- Location
- Little Rock, AR
Convincing her superiors might be easy enough. Convincing the people they answer however it another matter.Anasurimbor said:
Memoirs of a Human Flashlight Thread 2: Now with more Arguments! [Exalted/Worm]
- Thread starter Golden Lark
- Start date
-
- Tags
- exalted (white wolf) worm
- Location
- Little Rock, AR
And they need all of that they can get what with Wards hitting Endbringer fights.Schwep said:
Pretty sure he looks up to Hero. It's in the 14.y Legend interlude.Kalaong said:
That is NOT Kid Win's torment. His torment is that he looked up to and was trained by Proud-To-Be-A-Dick Armsmaster
earthboy
(verified ape)
- Location
- NYC
- Pronouns
- He/Him
If Lightshow meets a Raksha, this is precisely the kind of thinking I'd expect the Raksha to exhibit.iamnuff said:
"Oh shit! She's not just a recurring character, she's a protagonist! Shoot to wound, we can't kill her, all we can do is force her into a recovery arc while we regroup and improve our narrative position!"
- Location
- The end of all things
That is the best kind of sacrifice. Sacrifice that which is holding you back, like your timidity, not something silly, like a finger. Mind you it should always be a life altering decision. Regardless, sorcery is not going to be on the menu for a long time, if ever.Brellin said:
Who is this Tagg person you are talking about? No one named that has ever worked here. Or did you mean the delusional civilian that was arrested trying to break-in last week? That was a sad story. I hope he is getting good treatment.Ct613hulu said:
Yes, Solar Bureaucracy can make someone an unperson. It's pretty hax like that.
Matsci
Grash itsh griah! Rwar arr rawrrawrarar!
And then the Exalted murders the Raksha in the face. As is right and proper order of things.zergloli said:
The sacrifice isn't going to come up. Sorcery doesn't work on Earth Bet by word of god due to Earth not being made of motes, though I still wonder how charms work in that case, but whatever.
Piggot's going to have to give in on Taylor not going to school. Piggot may be a heroic mortal, but Taylor's a solar that really doesn't want to do something that's not even needed or would ever be known by the general public. She may supposed to go to school by the law, but the law tends to get overlooked by the PRT anyway, a solar arguing that she should overlook it is going to make it even more likely. It wouldn't exactly be hard for Piggot to spin this with her bosses if it came up as "look, we've screwed over this girl so much she by all rights should be plotting our doom, this is the least I can do not to further alienate her".
Piggot's going to have to give in on Taylor not going to school. Piggot may be a heroic mortal, but Taylor's a solar that really doesn't want to do something that's not even needed or would ever be known by the general public. She may supposed to go to school by the law, but the law tends to get overlooked by the PRT anyway, a solar arguing that she should overlook it is going to make it even more likely. It wouldn't exactly be hard for Piggot to spin this with her bosses if it came up as "look, we've screwed over this girl so much she by all rights should be plotting our doom, this is the least I can do not to further alienate her".
- Location
- Little Rock, AR
See you saay it sounds smart but it sound like you want her to be a dumb and pedantic asshat and get into bureaucratic pissing matches that tick off people she can expect to work with for years, while ignoring that Wards actually work under the PRT, and that the issue about going to school is likely in their program mandate.
I can't believe I'm getting into an "orders / semantics" debate..
Playing the semantics "you aren't in charge of me" game is a great way to end your career immediately. Refusing to obey lawful orders from a superior a court martial offense. During wartime it can be a capital offense if they follow the modern, American military viewpoint.. (http://usmilitary.about.com/cs/militarylaw1/a/obeyingorders.htm)
To be completely fair, if Piggot is at the top of the chain of command for the PRT (which she is), then Piggot can give orders to Taylor. Piggot can also expect to have any orders that aren't illegal or ethically questionable followed. Harming innocent civilians is illegal and thus Taylor wouldn't have to do. Ethically questionable covers things like war crimes and "I was just following orders."
That said, Taylor has every right to ask for orders to be passed through her superiors and / or get a copy in writing. The first is so that her superiors know that she's following higher orders. This prevents her from getting into trouble because Piggot didn't tell Armsmaster what was going on. Getting the orders in writing (or otherwise on the record) prevents Piggot from later saying "I never gave that order" and using Taylor as a scapegoat if something goes wrong.
.. again, if they are following the American military model ..
The important thing here is that everyone involved should know these rules - Piggot, Armsmaster, Taylor, and anyone else working for the PRT. Knowing how the chain of command should function is part of the foundation of the military social structure.
Playing the semantics "you aren't in charge of me" game is a great way to end your career immediately. Refusing to obey lawful orders from a superior a court martial offense. During wartime it can be a capital offense if they follow the modern, American military viewpoint.. (http://usmilitary.about.com/cs/militarylaw1/a/obeyingorders.htm)
To be completely fair, if Piggot is at the top of the chain of command for the PRT (which she is), then Piggot can give orders to Taylor. Piggot can also expect to have any orders that aren't illegal or ethically questionable followed. Harming innocent civilians is illegal and thus Taylor wouldn't have to do. Ethically questionable covers things like war crimes and "I was just following orders."
That said, Taylor has every right to ask for orders to be passed through her superiors and / or get a copy in writing. The first is so that her superiors know that she's following higher orders. This prevents her from getting into trouble because Piggot didn't tell Armsmaster what was going on. Getting the orders in writing (or otherwise on the record) prevents Piggot from later saying "I never gave that order" and using Taylor as a scapegoat if something goes wrong.
.. again, if they are following the American military model ..
The important thing here is that everyone involved should know these rules - Piggot, Armsmaster, Taylor, and anyone else working for the PRT. Knowing how the chain of command should function is part of the foundation of the military social structure.
.IronSun.
I don't descriminate, I hate all of you equally.
- Location
- IN UR BASE, PUNCHIN UR DOODZ
They are however paramilitary in several ways. Chain of command semantics would likely still be relevant.Stroth said:
The PRT and Protectorate used to be military organizations, actually. Well, a military unit and a militia.Stroth said:
Then they spun-off into their own thing.
And yes, the PRT is actually in charge of the Protectorate, at least in the USA.
And punishment can go up to execution. And yes, I have a reference:
Source: https://docs.google.com/document/d/...udxA16mYjH4/edit?pli=1#heading=h.aijiexnylut8
samdamandias
Apprentice Plane Wizard
Based on Wildbow's PRT Quest, the PRT does command the protectorate/wards, and requests for transfer or assistance of capes happen through the PRT, not the protectorate.Stroth said:
Not that. It was mentioned in Worm itself that the Protectorate covered both the USA and Canada, and that negotiations for it to operate in Mexico were ongoing.Adyen said:
Example: Narwhal, the leader of the Guild, was also the leader of the Protectorate team of the city she worked in.
Golden Lark
The First Fiction User
You have no idea how happy I am that there is an actual argument going on in the thread! An on topic one, no less! I thought I had lost my touch over this last week!
A portion of Taylor's charms will fail on earth if they assume a motonic backdrop on which to work. There are rather few of these.
If she uses CRP, they will work anyway. If she consciously invokes it, at least.
I will address the greater metaphysics issue soon; I just have to sell it, and there is no good way to draw on past life knowledge that isn't terribly cheesy without justification. So, when a number of factors align and she is most likely to be in a state of mind where she'll be influenced by those memories, she'll recall something and get a dot or two of occult and a thaumaturgy technique of use. That will be as far as she gets before she applies that tool to its fullest extent and gives herself a stage on which to process things Creation-style.
A portion of Taylor's charms will fail on earth if they assume a motonic backdrop on which to work. There are rather few of these.
If she uses CRP, they will work anyway. If she consciously invokes it, at least.
I will address the greater metaphysics issue soon; I just have to sell it, and there is no good way to draw on past life knowledge that isn't terribly cheesy without justification. So, when a number of factors align and she is most likely to be in a state of mind where she'll be influenced by those memories, she'll recall something and get a dot or two of occult and a thaumaturgy technique of use. That will be as far as she gets before she applies that tool to its fullest extent and gives herself a stage on which to process things Creation-style.
Guile
Having a really great time right now
Somehow he got Dragon to obey him, to the point of calling off the hunt for the Nine, and she's only loosely associated with the PRT at all - she's a member of the Canadian cape organization 'the Guild.'Brellin said:
At this point, I assume Tagg has whatever powers he needs to be the biggest asshole he can be, however much the story allows.
- Location
- Little Rock, AR
No. The Prt being with the Government and her being in America means they have control over her/Adyen said:
.IronSun.
I don't descriminate, I hate all of you equally.
- Location
- IN UR BASE, PUNCHIN UR DOODZ
She easily can test out of school, but SHOULD she? She automatically assume that Arcadia is just Winslow with a better paint job. Granted, high school is hell, but she should experience a school that isn't as screwed up as Winslow was. And if she does find problems it would be a good training excuse to practice the art of subtlety and fix the problems in the system from within the same system and without drawing attention to herself.
Yes the Exalted are thematically obligated to put on a big light show and crank everything up to eleven, but just because you can brute force something to get what you want doesn't necessarily mean it's always the best option. It would probably be a good idea for Taylor to learn that lesson while she's still just a baby Solar, and the situation is a significantly minor one, especially compared to the conflicts she's going to have throughout her career in the future. The more you sweat the less you bleed, after all.
Yes the Exalted are thematically obligated to put on a big light show and crank everything up to eleven, but just because you can brute force something to get what you want doesn't necessarily mean it's always the best option. It would probably be a good idea for Taylor to learn that lesson while she's still just a baby Solar, and the situation is a significantly minor one, especially compared to the conflicts she's going to have throughout her career in the future. The more you sweat the less you bleed, after all.
Guile
Having a really great time right now
I've pondered this before, and I still have no satisfactory answer:azoicennead said:
Why does Tagg realize Dragon is forced by AI shackles to obey any legitimate authority? Why did he give the order in the first place, and expect it to be carried out? He clearly can have no knowledge of Dragon's restrictions, because he doesn't realize her true nature.
It would be like if Director Tagg put in a call to the Suits and asked for the Queen of Hearts to come on down to Brockton to scare some school children.
.IronSun.
I don't descriminate, I hate all of you equally.
- Location
- IN UR BASE, PUNCHIN UR DOODZ
My point is that I'm hoping she tables the testing out option for now and gives Arcadia a shot first. The social interaction would be valuable. She may be a badass well-adjusted Solar now, but some of her ideas and assumptions are still a bit skewed from her experiences at Winslow.
Occult is a caste skill so all she needs to do is realize there is something for her to learn and start trying to do it. The training time is instant.
Once she takes the first step the exaltation can carry her through it's just that she doesn't know there is a path to walk on yet.
Once she takes the first step the exaltation can carry her through it's just that she doesn't know there is a path to walk on yet.
12
Golden Lark
The First Fiction User
1077/7000 promised words!
GreggHL kindly offered to let me outsource my production to him per the precise conditions I promised. While I decided against it, He did provide the 7000 words free of charge. If you are interested here is the link: http://pastebin.com/ZMKmZ0n0 I considered posting that directly in the thread first but figured the humor might be lost on many of you considering the previous thread~
Excellence 2.3.5
Stuff that I can do, I can do better . . .
I closed my eyes. I could imagine the illusionary cape behind me. I knew how big the image projected around me was. I knew it didn't have to project a mere cape on a field of sunset.
I heard the audience gasp and I knew I was onto something. I opened my eyes, confident in what was visible behind me. Shifting my balance, I gestured up and behind me.
"The last camera angle I have to share from is mine." Über loomed behind me as a larger-than-life projection, bearing down on the audience- fox ears and all. Our duel began.
"The thing with Über is, he's good. He's very good. He's not someone fresh capes are put up against on purpose for good reason." The audience flinches a bit in time with 'me' taking some hits. I skip around a bit to our more energetic exchanges.
"However, capes don't choose when and where they get attacked. This is just par for course in the world today." Now I was taking a beating. The part of the fight I was obviously losing, that was so cleanly snipped from the footage played behind me. The murmurs grew concerned.
"Yesterday afternoon I was wavering on my decision to be part of the Wards." A lie. They bought it in the audience, though. The fight turned again, with clips of Victora as I caught glances of her fighting Leet.
"But the fight last night convinced me that I could make a difference. That I had this power for a reason, and that I didn't have to be alone." Words that sounded good without much depth. Made nice soundbytes.
As the audience applauded again, and a whole bunch of camera flashes went off, I released my grip on my anima and it reverted to the normal colors-and-cape. However, the cape now had a Protectorate logo etched on to it.
That . . . wasn't something I did on purpose. Also it was kind of corny.
The press ate it up though. As the questions began I got the signal to leave, and let PR handle the actively curious press for now. I made my way over to Vista and gave her a hug, then casually ignored Clockblocker when he opened his arms hopefully. With a new background of chuckles we made our way off the impromptu stage to the vehicles, and loaded up in a transport van to go home.
Once we were all seated, Dennis got right to the point.
"Okay, you weren't as obviously teen rebel as I was, but that speech might get you in trouble."
I shook my head.
"The spin will make it look fine. It will probably be explained as a bureaucratic screw-up and partly blamed on New Wave. It's not their fault, but saving face is the order of the day, and I'm just an innocent little girl," I said while batting my eyelashes.
Dennis started at me, deadpan.
"I need to buy you a copy of Machiavelli's The Prince. You could take over the whole world. Ow."
Missy wasn't really holding back, today.
"Nah, this is me venting my frustration about the crappy briefing. It in no way undermines the public's perception of parahumans, and points some eyes at the agents giving us orders and information."
"So, a Piggy-seeking missile," joked Carlos.
I shrugged.
"A Nerf missile. It should still sting a bit, however."
Dean tilted his head back at me speculatively.
"Taylor, you, ah, did you have a bit of a moment there on stage?"
My mind flashed back to the epiphany. I nodded.
"You could say that. I realized exactly how my power applies. Not about how it's charged or anything, but how the ability wraps around me."
Every eye was now on me.
"Basically, like we figured, if I can do it, the power lets me do it better. Kind of like Über, but not as universal or as constant. Some stuff I learn is just like him. Guns, weapons, apparently cooking, acrobatics, and probably more. I try, it comes to me, and it never goes away. Beyond that, I also get to supercharge anything I can do. That where the limits come in. The moment I start 'cheating' I drain my tank." I paused for a breath. "Supercharging sort of just makes me do stuff better beyond knowing how. I'm breaking limits. But that's not the crazy bit. When I first walked on stage, did you guys feel anything?"
The other Wards glanced at each other. Dennis spoke up first, this time without his usual mirth.
"I say this in utter sincerity, with no humor or lecherous subtext. I could not tear my eyes away for a second the whole time. Even when Missy hit me."
A murmur of assent. Carlos was next.
"You stole the show all right. No one heckled or chatted or anything."
"Yeah, you were craving the attention, to a degree, but not like personally. You put on your game face and controlled the crowd. I . . . I want to say it was everything? How you carried yourself, how you spoke and gestured? But I can't be sure. All I know is the moment you appeared the whole damn audience suddenly focused on you; the entire emotional weather of the crowd dulled down as they all set aside their concerns and baggage and listened," Dean said next.
There was some awkward silence, then. He spoke up again.
"Hey hey I'm not saying it was like mind control. I can read the emotions, I've felt someone while they triggered some earlier hypnosis effect. There was no disassociation here, everyone just suddenly wanted to hear what you had to say."
I nodded.
"Yeah, that was me. I walked out knowing I wanted to get their attention, and my power just reacted. I didn't supercharge, it just sort of whipped out and did something. Once I got to the podium I did my normal trick, and went from speaking mediocrity to speaking excellence. I had my revelation, and then realized something. The light show? The sunset backdrop? It's a thing I could do. So I tried to do it better."
Dennis' jaw dropped open.
Missy made the comment in his stead.
"So you get to apply your bullcrap to your bullcrap?"
Dean started laughing. I imagine the air was so thick with raw indignation it tickled him.
I shrugged.
"Yeah, pretty much!"
The rest of the ride back felt extremely short.
GreggHL kindly offered to let me outsource my production to him per the precise conditions I promised. While I decided against it, He did provide the 7000 words free of charge. If you are interested here is the link: http://pastebin.com/ZMKmZ0n0 I considered posting that directly in the thread first but figured the humor might be lost on many of you considering the previous thread~
Excellence 2.3.5
Stuff that I can do, I can do better . . .
I closed my eyes. I could imagine the illusionary cape behind me. I knew how big the image projected around me was. I knew it didn't have to project a mere cape on a field of sunset.
I heard the audience gasp and I knew I was onto something. I opened my eyes, confident in what was visible behind me. Shifting my balance, I gestured up and behind me.
"The last camera angle I have to share from is mine." Über loomed behind me as a larger-than-life projection, bearing down on the audience- fox ears and all. Our duel began.
"The thing with Über is, he's good. He's very good. He's not someone fresh capes are put up against on purpose for good reason." The audience flinches a bit in time with 'me' taking some hits. I skip around a bit to our more energetic exchanges.
"However, capes don't choose when and where they get attacked. This is just par for course in the world today." Now I was taking a beating. The part of the fight I was obviously losing, that was so cleanly snipped from the footage played behind me. The murmurs grew concerned.
"Yesterday afternoon I was wavering on my decision to be part of the Wards." A lie. They bought it in the audience, though. The fight turned again, with clips of Victora as I caught glances of her fighting Leet.
"But the fight last night convinced me that I could make a difference. That I had this power for a reason, and that I didn't have to be alone." Words that sounded good without much depth. Made nice soundbytes.
As the audience applauded again, and a whole bunch of camera flashes went off, I released my grip on my anima and it reverted to the normal colors-and-cape. However, the cape now had a Protectorate logo etched on to it.
That . . . wasn't something I did on purpose. Also it was kind of corny.
The press ate it up though. As the questions began I got the signal to leave, and let PR handle the actively curious press for now. I made my way over to Vista and gave her a hug, then casually ignored Clockblocker when he opened his arms hopefully. With a new background of chuckles we made our way off the impromptu stage to the vehicles, and loaded up in a transport van to go home.
Once we were all seated, Dennis got right to the point.
"Okay, you weren't as obviously teen rebel as I was, but that speech might get you in trouble."
I shook my head.
"The spin will make it look fine. It will probably be explained as a bureaucratic screw-up and partly blamed on New Wave. It's not their fault, but saving face is the order of the day, and I'm just an innocent little girl," I said while batting my eyelashes.
Dennis started at me, deadpan.
"I need to buy you a copy of Machiavelli's The Prince. You could take over the whole world. Ow."
Missy wasn't really holding back, today.
"Nah, this is me venting my frustration about the crappy briefing. It in no way undermines the public's perception of parahumans, and points some eyes at the agents giving us orders and information."
"So, a Piggy-seeking missile," joked Carlos.
I shrugged.
"A Nerf missile. It should still sting a bit, however."
Dean tilted his head back at me speculatively.
"Taylor, you, ah, did you have a bit of a moment there on stage?"
My mind flashed back to the epiphany. I nodded.
"You could say that. I realized exactly how my power applies. Not about how it's charged or anything, but how the ability wraps around me."
Every eye was now on me.
"Basically, like we figured, if I can do it, the power lets me do it better. Kind of like Über, but not as universal or as constant. Some stuff I learn is just like him. Guns, weapons, apparently cooking, acrobatics, and probably more. I try, it comes to me, and it never goes away. Beyond that, I also get to supercharge anything I can do. That where the limits come in. The moment I start 'cheating' I drain my tank." I paused for a breath. "Supercharging sort of just makes me do stuff better beyond knowing how. I'm breaking limits. But that's not the crazy bit. When I first walked on stage, did you guys feel anything?"
The other Wards glanced at each other. Dennis spoke up first, this time without his usual mirth.
"I say this in utter sincerity, with no humor or lecherous subtext. I could not tear my eyes away for a second the whole time. Even when Missy hit me."
A murmur of assent. Carlos was next.
"You stole the show all right. No one heckled or chatted or anything."
"Yeah, you were craving the attention, to a degree, but not like personally. You put on your game face and controlled the crowd. I . . . I want to say it was everything? How you carried yourself, how you spoke and gestured? But I can't be sure. All I know is the moment you appeared the whole damn audience suddenly focused on you; the entire emotional weather of the crowd dulled down as they all set aside their concerns and baggage and listened," Dean said next.
There was some awkward silence, then. He spoke up again.
"Hey hey I'm not saying it was like mind control. I can read the emotions, I've felt someone while they triggered some earlier hypnosis effect. There was no disassociation here, everyone just suddenly wanted to hear what you had to say."
I nodded.
"Yeah, that was me. I walked out knowing I wanted to get their attention, and my power just reacted. I didn't supercharge, it just sort of whipped out and did something. Once I got to the podium I did my normal trick, and went from speaking mediocrity to speaking excellence. I had my revelation, and then realized something. The light show? The sunset backdrop? It's a thing I could do. So I tried to do it better."
Dennis' jaw dropped open.
Missy made the comment in his stead.
"So you get to apply your bullcrap to your bullcrap?"
Dean started laughing. I imagine the air was so thick with raw indignation it tickled him.
I shrugged.
"Yeah, pretty much!"
The rest of the ride back felt extremely short.
Last edited:
13
Golden Lark
The First Fiction User
1180+1077=2257 out of 7000 words!
Intermission: Daniel
His daughter had come back to life.
He barely saw her now, compared to before, but that was fine. It was wonderful. Why? Because every time he spoke to her now she seemed happy to be alive.
It had been a long time since he'd seen her like that, and one more second of it was worth any price.
Only seeing her for a little bit over the course of a month was just fine with him.
Of course, the fact that she was ostensibly in danger every one of those days didn't sit totally well with him. It wouldn't with any proper father. However, he didn't let it influence him into stopping her.
After all, before she had joined the Wards, she had already been dead.
It sounded morbid, but it was something he'd seen many times while managing the dockworkers. Men who had nowhere else to go, nothing else to aspire to, doing hard labor day in and day out, as light faded from their eyes. His job was to make them keep carrying cargo onto and off of ships, to make sure those ships got in and out of port safely and quickly. His style was to make them not resent their lot in life for doing it. That meant a few rules, a few lectures, and learning every man's name, their family status, and being someone who visibly gave a damn if they lived or died.
He was more of a technical guy himself, but in an odd way he sympathized utterly with the dockworkers. In a bigger corporate IT kind of department, he'd be them; the nameless, faceless guy who made sure data got from source to destination in the organization, never acknowledged and never remembered. Here, he was one of the forces directing them; applying a technical mind to schedules and rotations and shifts was wonderful for efficiency. However, what made him good at his job was not forgetting his workers' humanity. To listen, to understand, and to work with them to make sure they could support their responsibilities at work and at home. That meant having more on staff than they absolutely needed. That meant slightly shorter hours for everyone on a day that everyone was available to work. That meant no one was put in a bind when someone was gone and they needed to cover more time with less people.
He had to make the hard calls on when a worker was slacking due to temporary circumstance, or if they were a liability to the team and the company. For a poorer section of the city, the docks paid well- if you had the back for it and the responsibility to show up to work. There was no end to the list of prospective replacement workers. Still, he knew better than to exacerbate a longshoreman going through a rough spot in life. Those men he'd give a day off without pay or penalty- unthinkable to the average manager, but it was better than the normal human resources kerfuffle that the over-company's policy normally required.
In the machine that was Danny's section of the docks, he decided the most efficient way to use his resources to achieve his goals. That the common method was to make a rotating door of dockworkers to keep pay as low as the unions would tolerate was one thing. However, even for such a simple job, there was a cost to high turnover. Danny chose instead to improve the resources he had. That his numbers were good was testament that he was skilled at his task.
That he had not been promoted in years was testament that he put his money where his mouth was.
It was still whispered on his section of the docks (in places they didn't think Danny would overhear) what happened in the wake of his wife's death, when some suits showed up and tried to get him to conform to the standard practice of rotating out workers under frivolous pretenses so as to keep paychecks low. Danny Hebert had never screamed at any man he managed. He had rarely raised his voice at them. That evening the windows shook and the suits ran out of the room looking like they were about to piss themselves.
In the coming weeks more suits from corporate would slip around the docks, asking Danny's men if they had seen their boss do anything questionable. They implied rewards would be given for testimony, even if it was only a 'suspicion.'
Not a single man gave them a reason to implicate Danny for anything.
Danny Hebert approached the problems in the lives of his men with a gentle hand. If they asked for his advice or help, he would give it. If they did not ask, he did not give it. He simply gave them a chance to work it out themselves.
That the same policy when applied to his daughter failed to produce any results of its own accord haunted him slightly, but he had faith in her. If she was not coming to him, it was probably because he couldn't help. Taylor was smart enough to know when Danny's style of force was appropriate or not. As much as it saddened him that she obviously had a problem she didn't think he could solve, he had let it go.
He tried not to think too hard about how differently things might have gone.
So, when she visited home and insisted on cooking, he was glad to let her. When her food was better than anything he had ever tasted, he complimented her then questioned if her training was being put to the best possible use. After they had stopped laughing, she assured him that the cooking wasn't anything she had spent time on, it had just happened.
Had just happened like how she had grown into her frame, and had become beautiful and confident enough for him to worry about boys. Like how she had gone from almost needing him to being able to stand on her own without flinching. He listened to stories of patrols, of petty crimes stopped, of terrible bits of their city she had seen firsthand; and how she thought they might be improved or fixed over time. Never once did she seem to look down on the normal citizens. Never once did she imply she was too good for what she was doing, or that she resented being around people who might be considered her lessers in some easily quantifiable way.
Just like her mother.
When she came down for breakfast the next morning, she sheepishly mentioned her bed was a bit too small. Before he could say a word about replacing it she shushed him and said she'd take care of it.
She then wandered around the house and mumbled to herself while poking at all the various bits of wear and tear. She came back to the dining room and said she'd be taking care of a lot of things.
He didn't doubt it for a second.
Intermission: Daniel
His daughter had come back to life.
He barely saw her now, compared to before, but that was fine. It was wonderful. Why? Because every time he spoke to her now she seemed happy to be alive.
It had been a long time since he'd seen her like that, and one more second of it was worth any price.
Only seeing her for a little bit over the course of a month was just fine with him.
Of course, the fact that she was ostensibly in danger every one of those days didn't sit totally well with him. It wouldn't with any proper father. However, he didn't let it influence him into stopping her.
After all, before she had joined the Wards, she had already been dead.
It sounded morbid, but it was something he'd seen many times while managing the dockworkers. Men who had nowhere else to go, nothing else to aspire to, doing hard labor day in and day out, as light faded from their eyes. His job was to make them keep carrying cargo onto and off of ships, to make sure those ships got in and out of port safely and quickly. His style was to make them not resent their lot in life for doing it. That meant a few rules, a few lectures, and learning every man's name, their family status, and being someone who visibly gave a damn if they lived or died.
He was more of a technical guy himself, but in an odd way he sympathized utterly with the dockworkers. In a bigger corporate IT kind of department, he'd be them; the nameless, faceless guy who made sure data got from source to destination in the organization, never acknowledged and never remembered. Here, he was one of the forces directing them; applying a technical mind to schedules and rotations and shifts was wonderful for efficiency. However, what made him good at his job was not forgetting his workers' humanity. To listen, to understand, and to work with them to make sure they could support their responsibilities at work and at home. That meant having more on staff than they absolutely needed. That meant slightly shorter hours for everyone on a day that everyone was available to work. That meant no one was put in a bind when someone was gone and they needed to cover more time with less people.
He had to make the hard calls on when a worker was slacking due to temporary circumstance, or if they were a liability to the team and the company. For a poorer section of the city, the docks paid well- if you had the back for it and the responsibility to show up to work. There was no end to the list of prospective replacement workers. Still, he knew better than to exacerbate a longshoreman going through a rough spot in life. Those men he'd give a day off without pay or penalty- unthinkable to the average manager, but it was better than the normal human resources kerfuffle that the over-company's policy normally required.
In the machine that was Danny's section of the docks, he decided the most efficient way to use his resources to achieve his goals. That the common method was to make a rotating door of dockworkers to keep pay as low as the unions would tolerate was one thing. However, even for such a simple job, there was a cost to high turnover. Danny chose instead to improve the resources he had. That his numbers were good was testament that he was skilled at his task.
That he had not been promoted in years was testament that he put his money where his mouth was.
It was still whispered on his section of the docks (in places they didn't think Danny would overhear) what happened in the wake of his wife's death, when some suits showed up and tried to get him to conform to the standard practice of rotating out workers under frivolous pretenses so as to keep paychecks low. Danny Hebert had never screamed at any man he managed. He had rarely raised his voice at them. That evening the windows shook and the suits ran out of the room looking like they were about to piss themselves.
In the coming weeks more suits from corporate would slip around the docks, asking Danny's men if they had seen their boss do anything questionable. They implied rewards would be given for testimony, even if it was only a 'suspicion.'
Not a single man gave them a reason to implicate Danny for anything.
Danny Hebert approached the problems in the lives of his men with a gentle hand. If they asked for his advice or help, he would give it. If they did not ask, he did not give it. He simply gave them a chance to work it out themselves.
That the same policy when applied to his daughter failed to produce any results of its own accord haunted him slightly, but he had faith in her. If she was not coming to him, it was probably because he couldn't help. Taylor was smart enough to know when Danny's style of force was appropriate or not. As much as it saddened him that she obviously had a problem she didn't think he could solve, he had let it go.
He tried not to think too hard about how differently things might have gone.
So, when she visited home and insisted on cooking, he was glad to let her. When her food was better than anything he had ever tasted, he complimented her then questioned if her training was being put to the best possible use. After they had stopped laughing, she assured him that the cooking wasn't anything she had spent time on, it had just happened.
Had just happened like how she had grown into her frame, and had become beautiful and confident enough for him to worry about boys. Like how she had gone from almost needing him to being able to stand on her own without flinching. He listened to stories of patrols, of petty crimes stopped, of terrible bits of their city she had seen firsthand; and how she thought they might be improved or fixed over time. Never once did she seem to look down on the normal citizens. Never once did she imply she was too good for what she was doing, or that she resented being around people who might be considered her lessers in some easily quantifiable way.
Just like her mother.
When she came down for breakfast the next morning, she sheepishly mentioned her bed was a bit too small. Before he could say a word about replacing it she shushed him and said she'd take care of it.
She then wandered around the house and mumbled to herself while poking at all the various bits of wear and tear. She came back to the dining room and said she'd be taking care of a lot of things.
He didn't doubt it for a second.
14
Golden Lark
The First Fiction User
1418+1180+1077=3675 out of 7000
Essence 3.1.1
If there were any after-effects as to my little bit of sniping during my intro speech, they were never explained to me. I started going out on patrol like the others, and more or less shifted into being a Ward completely. Weekly duties, public appearances, the works.
None of that stopped me from the occasional nightly hacking spree.
I had been making minor forays into my compromised server and the keylogger's records. Eventually I got a password and started to gently poke around the network. Home share of my victim, his resume, then the likely places he'd access as part of his job that I deduced from said resume. Each time I left a bit of further infrastructure in my wake. Sometimes it was corrected or erased, sometimes it wasn't. Eventually I realized that anything I did directly from the compromised web server wasn't being undone.
This made less and less sense.
I both secured my path to said server more and grew bolder in my adventures 'past' it. I was finding all sorts of stuff left lying around on the network in not-particularly secure places. I also began to realize that virus scanning and other passive countermeasures would fail on any given machine as soon as I made a connection from my 'home' webserver. Like whatever protected the network was deathly allergic to that one machine and any other device connected to it. Not one to question my good fortune, I just stretched out my probing over the nights to more places I could 'black out.' I did not dismiss the idea I had fallen into a gigantic honeypot, however. No backtraces were being attempted.
Eventually I found reference to a chain of e-mails about some dumb employee that got fired for pushing a ridiculous plan too hard to the top even after he had been told no by multiple levels of management. I wouldn't have noticed it but it was a reference in so many nasty e-mails that it had become something of an in-joke across the whole PRT/Protectorate; asking your peers if they were going to pull a Stevenson after getting a proposal shot down. Curiosity got the better of me and I went to try to find a copy of the Stevenson Proposal.
After directing my efforts into digging up various e-mails from further and further back, it became apparent that no digital copies of the proposal seemed to exist. Eventually I found someone (from Brockton Bay's PRT no less) bragging that they had printed it out to serve as a paperweight and emergency blunt weapon. Cruel, but useful for my purposes.
Later that week I had whipped up a batch of sandwiches and made a whirlwind tour of the PRT side of the facility, offering sandwiches and asking if anyone else inside might like any. I was ushered into the various departments and introduced to the various stuff, to mixed receptions. Every one of them changed their tone for the better on getting a sandwich. I made a point of hitting the stagehands' area and rewarding AV guy for the great timing. Eventually I got ushered through the part of the building where the guy that wrote the mean mail was.
He got a sandwich, I swiped the terribly thick packet from his shelf when no one was looking. I smuggled it out under my tray and got it back to my room without much effort.
That night I started to read.
[***]
Well, my power let me cheat, so it didn't take long. A fully fleshed out plan of how to globally end human hunger. Every factor addressed, every detail notated. Well, with one glaring pattern of expections.
The plan lacked a human element. It decreed all sorts of things be improved or fixed or tweaked in procedures and policies and even law, but didn't account for how the people who would be held responsible for the previous system would be treated. Following a plan like this through would have gotten thousands of people fired or humiliated, and have put thousands more in awkward political situations if they tried to funnel money from local pork to feeding strange foreigners. This became evident from the second page, and the pattern continued. To the very end.
The plan, as it was, was perfect. It just lacked the same meticulous level of detail and thought whenever people and their feelings were relevant. There was a mild arrogance throughout the whole thing, like people weren't good enough to do this before it had been written and should be held accountable for it. Understandable feelings for someone that could think this whole thing through.
The saddest part was that human hunger was likely to be the least of our problems, in the wake of the Endbringers. That alone probably cause anyone with political motivations to simply toss the packet in the garbage.
Still. This . . . wasn't useless. It wasn't worthless. I found myself typing up a fresh copy into digital form over the next couple nights; the original text verbatim, with annotations and corrections for the years that had passed since the original draft, and justifications of the 'human' changes I would make. Insistence that laws be changed were morphed into campaignable reasons to do so. A theme of hope in the face of the Endbringers added a positive spin on a dreary topic. Massive changes to the Department of Agriculture could be framed in a more liberal progressive light than a searing critique and tearing down of an outdated institution. This continued each night for a week, depsite attempts by Clockblocker to pull me out of my 'cave.'
My sun bleached, whitened, damaged cave.
My typing was interrupted by a scream when my monitor shorted out. It was mine. Then I blinked and realized I was almost fully glowing. I had been warned about 'maxing out' and causing the towering column of light to appear when not necessary. I had to sheepishly wait to 'cool off' then go beg Dennis and Missy to submit a request for fresh equipment on my behalf; and for an analysis of the damage I had done to my previous possessions. The whole wards team had cycled through a second set of costumes since starting to work with me; my bleaching effect was not kind to any fabric, heroic or not.
One awkward series of requisitions later, and I had a new PC. Apparently my sandwiches had won me more friends in corporate than I had realized. I resolved to press that advantage.
Interruption finished, I finished my revision and opened up Outlook. Hovering between what identity I wished to use, I settled on my heroic one.
Mr. Stevenson:
We haven't met, and I apologize for my forthrightness, but I have attached a copy of your proposal to this e-mail complete with some revisions. If this is no longer of interest to you then please disregard this mail. Otherwise, I can summarize my revisions as follows . . .
[***]
At an immaculately crafted and polished desk, a well-manicured hand manipulated a spotless mouse. It paused, and a slight twitch betrayed a sharp intake of breath, followed by a shudder of what might have been rage, or the anticipation of such. Two clicks followed by a scroll wheel's soothing spin.
Another spin.
And another.
An indeterminate amount of time later, that hand pressed a button on a phone.
"Sir?"
"Cancel my appointments for tomorrow, and arrange a list of appropriate gifts and compensation for each party. Secure the raw materials for those and have them delivered to my workshop as soon as feasible."
"Of course sir. Shall I phrase the cancellations in any particular way?"
A relevant question, presented properly.
"Yes. Let them know I received some news that has cost me a good night's sleep."
A pause.
"Shall I arrange a correction, sir?"
Correction. Their word for dealing with human errors, among other ones.
"That will not be necessary. The news was good."
"Very well sir. Is there anything else?"
"No, that will be all. Thank you."
The button was pressed again.
A handcrafted leather cushioned chair sighed as its burden lifted from it. A mind filled with thoughts of exacting precision considered the odds of subterfuge, juvenile delinquency, and/or a sting operation.
Those odds were dismissed.
A silver-threaded mask considered its reflection for a while over the backdrop of Boston's night traffic. The mask was removed and a bare face of flesh and imperfections stared back.
"It seems I need to confirm," it said.
Essence 3.1.1
If there were any after-effects as to my little bit of sniping during my intro speech, they were never explained to me. I started going out on patrol like the others, and more or less shifted into being a Ward completely. Weekly duties, public appearances, the works.
None of that stopped me from the occasional nightly hacking spree.
I had been making minor forays into my compromised server and the keylogger's records. Eventually I got a password and started to gently poke around the network. Home share of my victim, his resume, then the likely places he'd access as part of his job that I deduced from said resume. Each time I left a bit of further infrastructure in my wake. Sometimes it was corrected or erased, sometimes it wasn't. Eventually I realized that anything I did directly from the compromised web server wasn't being undone.
This made less and less sense.
I both secured my path to said server more and grew bolder in my adventures 'past' it. I was finding all sorts of stuff left lying around on the network in not-particularly secure places. I also began to realize that virus scanning and other passive countermeasures would fail on any given machine as soon as I made a connection from my 'home' webserver. Like whatever protected the network was deathly allergic to that one machine and any other device connected to it. Not one to question my good fortune, I just stretched out my probing over the nights to more places I could 'black out.' I did not dismiss the idea I had fallen into a gigantic honeypot, however. No backtraces were being attempted.
Eventually I found reference to a chain of e-mails about some dumb employee that got fired for pushing a ridiculous plan too hard to the top even after he had been told no by multiple levels of management. I wouldn't have noticed it but it was a reference in so many nasty e-mails that it had become something of an in-joke across the whole PRT/Protectorate; asking your peers if they were going to pull a Stevenson after getting a proposal shot down. Curiosity got the better of me and I went to try to find a copy of the Stevenson Proposal.
After directing my efforts into digging up various e-mails from further and further back, it became apparent that no digital copies of the proposal seemed to exist. Eventually I found someone (from Brockton Bay's PRT no less) bragging that they had printed it out to serve as a paperweight and emergency blunt weapon. Cruel, but useful for my purposes.
Later that week I had whipped up a batch of sandwiches and made a whirlwind tour of the PRT side of the facility, offering sandwiches and asking if anyone else inside might like any. I was ushered into the various departments and introduced to the various stuff, to mixed receptions. Every one of them changed their tone for the better on getting a sandwich. I made a point of hitting the stagehands' area and rewarding AV guy for the great timing. Eventually I got ushered through the part of the building where the guy that wrote the mean mail was.
He got a sandwich, I swiped the terribly thick packet from his shelf when no one was looking. I smuggled it out under my tray and got it back to my room without much effort.
That night I started to read.
[***]
Well, my power let me cheat, so it didn't take long. A fully fleshed out plan of how to globally end human hunger. Every factor addressed, every detail notated. Well, with one glaring pattern of expections.
The plan lacked a human element. It decreed all sorts of things be improved or fixed or tweaked in procedures and policies and even law, but didn't account for how the people who would be held responsible for the previous system would be treated. Following a plan like this through would have gotten thousands of people fired or humiliated, and have put thousands more in awkward political situations if they tried to funnel money from local pork to feeding strange foreigners. This became evident from the second page, and the pattern continued. To the very end.
The plan, as it was, was perfect. It just lacked the same meticulous level of detail and thought whenever people and their feelings were relevant. There was a mild arrogance throughout the whole thing, like people weren't good enough to do this before it had been written and should be held accountable for it. Understandable feelings for someone that could think this whole thing through.
The saddest part was that human hunger was likely to be the least of our problems, in the wake of the Endbringers. That alone probably cause anyone with political motivations to simply toss the packet in the garbage.
Still. This . . . wasn't useless. It wasn't worthless. I found myself typing up a fresh copy into digital form over the next couple nights; the original text verbatim, with annotations and corrections for the years that had passed since the original draft, and justifications of the 'human' changes I would make. Insistence that laws be changed were morphed into campaignable reasons to do so. A theme of hope in the face of the Endbringers added a positive spin on a dreary topic. Massive changes to the Department of Agriculture could be framed in a more liberal progressive light than a searing critique and tearing down of an outdated institution. This continued each night for a week, depsite attempts by Clockblocker to pull me out of my 'cave.'
My sun bleached, whitened, damaged cave.
My typing was interrupted by a scream when my monitor shorted out. It was mine. Then I blinked and realized I was almost fully glowing. I had been warned about 'maxing out' and causing the towering column of light to appear when not necessary. I had to sheepishly wait to 'cool off' then go beg Dennis and Missy to submit a request for fresh equipment on my behalf; and for an analysis of the damage I had done to my previous possessions. The whole wards team had cycled through a second set of costumes since starting to work with me; my bleaching effect was not kind to any fabric, heroic or not.
One awkward series of requisitions later, and I had a new PC. Apparently my sandwiches had won me more friends in corporate than I had realized. I resolved to press that advantage.
Interruption finished, I finished my revision and opened up Outlook. Hovering between what identity I wished to use, I settled on my heroic one.
Mr. Stevenson:
We haven't met, and I apologize for my forthrightness, but I have attached a copy of your proposal to this e-mail complete with some revisions. If this is no longer of interest to you then please disregard this mail. Otherwise, I can summarize my revisions as follows . . .
[***]
At an immaculately crafted and polished desk, a well-manicured hand manipulated a spotless mouse. It paused, and a slight twitch betrayed a sharp intake of breath, followed by a shudder of what might have been rage, or the anticipation of such. Two clicks followed by a scroll wheel's soothing spin.
Another spin.
And another.
An indeterminate amount of time later, that hand pressed a button on a phone.
"Sir?"
"Cancel my appointments for tomorrow, and arrange a list of appropriate gifts and compensation for each party. Secure the raw materials for those and have them delivered to my workshop as soon as feasible."
"Of course sir. Shall I phrase the cancellations in any particular way?"
A relevant question, presented properly.
"Yes. Let them know I received some news that has cost me a good night's sleep."
A pause.
"Shall I arrange a correction, sir?"
Correction. Their word for dealing with human errors, among other ones.
"That will not be necessary. The news was good."
"Very well sir. Is there anything else?"
"No, that will be all. Thank you."
The button was pressed again.
A handcrafted leather cushioned chair sighed as its burden lifted from it. A mind filled with thoughts of exacting precision considered the odds of subterfuge, juvenile delinquency, and/or a sting operation.
Those odds were dismissed.
A silver-threaded mask considered its reflection for a while over the backdrop of Boston's night traffic. The mask was removed and a bare face of flesh and imperfections stared back.
"It seems I need to confirm," it said.