my advice – Rust Shooter! – you should probably lay off all the drugs! Didn't you pay attention to those – Rust Shooter! – talks at school?! That stuff will melt your brain!" One of your shots misses its mark, but considering it instead clips the left-hand tread and takes off a chunk of one of the plates, you'll consider it good. You drop a couple of feet to evade the spray of one gun and send yet another bullet to snap it off the vehicle. "Kind of like what I'm doing to your tank right now!"

The train abruptly lurches backwards, and then it spins around on its tracks. A few sulfurous curses come from deep in the rear before it is sprinting at an impressive speed away from you. You just stare at the machine for a second before a snarl slips out your mouth. Does Squealer really think that's it? That she can slink back to her lair with her tail between her legs? Not a chance!

You chase after her, your greater speed ruining her best efforts at escape. She's not getting away, not this time. You head to one side and fire a Rust Shooter at the train's treads, which instead hits the ground and flings chips of shattered asphalt everywhere, and then a second. This one shreds the armor above the wheels, but that is not enough to stop the machine. Those moments are enough for her to start increasing the distance between you two, and you push your flight as far as you can.

This dilemma is not one you like. You can't properly aim while flying like this, but as soon as you slow down, she starts getting away from you. The guns may be mostly gone, but it won't matter if she escapes. She might be a brain-damaged failure, but you refuse to let her best you, doubly so if it means she might come up with some other machine that has a better chance of fighting you in the air. Chasing around a plane is not your idea of a good time.

Your eyes flick over the contraption before you realize the obvious solution. You dive-bomb the train and land on its roof just in front of where you believe the cab is. Now you can fire on it to your heart's content.

A single Rust Shooter reveals a dark compartment, but you have to jerk your head out of the way before Squealer starts shooting through the hole you made. Of course she has a gun on her! You could probably withstand being shot a couple of times, but even knowing that you have your own personal forcefield, you really don't want to try blocking a bullet with your face. "Got any bright ideas, Storm?"

«Flare Shooter is designed for defeating infantry units.»

"And that would be great if I knew the blast was going to hit her, but it doesn't do much when I can't see her."

«Shooting spells are simple. They can be adjusted based on the situation.»

Adjusted? You conjure a single fireball, but instead of shooting it, you give it a mental poke. Nope, not changing.

«Redistributing spell processing.»

The back of your head suddenly feels like it is being stretched, and you can almost imagine that lines of code are racing through your mind. After a moment, they slow down enough that you can catch one command in five, then one in three. Then every single one.

Your eyes grow wide. This is Flare Shooter?! The spell has been broken down into a hundred lines of code; it looks like the the practice web site you created in Mrs. Knott's class. If you needed any proof that this Device really was a Tinker's magnum opus, this is it: a computer program that lets you pelt people with explosive fireballs.

Bullets from one of the remaining machine guns slam into you and threaten to send you tumbling off the train, a reminder that you have something else you need to focus on. 'Scrolling' to the top of the script, you find a list of different variables. Most of them make little to no sense to you right now, but others….

Redefining a couple of variables, you smile when you see that the orange sphere in your hand is now quite literally on fire. Ten more of the same appear in the air, and with a thought, all of them zip through the hole. There is no thump of detonation, just a sullen glow, and Squealer starts screaming in fright and pain. With a sharp smile, you send more and more of them at her.

A hatch on one side of the train that you never noticed is thrown open to belch out black smoke, and Squealer dives out of the cabin, her greasy hair and fuzzy jacket both brightly burning. The train begins to slow now that its conductor is no longer around, so you hop into the sky and let it crash to a stop against the warehouse in its path. The villain has managed to rip her coat off, but the too-small pink tee-shirt that is revealed is a perfect target. A handful of Flare Shots slam into her. These were all programed to be purely concussive bullets, and the Merchants' second-in-command is thrown forward on the blast wave and slams her head into a nearby brick wall.

«Congratulations on your first victory.»

"Thanks, Storm." You drift down to check on the woman who has not moved since she fell to the ground. Sure enough, she is out cold. "Can you call the—"

"Freeze!" You slowly turn your head to look over your shoulder to see a blur resolve into a man wearing a red bodysuit, black racing stripes just barely visible running down the sides of his costume and crossing his chest to form a 'V'. Velocity, another member of the Protectorate's Brockton Bay branch. "Put your hands on your head and back away from her."

You roll your eyes. This is going to be an ongoing issue, isn't it? "This is Squealer. I'm a new hero; I go by Calamity Witch. I saw her causing problems and stopped her."

"Why don't I believe you?"

Resting Perfect Storm across your shoulders, you shoot him an unamused glare. "Will you believe Miss Militia? Give her a call. I was at the Rig not ten minutes ago getting the paperwork to register as an independent hero."

He eyes you warily for a moment, but eventually he taps one hand against his ear. "Console, connect me to Militia's coms." Velocity waits a few moments, his fingers tapping impatiently on his thigh. "Miss Militia, Velocity here. I've got a girl here claiming to be a hero, but she sure doesn't look like it. She said you'd vouch for her."

"Tell her 'Hi' for me," you order in a snarky voice.

He ignores you, which is probably for the best, all things considered. "Calamity Witch, she said. Uh-huh. Uh-huh." The hero frowns and gives you another look. "…Uh-huh. Okay. Yes, but— But she—!" A sigh comes from him. "Okay. Okay, okay, okay! Be right there. Velocity out."

"So? Still think I'm a dastardly villain?"

The red-clad hero takes a quick breath. "No, I don't. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have assumed you were a villain, but you have to know what your costume looks like."

You know well what you look like in your Barrier Jacket, but it has been growing on you, and after this fight? There's no way you're going to give it up. That said, he does seem like he is honestly embarrassed about nearly picking a fight with a fellow hero. Or maybe he just dreads being chewed out by Miss Militia for the same; that would be believable, too. "Looking warm and cuddly doesn't do a whit to help me stop criminals," you answer. Glancing down at Squealer's body, you wince a little at the blisters you can already see forming on her now mostly-bald scalp and on her arms. Maybe modifying Flare Shooter into gouts of flame and sending them into an enclosed space wasn't the brightest idea you've ever had. "Anyway, she's wrapped up and ready to go. I have other places to be."

"I need your statement before you leave! Where you found her, what you did during your fight, if anybody else was injured, that sort of thing."

You turn around and start floating away, headed back to where the Privateers are. "Follow the trail of destruction. Hit her until she stopped moving. That's what I'm going to find out." He is obviously displeased at the dismissive answers, but you have better things to worry about. Pushing your flight as hard as you safely can while so close to the ground, it takes you less than a minute to cover the distance between the wreck and what you can only assume is the Merchant base the Privateers were raiding.

The dockworkers have already mostly packed up by the time you get there. Four trucks are parked nearby, all with different cargo. One has its bed filled with black garbage bags, dollar bills visible through the openings; another with as many men as can be packed inside. The third has a mix of men and bags of money. It is the fourth truck that makes you turn away: there is only one thing there, covered by a white sheet that is being held down by rocks, but from the general shape, you just know that it is a body.

It has only been one day since the Privateers were formed, and already someone has lost his life.

"Calamity Witch," one masked man says as you drift closer. You recognize his voice; well, his voice and the impressive collection of tattoos on his arms and neck. "Captain told us about you before we left. Can't tell you how glad we were to see you show up. Squealer was not playing around."

"I just wish I had gotten here sooner," you reply, your eyes turning toward the fourth truck. "Who was…?"

Thankfully, Alexander understands what you are asking. "Fat Bill. He was trying to chain the door closed to trap Squealer inside, but the guns… they punched clear through it like it was made of paper."

"And the injured? How many?"

"Too many for the first day," he sighs. Shaking his head, he pulls a ring of keys out of his pocket. "We'll be talking about that tonight, I'm sure of that. You want a ride?"

"No, I think I'll meet you there. Maybe a fly will give me time to clear my head."

He nods in understanding, and you do the same before shooting high in the sky. A frown sits heavily on your face. When you and your dad had discussed his plans for the Privateers, neither of you had mentioned the very real possibility that someone could die. Now that is coming back to bite you.

Perfect Storm seems to know where your thoughts are headed, which, considering it communicates with you via telepathy, is very likely true. «Casualties are expected in war. Mourn. Accept. Grow stronger.»

"Easy for you to say," you bite out. "I should have gone with them. Dad needs to stay away from the fights so he can empower any backup teams, but I could have been here from the beginning. If I had, maybe Bill wouldn't have died."

«Additional mages needed?»

"Mages, capes, whatever." You are too tired to argue with your Device about terminology right now, and your hands are starting to shake. All the adrenaline still rushing through your veins, or maybe the fear you didn't have time to feel during the fight? You look at the gemstone as an idea sprouts into existence. "Storm, can you give other people powers like you did for me?"

«No,» the Device replied, that single word extinguishing your previous enthusiasm, «I am yours.» A slight hum came from the head of the staff, almost as though it were reconsidering. «If new subject possesses a Linker Core, it is possible to construct a Device for them. Installation of specific template could then occur.

« If Mistress requires assistance immediately, a Guardian Beast could be constructed.»

You blink in confusion. "A Guardian Beast?"

«An animal that is modified genetically and magically to bind it to its mage and give it the capacity to cast spells. Multiple Guardian Beast templates are available for perusal.»

"I did want a pet when I was little," you murmur. "Dad always refused to have an animal in the house, but if it had powers, too, maybe he wouldn't make too much of a fuss about it. What kind of animals can be turned into this Guardian Beast thing?"

«Any animal Mistress desires.»

You stare out at the city, your thoughts chasing one another in an endless circle. On the one hand, if you make a Guardian Beast now and show up with it to the meeting, your dad will have to let you keep it. Once you explain why you did it, you doubt he will have any problems with your actions other than being a little miffed that you presented him with a fait accompli. On the other hand, that meeting Alexander told you about will undoubtedly take place sooner rather than later, so you have only a few minutes to find an animal to transform before you need to head back to the office. But if you're willing to wait until after the meeting to do this, you might as well ask Perfect Storm to explain all the little details and come up with the template that will best fit you specifically.

Decisions, decisions.

+1 training to Flare Shooter (2/2 master).
+2 training to Aerial Combat (5/6 adept).

Mad Skillz (thanks to Shadlith's omake, you may CHOOSE TWO)
[ ] Homing Bullet – Upgrade for Flare Shooter and Rust Shooter. Bullets now self-correct their trajectories to chase targets.
[ ] Strong Shield – Create a shield of magical energy. Blocks physical and energy-based attacks.
[ ] Ring Bind – Create rings of magic that wrap around target's limbs to lock them in place.
Double Trouble
[ ] Get any Guardian Beast now now now – After that fight, you really want some powered back-up besides Dad. Grab the first injured animal you see and use the ritual Perfect Storm mentioned. Your Device will select the most appropriate class and optimize its skill set and attributes.
[ ] Get the perfect Guardian Beast soonish – After that fight, you really want some powered back-up besides Dad. Spend time figuring out exactly what you want your companion to be capable of before performing the ritual Perfect Storm mentioned.
[ ] Worry about a Guardian Beast later – That fight wasn't so bad. A Guardian Beast would be nice, but it isn't something to stress out over. You'll give it some thought in the future.

Silently Watches · May 3, 2016

[ ] Get the perfect Guardian Beast soonish – After that fight, you really want some powered back-up besides Dad. Spend time figuring out exactly what you want your companion to be capable of before performing the ritual Perfect Storm mentioned.

Set Up! 1.8

You land in front of the Dockworkers Association office, the ruined façade not distracting at all from the exhilaration that has replaced your earlier fatigue. If there is one thing you would never, ever give up about your powers, it is the freedom of flight. That is doubly true after spending the last hour sorting through the spell's code. Perfect Storm claimed that with practice, you'll even be able to fly entirely on your own, but you have your doubts about that. For all its claims that you are on your way to becoming a great mage, you know that in the end, all your heroic deeds will be due to Perfect Storm loaning you these abilities.

Deep down, though, you can't help but wish its confident predictions could come true.

Your dad's trailer is the only one with its lights still on, so you walk up the stairs and through the door. He is sitting in his chair at the center of his range-circle, the elaborate costume replaced by his usual jeans and work shirt, but the bright yellow circle clearly did nothing to deter the three men and one woman who had set out cheap chairs in a loose horseshoe shape facing him. A single chair remains empty, and the heavily tattooed man sitting next to it looks up at the sound of the door opening and waves to you. "Come on over, Taylor."

There goes any chance that you will be able to keep your true identity secret, at least from what looks like the Privateers' developing inner circle. Not that you were planning on doing so – you should be able to trust your new team – but it's the principle of the thing. Shut it down, you think at your Device. It had known what you wanted during the fight without you having to tell it, and upon questioning, it had been upfront about the mental connection between you. It would be nice to be able to talk with Perfect Storm without worrying that everyone around you would think you're crazy.

Perfect Storm chimes happily, and your normal clothes reappear in a burst of orange light. "Sorry I'm late," you tell them as you slip in beside Alexander. "The north winds were a little stronger than I expected them to be."

"That's the most outlandish excuse I've ever heard," Margaret, the manager for this branch of the Dockworkers Association, mutters jokingly to Kurt. "And worse, I believe it!"

"We only just started," you dad tells you. "We let the national office know earlier today that we have formally dissolved the Brockton Bay chapter, though we're not making it public knowledge, and so far, three people have quit."

"Three now, but how many do you think will do the same?" you quietly ask.

Kurt scoffs. "Ten, maybe twelve. I spent the day talking to the rest of the guys, those in the hospital included. Jacob got a visit from Panacea last night, so he'll check out tomorrow, and most of the rest will leave in the next couple of days. They're all eager to get out there."

"Even after what happened to Bill?"

"We knew what we were getting into," Alexander says gently, laying one of his huge hands over both of yours. "It was a… a surprise, just how many of us got hurt today, but we knew it was going to happen eventually. Going up against the gangs? Fighting the villains the heroes back down against? We're going to get hurt. Some of us are even going to die." He gives you an encouraging squeeze. "But how is that different from any other day in this city? Tim could be murdered by the ABB just walking down the street. The Empire would consider killing Margaret a public service." The black woman scowled but nodded. "I don't want to die, but if I do, I want it to mean something. I'd rather die fighting than be killed like a dog."

The others there nod, and though you bite your lip, you cannot disagree with his position. Isn't that practically the same thing you told Miss Militia earlier that very day?

Your dad sends you an apologetic expression, no doubt thinking that you shouldn't have seen something like that. And you have to admit, seeing a man you knew lying dead in a truck is different from just thinking about it in the abstract. But! But if he was willing to put his life on the line, if all of them are willing to put their lives on the line, you will not disrespect that sacrifice.

"Tim? How much money did we bring in today?" your dad asks.

The weedy accountant shrugs. "I haven't had the chance to count it up, but at a guess? Fifty thousand dollars at least."

"And what about Squealer?"

You clear your throat. "She was unconscious and Velocity was there when I left. If she isn't in custody, I don't know why."

"The Merchants have lost a lot of their money and even one of their capes. We've accomplished something today." That word, uttered so rarely in conjunction with the dockworkers, instills fresh energy into the people assembled before you. "Tim, if you could sort through the money and start splitting it up tomorrow, that'd be great. We need to set some aside for renting new office space to keep up appearances that we're still barely hanging on."

"If you want it to look like you're still working odd jobs, why dissolve the branch?" you ask.

He shakes his head. "Inspections, mostly. As part of the DWA, they had the ability to audit our books at any time. Someone digging into how we were pulling in so much money without taking any jobs would be… bad." You nod in understanding, and he looks at the rest of the group. "Kurt, Alexander, can you organize the guys and find out what you can about any more drug dens? After today, we need to have more information about where we're going before we try another raid. Margaret, you're still willing to be our manager?"

"Someone has to keep you boys in line," she answers with a smile.

"Thank you." He looks at you. "And Taylor? You'll be studying. You're a member of the team," he says when you open your mouth to argue, "and clearly an indispensable one. But you have to think about your future, too. There's no reason for you not to go to college, not with your brains. We'll send those forms to Winslow and Concord tomorrow, but I want you to get started as soon as you can. We won't have anything for you to help with for a while, anyway."

You sigh but give him a nod of your own. You had more freedom before all this, when you were still plain old Taylor and he was too busy keeping the dockworkers in business to pay much attention to what you were doing.

You wouldn't go back to that for all the money in the world.

"I think we've all had a productive day," he tells them. "Go home, get some rest. The next couple of days should be easier."

Once everyone has left, your dad lets out a long sigh and slumps in his chair. Perfect Storm beeps once, presumably to tell you that his power is no longer restrained. "If you were holding it in, why were you all meeting back here?" you ask.

"I came back here so I wouldn't have to worry about it while we were talking. They decided to grab chairs and come back here. I guess it was to show me that they weren't concerned about me influencing them and they trusted me." Smiling faintly, he continues, "I appreciate the thought, but I think I would have preferred it if they let me relax. I don't want them to be under my power during these meetings. That sounds like a good way to never hear any ideas other than my own, and the last thing I want is to make a mistake that gets more people killed when they could have lived."

You shift in your seat, uncertain about what to say to that, and the motion causes something to crinkle audibly in your pocket. Of course, the forms! "I completely forgot to tell you what the PRT said."

"Honestly, I forgot, too," he agrees. "You got us signed up?"

"Well, about that…."

You tell him the bad news about the Protectorate and the Privateers, and his face grows stormier the longer you go on. "That's bullshit," he finally declares when you're finished. "They don't get the same rights just because they aren't capes?"

"I thought the same thing. But now I wonder if we can't say that they do. I mean, you do give them powers, so maybe it would make them qualify? I got the impression Miss Militia might look the other way if we did that…. Dad?"

He had suddenly grown pale. "That's a bad idea." You look at him curiously. "You probably don't remember when they put Teacher away, but his powers caused a lot of panic. Let's not invite any comparisons to a notorious supervillain who was sent to the Birdcage, please."

Now seems an excellent time to change the subject, so while he is still off-balance, you strike. "Hey, Dad? Can I have a pet?"

"…What?"

"A pet. A small, furry animal I can keep in the house to play with."

"I know what a pet is," he retorts. "I just don't know how we got on this subject."

You shrug. "I was going to ask, anyway, and it really did seem like a reasonable segue. Storm says it knows a… a way to give an animal powers of its own." You might be becoming accustomed to your Device's terminology, but your dad would give you a strange look indeed if you started talking seriously about magic rituals.

He jokes, "If you can make it a healer, I'd start renting it from you."

"That actually is possible," you reply with a smile. During your flight, Perfect Storm had run through the six templates you can choose from, and one of them had some healing spells. You just aren't sure which you like most.

He doesn't seem to know what to say to that, so after a minute, he just shakes his head. "Fine, you can have a pet. But it's a big responsibility. You have to feed it, take care of it, clean up after it—"

"I'm fifteen, Dad, not five!" you laugh as you rise to your feet. "Let's go home. I don't know about you, but I've had a long day."

Homing Bullet learned.
Strong Shield learned.

+1 training to Aerial Combat (6/6 master).
+1 training to Strong Shield (1/4 novice).

Next chapter will be a Danny interlude, and after that I think I'll do an after-action report so you know what could have happened had you made a few decisions differently. (Hint: it could be a hell of a lot worse!)

Silently Watches · May 5, 2016

Set Up! 1.x

He was trapped.

The rocks hemmed him in. The dust choked him. His arm was pinned in place. The rubble shifted and threatened to collapse every time he moved. Even if he didn't move, the concrete groaned and closed in a little more. Only faint sounds drifted to him, and they were just more screams of pain.

Here, in the dark, he cried. He was going to die, killed by the goddamn gangs, and they wouldn't even realize it! What would happen to the dockworkers when he was gone? Who would find them jobs? Margaret and Kurt didn't have the contacts he did; would they be able to keep them afloat? Most of them didn't have the money to move to another city, and for the ones who had families, that was something else keeping them in place—

Oh God, Taylor. This was going to destroy her.

Hysterical laughter filled the cramped hollow. Would it?! Would it really?! He was already out of her life for the most part. What the fuck kind of father didn't know his daughter was being tormented in school until it put her in the hospital? What kind of father worried about the future of his subordinates before his own child's? Alan and Zoe were far better parents than he was; she'd probably flourish in their care where she had just withered in his own.

Son, boss, husband, father; it didn't matter what the role was. He was an unmitigated failure in all of them—!

He blinked blearily, picking his head up from the rock under it. Had he passed out? But that didn't make any sense. He was digging through the rubble, and he was watching the Merchants and Empire duke it out, and he was running to his truck to get the rifle he knew was still in there….

Something was very wrong about all this.

He shifted a large chunk of concrete out of the way to reveal a weedy, bespectacled man buried underneath. He stretched out his hand to himself, and he reached up to grab Alexander's hand.

"Boss," he said, "I think something weird's going on."

Danny threw off the covers and sat on the edge of his bed, his hands shaking. This was the second time in as many nights that he had dreamed about the attack on the office, and he doubted it was going to get better anytime soon. He would bear them, though; he was alive to have them, for one thing, and he had been given a second chance at being a father and fixing the city. If a few bad dreams was the price for that, it was one he would gladly pay.

Walking out of his bedroom, he swung by the kitchen and flipped on the coffee pot. He wasn't going back to sleep any time soon, and if he was going to be awake at three in the morning, he might as well be productive. But since it needed a few minutes to work….

He made his way up the stairs as stealthily as he could and gently pushed open the nearest door. Taylor, at least, was sound asleep, though she had kicked off her blankets in the process. All that covered her was a single sheet, and even that had been pushed down far enough to reveal more of his daughter than he had any desire to see.

How had he missed his gawky, awkward little girl blossoming into this beautiful young woman? She looked so much like Annette now that it physically hurt for him to look at her. She was growing up so fast.

And she knew it, too, if her flirting with Ralph was any indication. Her body language just oozed sensuality and devil-may-care attitude, neither of which was helped by her provocative choice of costume. She was her mother's child that way, too, he decided after thinking back to the outfits Annette had shown him from her time under Lustrum, and that was what worried him. The behavior he once appreciated in his twenty-seven-year-old girlfriend evoked entirely different feelings coming from his fifteen-year-old daughter.

But that was an issue for tomorrow. Creeping closer, he took the sheet and pulled it up over her shoulders, and then he rested his hand on her head. That explained a few things all on its own; her skin wasn't fever-hot, but it still felt like she had just come in from a long day of work under the summer sun. "Sweet dreams, kiddo," he murmured, and though he couldn't say with any certainty, he thought he saw her lips curl into the faintest smile.

Standing straight, he glanced over and picked up the deep blue jewel laying on her nightstand. "You're the reason she has these powers, aren't you?" he asked the necklace. "You protected her from Squealer?"

The jewel gave him a dim glow.

"Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you." He replaced her necklace where it had been. "Just keep doing that. Keep our girl safe. Please."

The glow this time was brighter, more confident, and it was even accompanied by the whisper of a chime.

He closed the door behind him and went back down the stairs. A check on the still-brewing coffee, and then he pushed a flashing button on the answering machine. It was probably just a telemarketer, but maybe, just maybe….

"You have one new message. Playing message." A beep, and the electronic voice was replaced by a jovial man. "Danny-boy! It's been years since you called. I was convinced you had thrown away my number once Annette's little problem was cleared up. We have to get together some time. Maybe you and that little girl of yours can come down; I know some guys who would love to show a young lady around New York. They'd all behave like perfect gentlemen, I'd make sure of that.

"But you didn't call to chat! I don't know what you're planning on hunting up there, and I don't want to know. But if your little slice of Hell is about to lose some of its skinheads, I can talk to a few guys, see who's got some heavy lead for purchase. Might even be some of the rougher crowd who'd be willing to help out if it nets them a trophy or two, if you know what I mean. Just gotta know that the stuff you're talking about isn't cheap, and it's gonna be cash or nothing. I'll call in a few days if I find something."

"Message deleted. End of messages."

+1 training to Strong Shield (2/4 Adept).

Sylvire · May 4, 2016

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■

♦Topic: Squealer's last scream?
In: Boards ► News ► America ► Brockton Bay

Seven Ruby (Original Poster)
Posted on January 31, 2011:

So like, I was at the docks, walking fast away from distant gunfire when suddenly Squealer screams (pun intended) past me with this flying cape hot on her heels blasting the train thingy.

After the scuffle, Velocity runs in and talks to the new cape before she flies away.

I managed to get video of the battle, here's the [LINK]

So, yeah. Apparently merchants just lost cape.

(Showing Page 1 of 6)

► Winged-One (Veteran Member)
Replied on January 31, 2011:
I didn't see that coming.

► Cortina
Replied on January 31, 2011:
So, the merchants hormone cow is going to jail. Earth just become better place to live.

End of Page. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

■

(Showing Page 3 of 6)

► Eldorado
Replied on January 31, 2011:
Wow...what the heck are those things she is firing? Plasma balls?

► Blazer (Veteran Member)
Replied on January 31, 2011:
Is that an witch hat she is wearing? As if Myrddin wasn't enough now we got young girls following his "It's magic" style.

Eldorado , acid balls? some of those train parts seem melted.

► Bagrat (The Guy In The Know) (Veteran Member)
Replied on January 31, 2011:
Alright, got some information for you all.

Squealer is indeed in custody. She got some burn damages but nothing modern medicine can't heal.

Protectorate knows about the new cape, she actually got the paperwork for signing up as independent cape 30 minutes before all this happened.

She gave them a name but it isn't going to be published until she delivers the paperwork. Should be done sometime tomorrow.

Tentative classification I got was Blaster 4/Mover 4/Brute 2

I add pictures and more data when I got it.

End of Page. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

■

(Showing Page 4 of 6)

► XxVoid_CowboyxX
Replied on February 1, 2011:
Cape girl with miniskirt? Time to add pictures to the collection.

► Clubman (Veteran Member)
Replied on February 1, 2011:
God damn it, not again. Moderators, can't you do anything with that guy.

► Tin_mother (Moderator)
Replied on February 1, 2011:
We don't give any punishment because of assumptions, no matter how creepy that post might sound for you.

We do give those for trolling, so don't push your luck XxVoid_CowboyxX

End of Page. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

■

(Showing Page 6 of 6)

► Calamity Witch (Unverified Cape)
Replied on February 1, 2011:
Hello, Calamity Witch here.

I just dropped my paperwork at the rig, so I'm now officially newest hero at Brockton Bay

I don't know yet when I have time to meet other heroes but do contact me and I try to find opening at my schelude.

End of Page. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

Missy Biron didn't smile with gleam in her eyes and definitely didn't squee (no matter how much her friends teased about that) while she was reading about the new cape. Calamity Witch.

No. She was the perfect example of professionalism and when school would end, she would put on her costume and volunteer (not like she would give others any choice) for patrol. Then she would contact Calamity Witch to ~~get photo~~ invite her to patrol the city.

"I wonder if she has a familiar?"

User	Total
charysa	1
Sylvire	1
DonLyn	1
Silently Watches	222
Crusader Jerome	1
Almech_Alfarion	1

Magical Girl Escalation Taylor (Worm/Nanoha)

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