- Location
- England
Walmarts is a sign of civilization like the Doughnut Fried Chicken Sandwich is a sign of fine dining.
Might and Magic (and Mirelurks)
- Thread starter FantasticCheese
- Start date
- Pronouns
- He/Him
I imagine they're going to wish they had more alcohol when they realize that she is 2/3rds of the T trinity of most wanted/power multiplier cape types from their perspective/world view.
Trump: the multiple abilities she can get from both systems (spells, perks, stats)
Tinker: Two. Two different Tinker Specializations with one being a Nuclear specialization that could either on accident or on purpose irradiate large areas/people to potentially even starting Nuclear Fallout at higher end.
The other being a Fantasy Specialization that starts with blacksmith+Alchemy that then goes to using people's/animal's souls to make Empowered/Power effecting Armor all they way to Reality Warping through musical building instruments at the end of the tech tree.
God looking at this from the view of someone from in setting they'd probably immediately ask who the hell decided to either hide the secret love child of Eidolon and Hero or who let a clone Tinker get samples from them to make her.
Edit: like if I got the full scope of her powers as a Director of the local PRT that would be taking her in as a Ward I'd be half wheezing in terror half laughing in maniacal glee and completely transfixed staring at the inevitable train crash of interdepartmental War that will come with her existence.
I am one hundred percent waiting for the Piggot interlude with a bucket of popcorn and it's going to be a beautiful thing.
Edit#2: huh I just realized that if the Fallout Tech is reproducible and it gets brought up/written down in the PRT branch with it's leaking info to the gangs problem I'd imagine that a full on War For Brockton Bay would not be out of the question.
Trump: the multiple abilities she can get from both systems (spells, perks, stats)
Tinker: Two. Two different Tinker Specializations with one being a Nuclear specialization that could either on accident or on purpose irradiate large areas/people to potentially even starting Nuclear Fallout at higher end.
The other being a Fantasy Specialization that starts with blacksmith+Alchemy that then goes to using people's/animal's souls to make Empowered/Power effecting Armor all they way to Reality Warping through musical building instruments at the end of the tech tree.
God looking at this from the view of someone from in setting they'd probably immediately ask who the hell decided to either hide the secret love child of Eidolon and Hero or who let a clone Tinker get samples from them to make her.
Edit: like if I got the full scope of her powers as a Director of the local PRT that would be taking her in as a Ward I'd be half wheezing in terror half laughing in maniacal glee and completely transfixed staring at the inevitable train crash of interdepartmental War that will come with her existence.
I am one hundred percent waiting for the Piggot interlude with a bucket of popcorn and it's going to be a beautiful thing.
Edit#2: huh I just realized that if the Fallout Tech is reproducible and it gets brought up/written down in the PRT branch with it's leaking info to the gangs problem I'd imagine that a full on War For Brockton Bay would not be out of the question.
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I hope the tech isnt reproducible, I hate it when MCs tech gets stolen or recreated.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
I imagine if it is reproducible it's probably going to be one of those situations where unless the MC writes enough articles/thesis on Fallout/Nuclear tech so normal/trained people can completely understand it then at most I'd assume they could make something if they had the blueprints or a step by step manual like you get from Lego sets. Plus it would only be the Fallout Tech so any fusion of it and Skyrim enchantments/blacksmithing would be only the MCs which is probably going to make a massive gap in the items strength/ability.
Sam doesn't want to giver her poor parents headaches any more than she already has, if she can help it. Robot helpers wouldn't be too much of a hassle to get them onboard, but biotinkering up giant, venomous tarantula hawk wasps that could potentially reproduce is a bit of a stretch.
Hey, it's a sign of civilization by Brockton Bay's standards! Jokes aside, she was mostly referencing how little if ever real world brands were brought up in Worm. I can't recall a Walmart or Target, or even a McDonald's being mentioned off the top of my head. We know the most likely divergence point between Earth Bet and Earth Aleph was the entities' arrival, and Earth Aleph is supposed to be a near stand-in for the real world barring oddities like the existence of Brockton Bay, so it's not too hard to believe that some of the most established brands would be the same there as in real life.
It's definitely played up in fanon. The biggest worry with biotinkers is how easily one of their creations could reproduce and end up spiraling out of control. I imagine the same would be true of any Tinker who could make grey-goo-esque nanobots or a sufficiently advanced and untethered AI. Having biotinkering capabilities, particularly those that involve creating independent lifeforms, won't immediately get Sam a kill order, but it will put more scrutiny on her actions. Add to that Piggot's definite bias against anything biotinker adjacent, and it's best to just downplay it as long as Sam is in the Bay.
Fallout technology is indeed reproducible. There will be consequences for this, and both Sam and the PRT will need to act intelligently to avoid the worst of them. Thankfully, magic is not something that can be recreated; you either have it or you don't and Sam is the only one who has it.
- Location
- Brazil
- Pronouns
- He
Sam: ha ha ha, no biotinkering here mom
* cue some skeletons running into the bay with barrels of FEV, autodocs and implants*
* cue some skeletons running into the bay with barrels of FEV, autodocs and implants*
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- Location
- Germany
Not sure what Sam's strategy is. Unless she wants to hamstring herself she needs to come clean about magic as well. She is much more than just a Tinker and sort of half coming out does not seem a good idea.
Also, what was her reason for not contacting Cauldron again?
Also, what was her reason for not contacting Cauldron again?
That's a great question because I haven't elaborated on Sam's thought process there yet, and in fact, she hasn't given the matter much thought at all. Once it comes up, she'll have a few reasons, but I'll give you a big one. She's afraid that the Simurgh will precog her to death if she tries to collude with Cauldron.
Now, there are several reasons why you might think this is idiotic, but remember that Sam doesn't necessarily have all the information. It's not an entirely unreasonable expectation that the Simurgh would be capable of such a feat, and to be honest, she probably is. Ziz is such bullshit. So yeah, she is staying under the feathered bitch's radar until she finds a direct counter to precognition.
Also, yes the interlude is insinuating that The Simurgh already has trouble predicting Sam, but she doesn't know that.
- Location
- Germany
I figured it was something like that and does sort of make sense.
If Ziz could predict her she would already be dead. Going to Cauldron would not change that. But at the same time Sam can of course not be sure that that is the case. That there maybe is some larger Simurgh plot. Which makes you think "Why hasn't she killed me yet, am I immune, does she want me to think I am, does she want me to think she thinks I am?" Etc.
Unless you get conveniently told you got Blank status or something the only way to test it is by going up to Ziz and see if she kills you.
- Location
- Brazil
- Pronouns
- He
Yeah, she probably needs to divulge her "extra trump power" (ie magic).
Although Sam might have some difficulty in that area, dunno if she can make spell books to add to her arsenal.
Because the king of support is spamming paralysis and a mass healing power
Although Sam might have some difficulty in that area, dunno if she can make spell books to add to her arsenal.
Because the king of support is spamming paralysis and a mass healing power
Let's be technical here, skeletons in the ES series are summons not ripped out of a corpse. So they'd be a projection by PRT standards. Now summoning zombies.....
Chapter Six: Covering Bases
Chapter Six: Covering Bases
I woke up late hanging halfway over the bedside, trawling fingers through my bedhead and rubbing the sleep from my eyes. I emerged from the covers, feeling the cool morning breeze blow over my limbs. On the desk before me sat the reason for my late night escapades.
Hello Beautiful, I greeted the Pip-Boy 3000 Sam Edition. Whatever process that had introduced the unintended functionality had also altered its outward appearance. Dull white had been replaced by a glossy, military dark-green after I did the thing, although I had since changed it to a vibrant orange and cream color. Yes, my Pip-Boy comes with a paint job feature.
Speaking of features, I went over a summary of what I learned the previous night while I got ready for the day.
Firstly, I now had a second inventory, although it behaved very differently from my Skyrim inventory. This was more of a pocket dimension -or maybe it would be more accurate to call it a collection of pocket dimensions as every item had its own separate space- and it came with more limitations. I had to manually operate the Pip-Boy to open a portal so that I could then shove items through. Retrieval was slower, taking into account the time to navigate the menus.
From now on I'll need to differentiate my two inventories for sanity's sake. I'll leave the Skyrim inventory as is, and I'll call the other one my pocket dimension (PD for short).
Presumably, there was no limitation on what objects I could put into the PD beyond the weight limit and my ability to bodily force it through the portal opening. Thankfully, the device was smart enough to spawn the portal in sensible locations without having to input precise coordinates, seemingly reading my intentions. Interestingly, I could inventory my Pip-Boy, essentially double layering my storage. That was a nice little trick to hide my Pip-Boy if I ever needed to, but I could not retrieve items from the PD while it was inside my inventory.
But pocket dimensions were just the tip of the massive iceberg of exciting, new powers, as I was now S.P.E.C.I.A.L.
And what a distribution it was.
Strength: 4 (Lightweight)
Perception: 2 (Senile Mole)
Endurance: 5 (Stain Resistant)
Charisma: 5 (Substitute Teacher)
Intelligence: 8 (Know-It-All)
Agility: 7 (Knife Thrower)
Luck: 9 (21 Leaf Clover)
I can only guess that my power is making fun of me by including Vigor Tester descriptions. The numbers generally felt like they fit my natural traits -Strength and Endurance both being 4 made sense with my weak physique- but Perception seemed a few points too low.
Then there's the elephant in the room: Luck. Why is my Luck stat so high? I certainly haven't felt all that lucky over the past few days after being met with endless teasing and then getting caught by my parents (even though that was entirely my fault), or perhaps I haven't been in a situation where Luck plays a factor. There's one way to know for sure. Vegas, watch out! Yeah, that'd go great with Watchdog inspecting every ledger line and account balance in the country with a magnifying glass the size of Texas.
That wasn't all though. My S.P.E.C.I.A.L. attributes were accompanied by the expected stats.
Level 1
HP: 200/200
AP: 86/86
XP: Hidden
Testing of HP had at no point yielded results as pummeling myself only ever depleted Health instead. I could however get AP to decrease if I used up all of my Stamina first, at which point AP did not act as an additional overshield. I instead became more tired as AP decreased, and it regenerated painfully slowly. I tentatively concluded that HP and AP didn't grant me any powers at all, but rather quantified my current physical condition.
As for XP, what was the point of including it if the value was hidden from me anyways? If it was supposed to clue me in that I have the ability to level up, then, No duh, power, I can see my level right there.
Next up, the skill list (I really need a way to differentiate Skyrim powers and Fallout powers in my head, when they share the same name. Alright, I'll make a little mental partition where Skyrim can have powers and Fallout gets powers. I will surely never confuse anyone if I have to explain the difference) which miraculously were not all set to zero. In keeping with the theme of reflecting my inborn talents as I existed before the creation of the Pip-Boy, my skills lined up as follows:
Barter: 10
Energy Weapons: 0
Explosives: 0
Guns: 0
Lockpick: 0
Medicine: 10
Melee Weapons: 0
Repair: 15
Science: 20
Sneak: 0
Speech: 10
Survival: 5
Unarmed: 0
I had never handled a weapon of any sort in my life, so it was not at all surprising that every combat skill would be at zero.
Moving on, my perks screen was currently empty, but the General tab contained some interesting information. Not necessarily pertinent or useful, but interesting. Did you know I've drunk 2160 gallons of water since the date of my birth, or that I've exploded zero pairs of pants? Well now you know. Seriously, I do not need my power telling me how many things I've killed (It's eight. Look, sometimes, you just need to remove a bug from the house, and said bug does not survive the removal).
I'd already summarized the pocket dimension earlier, but as a reminder for myself, I have a carry weight of 2.0/190 pounds -equipped items don't count towards the encumbrance, but the remains of my tinkering session I portalled away last night certainly do- I can access stored items though the Pip-Boy menus, and the categories were broken down into Weapons, Apparel, Aid, Miscellaneous, and Ammo. Some of the PD category names overlapped with my inventory's, but it was fine so long as I could keep them organized in my head.
I covered my bases under the Data tabs. I had a Local Map and a World Map. The Local Map, which was not included in Skyrim's half of the power, limited itself to displaying only the layout of whatever structure I was inside of at the moment, and it was further limited by proximity. Basically, it only revealed new regions that fell inside the roughly 5 meter radius circle centered on my Pip-Boy, and if I hadn't been there before, it was blank.
The World Map had the same restrictions and marked locations as the Map, the differences being entirely visual. The wireframe aesthetic was a downgrade in my opinion, losing out on details. Though I admit that the roads were easier to trace.
There was no Quests tab, and the Miscellaneous Data tab was empty of any stored hard drives, holotapes, or other data storage files.
Last, but most certainly not least, the Radio tab stood innocent and unassuming. You could be forgiven for believing it to be the least important function of my Pip-Boy, but you would be sorely mistaken.
The Radio picked up every frequency being broadcast in the Bay. Let that sink in. I had access to every radio station, every cell tower signal, every open access and encrypted channel in the entire city.
Unfortunately, this did not make me omniscient, as the encrypted channels remained encrypted, all the cell tower frequencies relayed indecipherable nonsense, and furthermore, channels only listed their name as the intercepted frequency. If I wanted to become undisputed operational intelligence master of the Bay, I would need a greater understanding of both science and Science.
Also, I'm 90% sure that intercepting radio communications is illegal in the United States. Whoops.
A select few channels stuck out of place, bearing both familiar and unfamiliar designations "Mojave Music Radio", "Mysterious Broadcast", "Samuel's Playlist", and "Interdimensional Music Station".
The second to last heavily featured metal tracks from my (Samuel's) memories. I was ambivalent to his choice of music -my tastes leaning towards pop, rock, and indie genres- but I gained a modicum of respect for metal because of how it positively influenced other Sam's life.
And that was everything I tested. With that review over, I was finished with my morning ablutions, fresh faced, and ready to face whatever challenges the day threw at me.
Downstairs, Cody was standing at the kitchen's island counter partaking of the most important meal of the day (breakfast consisted of toast with jam and hard boiled eggs) while browsing social media on his phone. From the yawn that broke its way over his face, I deduced that he, too, stayed up late last night .
"Sleep well?" I applied tried and tested morning pleasantries.
"Mhm," a very Cody response.
"Well I also had a wonderful night of peaceful sleep, and I'm feeling fantastic and prepared for a productive day. In fact, I'm feeling downright Lucky," None of my cheer had to be faked. The fact was I simply felt amazing this morning, and while I wouldn't go so far as to say I was unstoppable, it would take a major catastrophe to strike down my optimism after the double whammy of greatness of not having to lie about my powers to Mom and Dad and the completion the Pip-Boy.
Cody was stunned speechless, half-eaten toast forgotten in his hand and jaw in mid chew as he stared incredulously at me. He swallowed, "Ok."
Initiate topic change!
"So when did you get home?" I asked with mild curiosity. I hadn't heard him arrive last night even though I stayed up well past one in the morning.
"I got back ten minutes ago," his answer confused me.
"Wha- I thought you were at your girlfriend's last night?"
"I was," He looked at me the way an older teen looks at a particularly dimwitted toddler.
"Then why did you get home so late?"
"I stayed the night at her place." he said like he was explaining rocket science to a precocious child, a hopeless endeavor that you force yourself to do anyways because they won't stop asking.
"Aw, fall asleep on the couch watching a movie together? That's cute."
"Actually, we slept in her bed together."
Bluescreen. Rebooting.
Response, "What?! And her parents were just okay with this?"
"Yeah, they're pretty chill."
"So, d-did you, ya know. Wink wink… uh nudge, uh nevermind," I blame my overconfident mindset for my abysmal attempt at emulating Ymena's candid shamelessness. It was much funnier when she did it.
I gave him an unwavering stare.
"Have some toast, sis," Cody slid the plate and jam jar over to my side of the counter.
I consumed my pity toast… It was tasty.
The light tone from breakfast was not meant to last. I harbored no illusions that the day would be carefree since we had yet to finish the discussion from last night. However, I was not dreading the conversation to come, my determination rearing to meet the challenge head-on.
Dad called me to the study. I marched into the room, dark red wooden bookcases lining the walls stacked full of manilla files and books on various subjects. He sat behind an impressively wide desk, cleared of work and sporting his metal desk lamp and some paperweights, while Mom was off to the side in a plush burgundy armchair. Mid morning sunlight bathed the room from between the window slats (At least the ambiance wasn't set to doom and gloom).
Time to put your money where your mouth is, Sam. Face it smiling with your head on straight, I psyched myself up.
I had put a lot of thought into my future last night, weighing the costs and benefits of various approaches. No matter what, I would be giving up the advantages of the options I didn't pick, and I had to live with that. Live with it, those were the words that had guided my decision. I had to choose an option that would put me in a position to save as many lives as possible, and I needed to ensure I wouldn't feel guilty about it for the remainder of my mortal life. Independence held allure. No regulations, the freedom to set my own goals, PR wouldn't get in the way. But no man is an island. Nobody, no matter how powerful, can save everyone alone. With every power in my vault brought to bear, every weapon and artifact and violation of physics, I still doubted my odds against a god. No, my best hope was to combine my powers with other parahumans' abilities, with their resources that would help accelerate my own progress and create something greater than the sum of its parts. When I thought about it like that, I knew what my choice had to be.
I declared my intent, "I'm going to join the Wards","Sam, what do you think about touring the War-" We spoke over each other.
"Sorry, what did you say?" my father asked.
"I said I'm going to be a Ward, and I want to know if you'll support me." There, I got out what I needed to say.
"You are?" Mom was incredulous.
Why is it so hard to believe I want to sign up with the nominal good guys? Do teenage parahumans normally resist joining? I thought that was just a Taylor/Sophia thing. Seriously, why is it more suspicious to you guys that I want to be a Ward?!
Dad was as diplomatic as ever, "That's good to hear, and of course we fully support you in this, Sam. We were going to suggest it as one option moving forwards, but if you've already made up your mind, then we can move onto the details."
Yeah right, do you think your daughter was born yesterday? I know you were gonna push me to the Wards no matter what I said, it was another factor in my decision to get ahead of the game and just declare for the Wards immediately. The child of two PRT employees go independent? Not likely.
"I'm ready, where do we start?"
"Well, first, we need to understand your power better. No testing in the house," (Sorry Dad, too late for that), "but tell us what you know so far."
I figured it would be best to give my report in terms a PRT analyst would understand, "Okay, I'm definitely a Tinker, as you know, but my specialization is kind of weird. I unlock diagrams and get more skilled in my tinkering ability with practice. The theme of my creations is split between your typical Tinker fare -think laser guns and forcefields- and more esoteric D&D stuff like potions and spell scrolls. The might of science and the mysticism of magic. Well, magic themed anyways," Only crazy people and Myrddin actually believed their parahuman powers were magical in origin, and I didn't want to be lumped into the former camp.
I continued on, "So that would make me maybe Tinker 5 or 6?" Dad was making notes in a journal as I spoke, but from where I was standing it wasn't legible to me. On second glance, it didn't even look like a real language. Was he writing in code? Smart.
"I also have a minor Brute rating of 2 or 3 from a shielding effect and regeneration," my Health and Healing spell, "a very minor Mover rating that lets me run for a long time without tiring that you would probably categorize as Mover 0," my Stamina, "I can shoot fire from my hands, so that gets me at least Blaster 2", Flames spell, "Um, Shaker 3 for my pocket dimensions, but I can't really use those offensively."
"And I suppose Thinker 1 or 0 as well? I can visualize the layout of Brockton Bay pretty well, and I'm good with directions," I clarified. I then pointed to the window, a smidgen north of east, using the markers on my compass as guidance, "Arcadia High is in that direction."
"Okay, time for the big one. Like I said, my Tinker power will get stronger over time, and that'll give me more powers that also get stronger alongside training my skills at a superhuman pace. Oh, I'll also straight up gain new powers if I train those skills long enough. I'm not really sure what the number would be, but that's probably a high Trump rating."
My parents were stunned into silence. I didn't think my list was too overwhelming.
"That's… more than we expected," Mom's pregnant pause made me think she was curbing her natural reaction.
She shared a nonverbal conversation with Dad, seemingly conveying her meaning with nothing but eye contact. It was a skill I had yet to learn, so whatever passed between them was lost on me.
Dad nodded, "The PRT was already guaranteed to accept you into the Wards, but if you can demonstrate all of what you told us during power testing, then you'll be able to push for some very satisfactory contract conditions indeed."
I knew from both metaknowledge and common knowledge that Tinkers got big government paychecks and fat budgets, but it sounded to me as if I'd be able to set stipulations beyond even what your average Tinker could swing at the negotiating table.
For the first time since I had walked into the study, Dad's composure slipped, an uneasy grimace on his face, "Now Sam, I need to ask some follow up questions about your abilities, and it is important that you answer honestly. Neither I nor your mother will divulge your answers to anyone -in the PRT or otherwise- unless you wish us to."
His uneasiness spread to me with those words. There were all sorts of questions I would not be able to answer regarding memories and metaknowledge, but there was no way he'd know about that right?
"Do you have the capability to create self-replicating lifeforms?" The question was asked plainly, just another box to check on the list even though I knew he must have felt turmoil inside.
This was not one of the questions I was dreading.
I was relieved, happy to give my honest answer to them, "Yes," Mom's eyes became saucers, and Dad shifted uncomfortably. I cut them off before they could start making assumptions, "I fully comprehend the gravity of what I just said. You told me to be honest, and this is me being honest. I bear this responsibility with a duty to uphold both ethics and the rules of the PRT. Playing God with the creation of life both sentient and non sentient would be completely irresponsible of me, endangering the lives of the general public and those of the lives I was supposed to nurture. I am not ready to face that responsibility, and I don't need to; my power is diverse enough that I can explore other facets without touching on self-replicating lifeforms."
That was perhaps a tad more solemn than I had intended, but I hope it got the point across: I wasn't ready to create and provide care for new life. Not yet anyways.
One of the central themes of Fallout: New Vegas was the need for science to be held accountable, and nowhere was this more apparent than in the Old World Blues DLC. The great minds of Big Mountain, the most intelligent men and women of a generation, invented wonders that would have altered the trajectory of an entire world, but all that power, all that potential to do good was squandered when they could only see the use of their technology in war and destruction, reduced to ash and ruins at the hands of those self-same geniuses turned madmen.
I took that lesson to heart.
The same as my parents appeared to take my little speech to heart.
SPEECH INCREASED TO 4
Dad closed his eyes and let out a breath, "Alright, thank you for being truthful with us. We think it's best if none of us mention this to the PRT. Can you promise not to do any biotinkering for the time being?"
"I can do that," it was best to keep it under wraps for now.
With that "difficult" question out of the way, Dad moved on to other concerns of a similar vein, "Can you produce Artificial Intelligence, and in particular, AI that can replicate itself or create subordinate AI?"
I thought about it with a frown. There was a plethora of examples throughout the broader Fallout universe including synths that could mimic human behavior to the point of indistinguishability -In fact, I was of the opinion that they are indistinct from humanity; if it feels emotions like a human, loves like a human, and has desires like a human, then it's human enough for me- AIs housed in supercomputers, like Eden, AI appliance interfaces, and more. These AIs were theoretically capable of self-replication, although Samuel had no knowledge of such occurring in-universe.
That was the broader franchise, however. Because my power had specifically latched onto Fallout: New Vegas, my options were significantly limited. There was nary a hint of any synths, and supercomputer AIs would be more difficult, but the low level intelligences present in Securitrons and other robots fell well within my reach.
In short, the reality was complicated, but I needed to answer succinctly, "Possibly. I'm not sure I'm capable of making a General Artificial Intelligence, but personality-matrix driven machine intelligences are on the table," at my parents' questioning look, I expanded on my explanation, "Um, think AI linked to specific appliances, like a smart toaster or a light switch that can talk to you. As for self-replication, any program could hypothetically be coded to copy itself onto new systems, but I wouldn't be able to make an intelligence that can reliably crack modern security measures. So, I won't build any AI overlords to take over the world any time soon."
That joke was supposed to be reassuring, but my Mom's eyes had widened with every statement.
"That's good to note," Dad said, "We can play it off as you being able to build smart devices."
"Any blueprints for death lasers or superweapons of doom up in that head of yours?" Mom's tone was sarcastic. Funny she would say that, as I could in fact build a literal death laser.
Ideas jumped into my head: Archimedes II, The Eye of Magnus, Forced Evolutionary Virus, resurrecting Alduin the World Eater, The Cloud, blocking out the sun with Auriel's Bow, the list went on. Intercontinental Ballistic Missiles were the least of the weapons of mass destruction at my disposal, provided I could level my skills enough to comprehend how to begin to go about creating any of them.
Mom realized her mistake too late, my silent contemplation a bad omen, "Sweetheart, you can't actually build superweapons right?"
"Wellll… The current time and resource costs would be prohibitive, and my Tinker power hasn't unlocked any of the schematics yet, so I don't have to worry about it," a very reassuring statement, I am sure.
Dad took more notes, "Let's not mention that to the PRT either, and no building death lasers without our approval. Last question, can you build devices capable of human mastering?"
Definitely, "Yes. Believe me when I say I have no desire to touch that section of my powers with a ten foot pole. Buuut, it might interest the PRT that I could potentially build anti-master tech," if the Dwemer could do it, maybe I could too?
"Really?" Mom asked, surprise evident on her face. Rare was the power that could counter human mastering, and even rarer was the Tinker who could build that into their technology. It was a product sorely needed and in hot demand.
"Yes," I replied, "Not right away, but if you give my power time to grow, I might be able to reach it in the not-too-distant future."
"Okay," Dad said, "that covers the most contentious powers. We need to move on to discussing expectations."
What followed was a lengthy conversation about the rules my parents wanted to set and how we would handle the situation going forward. Beyond the aforementioned off limits technologies, I had been drilled about responsible power use. In summary, no use of excessive force, be very careful with power use on civilians because the legal wording for what constituted "assault with a parahuman ability" was intentionally vague, no unsanctioned patrols (I'm not a moron, Mom!), and other legalities that could trip up an unsuspecting new cape.
That last condition would be less of a worry once I was integrated into the Wards as they were taught and expected to follow the law anyways. It turns out that beating up thugs for money is actually illegal. Almost nobody pressed charges, but the Vigilante Act only covered crime fighting, not looting criminals. Who knew?
I was also given coaching on how to approach the PRT, topics to avoid and professional courtesies to observe, and most importantly, how to haggle over contract clauses. Mom and Dad would be doing most of the legalwork, but if I had anything extra I wanted to bring up at the meetings, I needed to know how to present myself.
"So, when do we meet the director?" I asked.
"Someone's eager," Mom chimed.
"Well, the sooner I'm in the Wards, the sooner I get access to those deep government pockets, the sooner I can save lives," the sooner I get to build world changing technology.
"Your mother and I still need to draft some preliminary paperwork. What do you say to us picking you up for the meeting after classes tomorrow?"
"Yes! I mean, of course, that works for me."
It hadn't sunk in earlier, I was going to be a Ward. A bundle of nervous energy set off butterflies in my stomach at the thought, I was practically giddy.
Samantha Brown, a Ward. A hero.
Yes, the heroes have problems.
Yes, the organization was corrupt at the top. The Triumvirate and many other heroes were Cauldron assets, but most of them didn't let that diminish their admirable intentions.
And yes, the PRT, particularly the PRT-ENE, was all too often entrenched in the status quo, merely maintaining a balance of power rather than bringing the fight to the villains, reactionary rather than proactive.
But, for all that, forgetting the childlike excitement at being "one of the good guys", I still thought they were my best option.
Cody was lounging on the couch, phone in hand when I exited the study.
He didn't look away from his phone screen as he asked, "So, what was that about? Mom and Dad ground you or something?"
I pulled a retort out from Samuel's repertoire, "Wouldn't you like to know, weather boy?"
"Excuse me?"
My normally unflappable brother was left utterly baffled by my response.
Ha, I can see why that was one of Sammy's favorites, it's even funnier when nobody else gets the reference.
"Whatever," he gave up on trying to figure out what I meant, "If you're not grounded, wanna tag along? Danny got extra tickets to the Celtics game."
"You know what, sure."
Cody rolled swiftly off the couch onto his feet, "Alright, gimme five, then let's get going."
- Location
- Germany
I foresee a run in with some bad guys. Hopefully with both siblings left alive in the end.
Also, she should have just said "I am kind of a video game character, but from two games" It would have spared her so many awkward attempts to recontextualise her powers in Tinker terms in the future 😄 "So this a magic ri...Miniature Energy Accelerator that gives you plus one to lu... manipulates the local, uh, luckionen field...or something"
Also, she should have just said "I am kind of a video game character, but from two games" It would have spared her so many awkward attempts to recontextualise her powers in Tinker terms in the future 😄 "So this a magic ri...Miniature Energy Accelerator that gives you plus one to lu... manipulates the local, uh, luckionen field...or something"
- Location
- Brazil
- Pronouns
- He
You know, if Sam wants to hamm it up with her hero persona she can take inspiration on the GREAT DOCTOR MOBIUS, or even the other 2 "Supes" of the fallout universe like antagonizer or the mechanist (or just full fiction like the comics)
Thing is Ant-agonizer and The Mechanist (FO 3 or FO 4) are literal in-universe supervillain comic characters that people dressed up as to not be timid or cause they're a bit off. Yes I said villains, they're foes of Grognak the Barbarian and Silver Shroud respectively. So any capes you see in Fallout are comic characters brought to life by some one as copium.
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- Location
- Brazil
- Pronouns
- He
I mean … still better mentality then most worm capes lol, tho I used them as examples (ie they score high in the "goofy-edgy charts (and morbius beats even mouse protector …. Tho the drug problem is a issue)
Well I forgot that if you go through the logs of Parsons state insane asylum there's records of a Batman wannabe and a sorta Joker exspy (the actual Pint-sized slasher) being locked up there.
Chapter Seven: Testing, Creating
Chapter Seven: Testing, Creating, Becoming
"-and the Celtics lost, so Cody was kind of upset, but I didn't really care either way. It was awesome to hang out with Danny's friends though, they're a riot."
Jasmine leaned on the vending machine opposite me. We were out back behind the south building, right where the band room exits into the greenspace.
I missed lunch with my friends because I had to go to a meeting down at the main office -my parents had shown up to explain that I would be "shifting my vocational studies to a different area focused on cape costume design and merchandising"- so I was catching Jasmine up on my weekend, sans the power/Wards related topics.
"It was awfully nice of Danny to offer the tickets to her siblings first. My sister could learn a thing or two about family loyalty from yours."
Er, yikes, avoid that topic, Veronica's relationship with Jasmine and her family was… strained, and drama had unfolded at the shrine over the weekend while I was indisposed (on a shopping spree), as Cass and Ymena had let me know.
Luckily, I didn't have to skirt around talking about Veronica, as Jasmine changed the topic herself, "So, where were you at lunch today? We missed you."
"Well," I gathered my response, "You know how my mom works for the PRT? In the image department?"
"Yes? You've caught my interest with that opening. Do go on."
"Yeah, so, she and I had a discussion about her job on Saturday," a completely true statement, "and it got me thinking about the impact cape merchandising has on society. You don't really think about it, but it's a multi-billion dollar industry, basically just from branding deals alone!" still telling the truth and nothing but the truth, "I thought to myself, 'wouldn't it be awesome to apply my talents in a cape-related field?'," truth, even if I'm omitting critical information, "So I asked my mom, and she suggested that I could intern for the PRT's image department," mostly true, Mom suggested I use that as a cover for the Wards, "How cool is that? I might get to work with the Wards, the heroes. Anyways, to make a long story short, I was at the office during lunch so I could register to change my vocational study. Today's gonna be my first day."
End it with a winning smile, not that I had to fake the very real excitement bubbling up.
"Wow, that's great Sam! I'm so happy for you!"
She approached for a hug, and I didn't hesitate to hug her back.
Oh wow, Jasmine's hair smells great today. She's so tall, and soft, and amazing…
I snapped myself out of my reverie before intrusive thoughts took over. We separated, but the faint scent of cinnamon lingered in the air.
"Mom's gonna be picking me up soon," I said, "I can't wait, I'm like a kid on Christmas."
Seriously, I was vibrating -several of my classmates may have gotten annoyed by my leg tapping in Current Events- and I couldn't stop.
"I can see that," ah, there's that melodious laughter, "Before you get going though, I've got an important question for you."
Important question?
"Have you had a chance to talk to Amy yet?"
Oh shoot, with all the distractions and discussions of the past few days, I hadn't spared the Dallons a second thought.
"Er, not yet. There hasn't been a good opportunity to talk to her where I felt like I wasn't intruding," not that I had been looking for opportunities.
"The perfect moment won't magically fall into your lap," she was right again, but did she have to chastise me for it? "If you're still serious about what you said on Thursday, then don't be afraid to take your chance. It's alright to be nervous, but you can't let that stop you. Just be yourself, give it your best shot, and even if it goes horribly wrong, it won't be the end of the world."
Says you.
I hated this part. The lying. The disconnect that hiding my metaknowledge was causing. She didn't understand, couldn't understand that this was about more than just trying to make a friend.
But I can't blame her for that, it wouldn't be fair.
"If I catch Amy and Vicky alone, I'll go for it."
"Good to hear. I actually had some more advice for when you talk to her. I was thinking that you should try-"
Fate chose that moment to cut Jasmine off, when from my pocket came Mom's cheery ringtone. I answered the phone.
"I'm at the north parking lot, in front of the trees," her voice carried over the cell.
"Okay, I'll be there in a few," I tapped to end the call, "Mom's here, gotta go. I'll talk to you later!"
"Bye."
"Bye-bye."
I took off at a jog, eager to reach the meeting as soon as possible. Rounding the bend by the gym, I saw the van parked in all its cobalt blue glory. I opened the passenger door and jumped in.
"Hit the gas, we've got destiny to catch," I cringed internally.
Wow, that was a terrible one liner, why would I think that sounded cool?
Mom rolled her eyes at my antics, "Glad you're excited, Sweetheart. Now put on your seatbelt."
We then drove at the speed limit while following traffic laws, as we should. There's no reason to endanger others with reckless driving just because you have a meeting to attend.
From departure to arrival, the ride took just five minutes, Arcadia being relatively close to the PRT building. My nervous energy had dialed up the whole time to the point where I was fidgeting with the van's upholstery and moving my seat back and forth. I don't think Mom appreciated it.
"Remember your lessons from yesterday, be professional, know when to push and when to back off," she would brook no nonsense.
I simply nodded in understanding.
As we reached the building, Mom drove past the parking lot out front, turning the corner into a ramp leading underground. PRT vans lined the center aisles, confirming my suspicions that this was employee parking only. We pulled into a spot along the far wall next to a row of civilian car models.
Mom and I disembarked and made our way over to an entrance that resembled an elevator door, a slit down the middle indicating where the two stainless steel halves would slide apart.
Flanking the entrance on either side were two uniformed individuals unmistakably identifiable as PRT troopers. Their uniforms were very riot-trooper-chic, all bulky black body armor with kevlar and bandoliers attached for an assortment of equipment, but with a soldier-of-the-future twist present in chest plates and arm guards with rivets and plated ceramics. On the upper chest was emblazoned the insignia of the PRT, a winged shield with crenulations, a statement of design that said "We may be guardians of peace, but we will not hesitate to topple the tower down upon you. Don't step out of line" They carried a stubby flamethrower like weapon that I identified as a likely candidate for a containment foam device -the fluid packs worn on their backs were not as large as you'd think, smaller than a diver's air tanks for instance- and the soldiers kept the tubes pointed away from us while remaining at attention. In most of the interactions Taylor had with PRT troopers, their outfits came complete with riot helmets and blank, dark face shields. While they were wearing the helmets, they had forgone the face shields, perhaps in an attempt to appear less intimidating to incoming guests and workers.
"Please present your identification," The guard on the left said the command non threateningly, but with a monotone authority that allowed no argument. You will follow this trooper's orders, or you will find yourself having problems.
Mom swiftly lifted her wallet and showed the trooper the documentation they required.
It must have been satisfactory, as the guard -she had a feminine sounding voice- told us to step up to a screen for a retinal scan. They really take security here seriously with this James Bond type stuff. Good.
I was expecting a laser to flash across my vision, but we apparently live in a world too lame for something that cool, and the verification was over in a metaphorical flash rather than a literal one.
"You may proceed," the female guard said, swiping a card into the reader by the door.
The steel halves silently separated, pulling into recesses and revealing that the entrance was in fact an elevator. We got inside, and Mom pressed a button that read "3F" which I assumed means we're headed to the third floor.
Before the doors closed all the way, the female trooper spoke up, "Good luck, Brown."
"Heh, that was pretty cool," I said to Mom, getting a snort back from her.
"You'll get used to it," she said.
"What if I don't want to get used to it? Why let the magic fade?" Sci-fi soldiers will never not be awesome. Images of NCR Ranger gear and Brotherhood of Steel power armor were brought to mind.
Our conversation was cut short as the doors reopened to a generic office hallway. These elevators of theirs move fast to go from basement level to here in a matter of seconds.
Standing just to the side of the door was none other than the leader of the Brockton Bay Protectorate himself, the one and only Armsmaster, as always accompanied by his silver and blue power armor -vaguely reminiscent of the Power Rangers shows that Samuel had watched as a kid- and the iconic halberd strapped over his back. The lower half of his visor was withdrawn, revealing a sternly lined expression framed by a meticulously groomed beard.
That is quite possibly the squarest facial hair I have ever seen.
"Mrs. Brown, Miss Brown, follow me to conference room 3A. Put on this mask," He handed me a thin domino mask, "It will conceal your identity," There was the blunt language Armsmaster was famous for. Hearing it and seeing him in person, he didn't come off as socially awkward or robotic like in Samuel's impressions of the man. Rather, his refusal to use more words than strictly necessary to convey his meaning came off as (and I hate to say this) egotistical. More than anything, the proclaimed greatest Tinker in the Bay radiated a surety of self almost to the point of arrogance. To him, I was a waste of time, as was everything else not related to his hero career or his tinkering. Maybe it was my bias of knowing that he had acted very un-heroically in the original timeline, but my first impression was not a positive one.
Regardless, I pressed the domino mask to my face, assuming it was one of those Tinker created masks that generate an optical disguise.
We followed him through the hallways. The layout of the floor was easy to understand, being essentially one large rectangle with rooms both on the interior and exterior of the loop. I noticed indentations set into the floor and ceiling at regular intervals, Are those for blast doors?
Office workers moved about here and there, nobody sparing more than a glance in our direction. They must be so used to capes that this doesn't register.
We stopped in front of another door, this one hewn from a solid wood with a plaque that read "Conference Room 3A" just as Armsmaster had said. He knocked on the door and opened without waiting for a response.
Dad was already seated at the short conference table, closest to our side. At the other end of the table sat a woman I could only assume to be the director, heavyset with trimmed blonde hair and a gaze that could wither flowers. Emily Piggot retained the hardened comportment of a career soldier even with all that her service had taken from her.
"We're all here, so let's get started," The director's voice held that jowl-induced quality that being overweight sometimes causes, but she sounded no less commanding for it, "It's good to meet you, Miss Brown."
Yeah right, I know you're just saying that to show professional courtesy.
She continued with her spiel, "You've made the correct choice in joining the heroes. We'll go over the initial paperwork, you can voice any questions you have, and then we'll get you in for power testing. Before we begin, Brown, you said you have some documents that should precede the meeting?"
Dad produced his small leather bound journal from his coat pocket, rifling through the pages and withdrawing a stack which he handed over to the director.
"When we learned about our daughter's powers, we had a talk with her about responsible power use, during which she disclosed the extent of her abilities as she understood them at the time. These documents contain descriptions of said powers in her wording in addition to my own notes. I have not copied the contents of these pages to any other format, digital or otherwise, and if I may, I would suggest that Level-5 security protocols be engaged for all information pertaining to the new parahuman disclosed within, codename undecided."
There was a lot of bureaucratic formality thrown around in that statement, and apparently I warranted Level-5 security clearance, I have no idea how high that is.
"Requesting permission to transcribe notes to Power Armor v.2.0.31 internal database," Armsmaster said it more as a statement than a request.
His suit must have been considered secure enough because Piggot gave him an affirmative and nobody else objected.
Both hero and director read through the documents without comment, faces schooled, betraying none of their inner thoughts. The only reaction either gave was a single raised eyebrow from Piggot near the end of her perusal.
Once finished, she made to speak, "I find myself agreeing with your assessment, I'm instituting Level-5 security protocols for parahuman codename: Dimension Pull, effective immediately."
Color me surprised, that codename wasn't too terrible, although not at all what I wanted to call myself.
"This is going to be unorthodox," she continued, "but I think we should do things out of order. If it's alright with the both of you," so she was only considering my parents' opinions here, "We can proceed with power testing right away. I want verification of the contents of these documents before we discuss contract clauses. Brown, we can get the paperwork all laid out and ready to go."
Dad nodded.
Okay, no one asked for my opinion, but I'm fine with this anyways. Power testing sounds fun.
I looked to my parents for guidance. Mom seemed uncertain, on the verge of speaking up to Piggot, but Dad gave me a nod and told Piggot, "My wife should accompany her during the testing process."
"Of course, that was our intent," Piggot didn't hesitate.
Seeing no reason to hold, I consented.
"Excellent," the director said, "Armsmaster, please escort Dimension Pull and Mrs. Brown to the main power testing lab."
Mom and I got out of our seats to follow the armor-clad hero as he set off at a brisk pace. She shut the door behind her, leaving Dad and the director alone for what I belatedly realized might be an animated discussion. I hope Dad doesn't get fired for this, talk about a conflict of interests.
"Uhh, so that was strange right? I didn't expect that all to happen so quickly," I wasn't sure if I was searching for a response to my open ended statement or if I just wanted to make some small talk, but Armsmaster took it as a chance to comment.
"No. Wards power testing is generally completed after some signatory paperwork, although supervised testing is available to all parahumans without a criminal record," his language was clipped. He didn't sound upset or frustrated per say, but there was undeniably a tension to his bearing. What does he feel after reading about my powers?
Our route backtracked exactly along the path to the conference room, all the way to the elevator. We got off back at the garage. Why would we be led to the garage, I thought we were going to the testing lab? Oh duh, I forgot that the lab was at Protectorate HQ, also known as The Rig.
Unfortunately, I did not get to ride on the Armscycle, instead being shuttled with Mom onto one of the black and green PRT transport vans. Mom and I shuffled into the back of the transport, two troopers taking the driver and passenger seats. This pair had their face plates up, increasing their intimidation factor.
The van pulled out of the garage, Armsmaster following behind on his tinkered up motorcycle.
Mom hadn't said a word since the drive from school, more nervous than I was. I searched for a way to break the tension, not wanting to suffer the whole ride in awkward silence. She did say to maintain strict professionalism, but surely that was just for the meeting with the director and didn't count in this situation.
"Excited for all the merchandise you'll get to make of me?" I blurted out.
Mom blinked rapidly, coming out from her thoughts, "I'm sorry, what was that?"
"I asked if you were excited to make some me-themed merch."
She shot a glance over to the troopers, "S- Dimension Pull, I don't know if this is the best time to discuss that," she said my codename with every syllable on stilts.
Okay, now she was just being paranoid. I was the one who had to worry about Coil's plots and gang moles, and even I thought this was too much. I just want to lighten up the mood, gosh darn it!
So I did my best, "I wonder if I'll get my face on some panties like Armsmaster."
That got a response out of the passenger side trooper, "No no, you're going about this all wrong. You gotta think about your target demographics," was that a Spanish accent? "Obviously, you go for the boxer briefs market."
"Absolutely not!" "Méndez." Mom yelled out at the same time that the driver-side trooper chastised his partner.
This could work now that I had someone else to bounce off of.
"You're right Mrs. Brown," I need to at least maintain the illusion that I'm not talking to my mom, "I should at least wait until I'm in the Protectorate for that."
"Eh, but you'll be missing out on those royalties in the meantime," Méndez bantered back.
Mr. Driver just sighed in resignation, muttering about NDAs and disciplinary training.
Mom stared crossly at the back of Méndez's head, a complete improvement from her earlier mood in my opinion.
"Wards get age appropriate merchandising," Way to call me out, Mom.
I was smiling now, "Fine, fine. Sooo, how do you feel about putting my image on ceiling fans?"
"Why ceiling fans?" Mom, you make the setup all too easy.
Méndez beat me to the punch, "Cause she's gonna blow away all the competition."
This guy is a natural.
Mom groaned, face in her palms, commiserating with Méndez's misfortunate partner.
"That's it, young lady, you will be getting the blandest PR campaign our team is capable of. I'm talking about your hero name on tees in comic sans and a C-list voice acted guest appearance in the Wards cartoon levels of boring."
…
"Look on the bright side, kid. You're gonna be so famous they can't even afford your time in the studio."
I nodded sagely, "Comic sans is in with the post-ironic crowd. This'll be a huge boost to sales for my demographic aged 13-25."
"She forgot to mention your action figure. Everybody gets an action figure."
"True. I think I saw that mentioned somewhere in the Wards introductory pamphlet."
Mom was spared the horror of more banter when Mr. Driver called out, "We're on approach to PHQ."
Living in Brockton Bay, I had of course seen the hard light bridge that connected The Rig to the mainland, but I had never ridden over it. Looking out the front window, a wave of vertigo washed over me, quickly passing as I adjusted to the disconcerting view. A glowing blue path less than a millimeter thick was all that kept us from a watery grave.
It's really awesome up close, I thought, What I would give for a personal inspection of the technology, really get into the nuts and bolts of how it works.
I considered how I would implement forcefield technology. Fallout's forcefields worked using a principle called projected photonic resonance, essentially a method for trapping specific wavelengths of light using electromagnetic fields. However, my understanding of both science and Science was lacking, so I would need to put more points into the skill before I gained the know-how to build a working model.
Science for understanding the advanced physics, biology, chemistry, etc. behind Fallout's greatest inventions and Repair for the engineering practices required to build it all. Those two Skills would be what I dumped my level up points into for the foreseeable future, assuming it worked the same as in the game.
Focusing back on The Rig, the architecture had a lot in common with a modern art piece, defined by sweeping arches and pointed spires seemingly meant to impose a grandeur rather than facilitate any functionality. Then again, the missile platforms and forcefield bubble were functionality enough to deter all but the most hardened of villains.
A wide metal door gaped open at our approach, a maw of metal teeth that led into a large indoor hanger.
We climbed out, and I bid farewell to my new favorite PRT trooper.
I got a "knock 'em dead kid" in return.
Armsmaster pulled up alongside the van. He took off with a gruff, "Follow me."
We were led deeper into the structure, descending a few stories below what I thought would have been the bottom level. I was a Brockton Bay resident, so of course I had taken the tour before, but they clearly curated what the public saw. Last time I was here, I had taken the ferry to a landing on the opposite side of The Rig.
The tour immediately greets you with the giftshop, followed by a trek down sleek metal hallways leading to Armsmaster's tinkering lab and the hero training facilities.
This route was decidedly less exciting. Generic plaster walls. Office rooms. Living spaces? Not nearly as incredible as the exterior would have you believe.
After what felt like several minutes of walking, we circled back around to a familiar section. If I recalled correctly, we were nearing the training rooms, a more than plausible location for power testing. Indeed, we stopped at a room that was recognizable as a gym, with rows of treadmills, an assortment of weights, and some machines that I couldn't ascertain the purpose of.
A man and a woman, the former dressed in business casual, holding a clipboard, and the latter in a lab coat, were looking expectantly at us.
"This is Doctors Kasumi Watanabe and Kent Rivers of the parahuman research division. Please follow their instructions for the duration of the testing. If you have any questions they cannot answer, I will be observing the procedures as well."
And with that implied dismissal, Armsmaster marched off to the observation box, leaving me and Mom alone with the scientists.
"Yes, as he said, I am Dr. Kasumi Watanabe, but you may call me Dr. Watanabe or just by my family name," She was older, I placed her at maybe mid 40s.
"And you can call me Dr. Rivers, or Mr. Rivers, or Kent, I'm not too picky," he was younger than his partner, unlikely to be a day over 30, and he spoke with a joviality to contrast Dr. Watanabe's flat tone.
"So, Dr. Rivers, I see lots of gym equipment, are we testing my physical fitness first?" I asked.
"Aha, you're an observant one."
Why yes I am, see powers, my Perception should be higher than 2, I agreed with the good doctor.
"We'll start off with a series of baseline tests before getting into active power use," Dr. Watanabe explained.
"Um, there might be a slight problem. I actually have passive abilities that would interfere with getting a normalized reading."
"Not a problem at all," Dr. Rivers said, "by baseline, we mean without generating any forcefields or wind currents or what have you that you need to actively engage to use. We can't expect every parahuman to be able to deactivate innate superstrength on command."
"Oh, right," I said sheepishly. Duh.
"By the way, what do you want to be called?" he asked me, "I can't keep referring to you as 'kid' of 'you' the whole time."
"I don't have a name for myself yet, but the PRT has me provisionally codenamed as Dimension Pull. It's not a bad name, but it's not gonna be my hero name."
"Pull, it is," he said.
What followed was a series of tests that wouldn't be completely out of place in a high school standardized fitness exam.
First up was the treadmill. They had me begin at an even jog, the speed slowly increasing at regular intervals. As the pace ramped up, I had to pump my legs harder and harder to keep myself from flying off the treads. It was both tiring and not tiring at the same time, my body functioning at constant maximum output but without muscle fatigue or getting winded. My Stamina was draining fast, however -I had never tested this amount of strain- and I worried I'd run out if this kept up much longer.
I had no idea how fast I was sprinting, but even with Stamina, my lungs and legs were burning, and it was becoming impossible to keep up. The speed increased again. If I could push just a little farther…
I lost my footing. Ground rushed up to meet my face (or my face rushed down to meet the ground), slamming into my nose and jaw. At the speed I'd been running, I couldn't get my arms up in time, and they were awkwardly pinned beneath my chest during the collision, resulting in another painful point of contact.
Mega-ow, I never want to know what it feels like to hit the teeth first ever again.
Apparently, my slip up was damaging enough to cause severe physical harm because my Health bar was cut in half, Yikes.
"Sam!"
I think you're forgetting the whole secret identity thing, Mom.
"Oh my God, are you okay, Sweetheart?"
"Pull, are you alright? Why didn't you tell us we were pushing you too far?" Glad to see that the doctor is concerned as well.
"I'm fine. It just hurt," the pain response was still fading, "My um, my overshield protected me from injury," I tried to reassure the two mother hens and Dr. Watanabe, "I didn't realize that I couldn't keep up with the treadmill until it was too late. My- I suppose you would call it an energy overflow, keeps me from getting winded," Although I had been close to hitting empty when I took that fall.
"You're really fine?" Mom was still dubious of my safety.
"Really," I wiggled my fingers and flashed my teeth in a smile. I didn't even get a bloody nose, "Um, could we perhaps take a break to let my overshield recharge, unless we're on a tight schedule or-"
"That's perfectly fine," Dr. Watanabe assured me, "Let us know when you're ready to continue, and we'll more closely monitor your limitations from now on."
Five minutes later, I got back to it. The next few exercises were much less likely to result in a faceplant.
Do as many pushups as you can in one minute. I did 40.
Now do the same but for sit ups. I managed 62.
How long can you grip onto this pole without slipping? Until I ran out of Stamina plus 20 seconds for a total of 403 seconds.
Okay, now my arms are tired. I remember why I hate exercise, if I'd worn my Pip-Boy I'd be curious to check how much AP was used for the hangbar test.
Grip strength. I measured 18kg (My arms were still tired).
Sit and reach. 63.5cm. I was a flexible girl, and it helped that I could push past the pain without fear of tearing my muscles.
"We're going to have you lift progressively heavier weights," Dr. Watanabe explained, "Are you familiar with proper lifting technique?"
I was directed to a black pillar spanning from the floor to the ceiling and wide enough to fit three of me comfortably side by side. The pillar turned out to be composed of two parts, the dark outer sheath and a metal cylinder on the interior. The interior portion was enclosed on all sides except for the quarter circle facing towards the observation window. The metal cylinder was raised seven or so feet above the ground, and upon closer inspection, it was segmented into plates by thin, nearly invisible, horizontal gaps. The plates got thicker the higher the cylinder climbed. And there were two handles on the underside of the bottom plate.
Comprehension was beginning to dawn on me as to the purpose of this machine, conjuring images of Atlas holding up the sky.
I think Dr. Rivers saw my incredulity because he felt the need to explain, "Big Bertha here may look scary, but she wouldn't hurt a fly," I gave him a deadpan stare, "In all seriousness, it's completely safe. There would have to be hundreds of catastrophic failures involving shearing of dozens of steel carbide inserts over three centimeters in diameter before failure occurred. It's physically impossible for multiple weights to activate at the same time, controlled by analog mechanisms. It's not crushing anything or anyone anytime soon. The treadmills are by far the more dangerous pieces of equipment."
I looked at Mom.
She shrugged, "It's handled all the other Wards, including the ones without Brute ratings. I trust you'll be fine."
"And why can't we just use the weights you guys have lying around?" I hoped they realized how overkill this was for me.
"It's not as accurate," was the response from Dr. Watanabe.
I thought she was supposed to be the responsible one, and here she is running an orphan crushing machine.
Alright, let's do this.
I dismissed my survival instincts and positioned myself underneath the
"Adjusting height," came Watanabe's voice.
The cylinder lowered a few inches to where my arms were able to make right angles when gripping the handles.
"We're gonna start you off at the five kilogram plate and work our way up from there," Dr. Rivers informed me.
There was no sound or other indication that the first plate had dropped, I was just suddenly bearing its weight. I could handle this.
The weight increased every few seconds, warnings given by the researcher duo of how much weight would be added and what the new total would be. From five to ten to fifteen, incrementing by fives. At 35kg, my arms and chest were straining, and it's at this point that I would have quit if I didn't have superpowers. Stamina drained more rapidly the heavier object I was lifting, and I was hitting the halfway point. The pressure went up again, this time to 40kg, and I grunted in exertion, my face likely turning a shade of tomato red.
I grunted out that I was reaching my limit.
"Acknowledged, slowing the rate of increase," Dr. Watanabe flipped several switches on the control panel.
Weight was added one meticulous kilogram at a time, my arms now shaking, not from exhaustion but from the sheer mechanical inability of my muscles to bear the weight.
At 44 kilograms, Watanabe called the end of the test, and while I maybe could have forced myself to take a little more weight, it was nearing the point where that would cause damage to my Health.
The older researcher was looking over the results, "Interesting, you were able to lift more than expected of a girl your age, weight, and training ought to. I would say your energy reserves provide a minor yet valuable Brute rating, although it almost seems like an involuntary Breaker state."
It's a fascinating experience to push your body to its absolute physical limits, and then immediately afterwards go back to being completely fine, but that was my reality now. For all the pain and immense pressure felt in the moment, I was back to baseline seconds after the experiment stopped.
Dr. Rivers walked over to me with a grin on his face, "We've got just a couple of physical measurements we want to take, and then we can get to the fun stuff. Don't worry, these last few should be a little less boring for you."
I was led over to, of all things, one of those standing punching bags, the kind that look like a tube attached to a thick base. This one even came complete with the PRT insignia.
"Now, based on your previous results, we're having you hit the non-Brute rated punching bag, but if you feel that you could potentially tear through a solid foot of sand, you should tell us now," he informed me.
"No, I don't think I could do that."
"Great," He fished out a pair of boxing gloves from a nearby trunk, tossing them over to me where I deftly caught them, "here's some padding. Put those on, and give it your best strike."
I did as I was told; I couldn't injure my knuckles, but I was still no fan of pain.
Now, I had about as much knowledge of fighting as Mom had of electrical engineering. That is to say, it was practically nonexistent. I did know one thing though. You don't aim at the target, you aim behind it.
I imagined a second punching bag sitting a foot behind the first. That's my goal, hit the invisible bag. So I squared my shoulders, turned my body, winding back my arm, pivoting to put my full force behind this punch, and I struck.
Thud.
A solid hit if I do say so, leaving my fist stinging for a second. I bet I would have generated an echo if the gym didn't have such effective sound dampening.
Dr. Rivers called out the results, reading off his pad, "2100 Newtons, not bad, not bad, delivered over that area gives 240 psi. Enough to knock someone flat with a good hit to the jaw, but definitely outside the range of what you'd expect from someone with Brute strength," He shrugged at me, "I think we can definitely say that your powers aren't enhancing your strength, but how that works with your increased durability, I have no clue."
His grin widened like a child's smile on their birthday, "Now comes the fun part. Looks like you're slated for blaster testing next."
I hated to interrupt what would undoubtedly be a fascinating experience for both me and the researchers, but I had a question, "What about durability testing?"
"Pardon?" I don't think Dr. Rivers quite understood what I meant.
"Wouldn't it make more sense to test my physical durability first? Don't you have equipment for that here?"
"Oooh," You could almost see the lightbulb over his head, "Yes we do have equipment for that kind of testing, but it's a tremendous hassle to get all the proper permissions to test it on Wards. Your Youth Guard representative would have a fit if we didn't get your signed permission, your parents' signatures, the director's signatures, a supervising hero's signature, our liability signatures, you get the point. It's a bureaucratic nightmare, which is entirely unfair. It's not like we're chopping off limbs over here, the tests are barely worse than a trip to the doctor's. At worst, it would be difficult if you had a fear of needles, but for some reason those prissies make a fuss and baseless accusations about 'traumatic experiences' and 'government endorsed torture', ridiculous I tell you."
That seemed exaggerated to me, but Samuel had read some pointed interactions between the PRT and the Youth Guard.
"Are they really that bad?" I asked.
Dr. Rivers was stopped from launching into another impassioned tirade by his colleague, "The Youth Guard is necessary to ensure the rights of minors in our organization are not violated," she paused, "Even if it sometimes impedes both of our jobs."
With that line of conversation thoroughly ended, I was led to the next testing site. The Blaster test chamber ran as one long corridor, resembling a firing range if all the barriers were removed. Etched metal targets bearing dents, scratches, and scorch marks lined the back wall, and extras were propped up against the walls.
Mom and the researchers posted themselves several meters behind me, further protected by some kind of reinforced plexiglass sheet.
Dr. Rivers glanced to his pad and then back to me as I waited somewhat impatiently to begin, "Our notes say you've got pyrokinesis, self-generated from your hands. Go ahead and fire downrange. Don't worry about damaging the room, you'd have to output a lot of energy to get that far."
I equipped Flames for the first time, wielding the spell in both hands. My very own fire, a coalescence of my inner flame meant to bring destruction to my foes. The tongues of fire in my palm licked my fingers, but I felt only a comforting warmth, not the burning of flesh.
I could hold the fire in my palms as long as I wanted, but the energy longed for release, to unleash itself against all that stood in my path. I obliged.
Twin jets of fire shot forth, burning yellow, orange, and red. Sweat poured down my face, but the flames did not hurt me. I held my hands out, awestruck by the beautifully dancing inferno until my Magicka reserves were empty, cutting off the streams and leaving a bright afterimage in their wake.
That was… exhilarating. There was nothing supernatural about that feeling, just the adrenaline fueled euphoria of controlling that much raw power. Instituting self-imposed restrictions on my magic use would be important to curb any power junkie tendencies. I promised to myself, Absolutely no Destruction training outside of the appropriate locations.
Dr. Rivers let out a low whistle.
"Impressive," Dr. Watanabe was checking over her own tablet, "Temperatures reached 1100℃ for around 11 seconds, held constant the entire duration. Maximum range estimated to be 12 meters."
"Was that the longest period of time you could maintain your flames?" She asked.
I saw no reason not to enlighten the doctor, "Yes. It relies on a sort of internal energy reserve, different from the ones that power my superhuman endurance and durability," I clarified.
"Your power is kind of complicated, you know that Pull? Three separate energy sources, and you can keep track of all that?" Dr. Rivers asked with bemusement.
"Well enough. I have a rough instinctual sense of how much energy I've got left, and if I focus, I can find out exactly what percentage is remaining. I semi-regularly get the option to permanently raise the max capacity of one of them too."
"Duly noted." He typed into his pad, "Now, as much as I wish you could blast things with fire all day, we are unfortunately on a strict timetable."
I must have shown some of my disappointment, because he continued by saying, "Don't worry, you'll get plenty of opportunities to play with fire at a later date. Us researchers are always eager to get more data on parahuman abilities."
The day progressed through a series of tests meant to demonstrate the other abilities I had revealed.
Back in the gym, they had me blindfolded, moving me about randomly and asking me to orient myself to certain directions. Compass directions were child's play, then they began asking me to turn towards certain named landmarks. Using logical deduction and memory, I turned to face the door, then the observation window.
Facing towards downtown was easy with multiple map markers to orient myself. They had me spin around several times, and asked me to face away from the city, equally easy given the complete lack of markers in that direction.
Now turn to face my mom. Since people don't show up on my Compass, I had no clue where she was. Not one to be shaken by this kind of setback, I decided I'd give it a try anyways. I spun about randomly for a few seconds, coming to a stop with my finger pointed forwards.
"Did it work?" I asked, genuinely unsure that I had accomplished anything other than looking like a fool.
Dr. Rivers replied, "Yep, why did you spin that time, Pull?"
Not wanting to muddy their results, I explained how I was operating off pure chance and couldn't actually detect people with my direction sense.
I must have gained his curiosity because he wanted to try an experiment. He explained that he was going to have me wear a pair of noise canceling headphones, and he'd tap me on the left or right shoulder to turn towards either Mom or Dr. Watanabe respectively.
With the headphones covering my ears, I was now blind and deaf. He tapped my right shoulder. I spun. A minute passed, now my left shoulder. I spun again. Wait some more. This went on for several dozen more runs, until my hearing was suddenly restored as the noise cancellers were pulled off my head.
"You can untie the blindfold now," he helpfully told me, "You're sure you don't have some instinct you were following? You were able to pinpoint their locations a remarkably high percentage of the time, 14 successes out of 36 attempts can pretty much rule out random chance."
"I'm sure, really. You may as well have asked me to roll dice." I wonder if my Luck was influencing me subconsciously.
His eyebrows scrunched up, and he rubbed his pencil mustache in thought, "We might just have to test that at some point."
We moved onto generic Thinker testing, which consisted of a frankly absurd series of seemingly unrelated questions such as "What color is the stock market today?" or "Describe the temperature of nearby parahuman activity.", some of which were oddly specific and probably meant to target information gathering powers, with examples like "How many births have been registered within a five mile radius in the last hour?" or "List the serial numbers for as many electrically powered appliances as you can that are within 10 meters."
I, of course, didn't actually have a concrete answer to a single question, so I wrote nonsense and educated guesses. I told the researcher duo at the start that I didn't have the kind of Thinker powers this kind of questionnaire was testing for, but apparently it's standard procedure to screen all Wards. Minor Thinker powers tended to fall into the category that most often slipped under the radar (except for Stranger powers, but for much different reasons).
I couldn't have my exam "graded" yet, as a subset of the questions dealt with precognition. However, I wasn't holding out hope for a secret Thinker power.
Next on the agenda, the duo showed a keen interest in my inventory -although I referred to it as a pocket dimension- having me attempt to store a diverse selection of objects and substances, a much more thorough affair than my initial experimentation.
It started off innocently enough.
Metal cube, side length 5cm - It worked (obviously)
Plastic cube of the same size - Yes
Rubber ball - Yea
Wooden spoon - Yup
Ceramic plate - Indeed
My phone - Yep
Dr. Rivers' phone - Also yes
TV remote - Yes
A Tinker made, unspecified remote control device - Yes
5kg weight - Yes
10kg weight - Yes
20kg weight - Hrrrk, Yes
30 kg weight - Yes (with help from Mom to get it off the ground, I was able to keep it lifted long enough to count for my power)
"Wanna see what happens if we try it out on Big Bertha?"
"Kent, we are not risking the million dollar machine on your hare-brained scheme."
Styrofoam cup of water - Yes
Water (just cupped in my hands) - No (Now my hands are wet)
Can of orange soda - Mhm
Orange soda cupped in my hands - No! (Why did we have to check that? Now my hands are wet and sticky)
I demanded a bathroom break to wash my hands before continuing.
Handful of dirt - Nope
Jar of dirt - Yep
The air surrounding me - No
The air surrounding my hands - No again
Empty jar (full of air) - Yes (Seriously guys?)
Opaque container full of a dubious sloshing liquid - Yes…
Granola bar - Yes
Dr. Rivers brought out a live mouse. Please, please don't let Mr. Mouse get hurt, I pleaded with my powers.
Live mouse - Didn't work (What a cuddly boy)
Live cricket - Same result (What an uncuddly creature)
Live mouse in a cage - No
Live cricket in a jar - Yes?
Live mouse in a jar - No???
Dead cricket - That one worked
"If you make me try to store a dead mouse in a pocket dimension, I'm complaining to the Youth Guard."
By now, the list of items I had been made to try my power on resembled a testing log from one of those SCP Foundation articles Samuel was fond of reading with an opinion of Dr. Rivers to match the reputation of that fictional organization's most eccentric researchers.
"I think we have covered enough materials," Dr. Watanabe said, "any further testing would be redundant, and we have other things to do."
Dr. Rivers did not pout -he liked to maintain a fun loving yet semi-academic demeanor- but his eyes dimmed in disappointment.
He picked his mood up a moment later as he announced my next task, "You're an unending waterfall of data, Pull, and while I would love to explore the minutiae of your plethora of powers, we only have enough time for one more slot today. Ah, I see that look of disappointment in your eyes-"
"Maybe you should have made parahuman research your vocational study, Sweetheart," Mom had really opened up over the course of the afternoon. Things had gotten off to a rocky start because of my slip up during the very first test of the day, but her mood had gradually improved as she made conversation with Dr. Watanabe -while Dr. Rivers put me through the wringer. She had even forgone the flimsy secret identity charade between the two of us -both of the doctors knew we had a familial relationship by this point, and they had already signed NDAs.
"I concur," Dr. Watanabe stated, "You possess all the qualities of an excellent researcher -a keen mind, patience in the face of failure, and a burning curiosity. Keep hold of these traits, and they will take you far no matter the field you study or the job you take."
She muttered in a quieter voice, "Virtues I wish more parahumans shared."
Dr. Rivers cleared his throat, "Anyways, I bet you'll be excited for the last bit of power testing, seeing as your primary power is listed as Tinker."
Finally.
The auxiliary Tinker lab was a treasure trove, an inventor's dream come to life. Cabinets stocked full of beakers and labeled chemicals, shelves overflowing with scrap electronics, sheet metals, and plastics, tools orderly lining smooth tabletops, appliances gathered along walls, a lathe and 3D printer for metals and plastic, a robotic gantry above an immaculately clear surface, all promised untold resources I had so far been denied.
That was only the visible portion, who knows what they had hidden in closed drawers?
"Sweetheart, you've got a little something on your chin," Mom's eyes crinkled in amusement, a grin clearly held back.
I wiped my mount reflexively and came away with… Drool? I was literally drooling at the sight of the massive Tinker cache.
Even all-business Dr. Watanabe was smiling.
It was then that Armsmaster entered the lab. I hadn't seen the hero since the start of testing, checking my phone, four and a half hours ago. Knowing his disposition from Worm and the other whacky timelines, he might have been tinkering in his lab instead of observing the procedures, waiting until my Tinker time arrived. The man had a singular obsession with Tinkers above all other parahumans, sneering down at the dirty Brutes, Trumps, and Blasters from on high.
Okay, I was being unfair again, Stop letting your biases taint your personal opinion of the man. He can do good when he tries.
"I am here to oversee and observe your tinkering process. Please proceed," No wonder this guy so often got labeled on the spectrum, would it kill you to modulate that monotone voice? I know you're not a robot!
Well, I won't let this distract me any longer.
I had to make sure they wouldn't be upset by my resource use, so I asked to make sure, "I can use anything in this room?"
"Yes, and lucky for you, anything you make here can get grandfathered in since you haven't signed any official paperwork yet," Dr. Rivers assured me, "but it still has to go through testing before you're allowed to bring it on patrols," and crushed my dreams at the same time.
Here goes nothing.
Make a plan, first step, What do I want to build
Perhaps a better question would be, What do I need to build?
I had defenses, but my current offense kit was a tad… overkill. I couldn't imagine a scenario where going all out with a stream of fire longer than my house was tall would be considered acceptable force for a Ward, unless something had gone horribly wrong. Then again, I live in Brockton Bay, and something going horribly wrong is just another Tuesday for the heroes. I'd still like an offensive tool with more finesse, more fine control, that was decidedly less lethal.
Except, Fallout was a universe of decidedly lethal weaponry, with very few counterexamples to choose from, and my options from Skyrim mostly included even deadlier fire spells or sharp, pointy, killy swords, the most optimal utility spells being locked behind higher tiers and perks.
What I wouldn't give for immediate access to paralysis enchantments, spells, or even poisons.
However, New Vegas contained one option that would be incredibly easy, practically child's play to make, even with my low skill levels.
The Cattle Prod, originally used for tending unruly cattle, but in theory a tool that could be repurposed for human anatomy, was the perfect starting weapon. It's easy to use -just poke the enemy- and it's low technology, not very resource intensive.
Even Regent made excellent use of the weapon on non-Brute targets. And I could do better.
Fetch the materials. A hollow pipe ,looks to be intended for plumbing. A spool of copper wire, 6 gauge for use in heavy electricity flow. Two 12 Volt batteries. A roll of duct tape. Some odd bits of scrap metal.
Now put it together. I'll need protective gear and tools of course, a welding torch and mask, along with an apron and heat resistant gloves. My spells will come in handy here (Welding torches are great for attaching two metal objects together, not so much for shaping metal). With Flames, I superheated the scrap metal until it was glowing red -all done inside the blast resistant chamber- then I hammered away with some nearby blunt scrap. I scraped and shaped, forging a rough pair of prongs, and when the metal cooled off, I angle grinded until the tips would be sharp enough to reliably pierce thin clothing and skin.
SMITHING INCREASED TO 2
Mask and apron on, weld the prongs to the body. Take the copper wire, and coil it around the top of the tube -this will be good for instantaneous shocks over a large contact area rather than incapacitation- trailing off to the battery leads. Connect the batteries in parallel, increasing voltage. Duct tape the batteries to the weapon body.
Problem. The weapon can still easily deliver lethal amperage and voltage. Solution. Modulate current switch controlled resistors, using precisely cut thin sheets of rubber wrapped around important junctions thinly separated by mechanically controlled metal struts. Current follows Ohm's Law: I=V/R. Power source provides constant voltage, so engage the switch at three different levels to introduce three levels of resistance, and subsequently, three current settings.
Inadvisable to wield bare metal of shock inducing weaponry. Apply rubberized grip to the bottom.
I shook my head out of my intense focus. It was complete, and I didn't have to cheat like with the Pip-Boy. Anybody could build this with the proper technique and know-how, at best my power providing knowledge of engineering shortcuts and bypasses. Before the Cattle Prod, I had never encountered Ohm's Law in my life, my Science skill seemingly conjuring that information out of the ether and into my brain when needed. I understood it now of course, it was hardly rocket science, just simple circuit equations.
I turned towards my audience, hefting the Cattle Prod up to display my creation in all its rudimentary glory.
"What is it?" Thanks Mom for being the perfect audience member.
"I believe I have some idea based on my observations," Armsmaster stated in his trademark monotonic canter.
"This is-" I can't call it the Cattle Prod, or they'll get the wrong idea, "It's a stun baton, with three settings for non-parahumans, armored non-parahumans, and Brutes. That's just a generalization of course. Obviously, I can't cover all possible Brute powers with a single current, and if they're still susceptible to electricity, then I'd have to watch out for possible heart arrhythmia," I hoped those downsides wouldn't prevent me from taking my first creation into the field. If Glory Girl got to pummel thugs with dumpsters, then I could bring a measly stun baton.
"So, it doesn't shoot bolts of lightning?" Dr. Rivers didn't need to sound so disappointed. I'd tried my best with the materials and knowledge I was given!
"This is a normal stun baton." Armsmaster did a once over with his visor, probably scanning my work with his array of built-in sensors, "I detect no abnormal energy readings or aberrant material properties. It is completely unremarkable by every metric."
Way to put a girl down. Unlike you, I obey the laws of physics.
"This side of my Tinker technology will always be replicable by non-parahuman engineers. A stun baton is the least of what I can create. Give me time and resources, and I'll give you widespread forcefields, healing tech, and optimized nuclear fusion."
Chew on that, Arms-loser.
"You're telling the truth."
For the first time since I'd met the man, his stoicism had cracked. It was the subtle intonation in his voice, the slight posture tensing. If I wasn't putting my undivided attention on him, I would have missed it, and for the cracks to show through his rigid discipline, he must have been in turmoil inside.
I made an irrevocable decision in revealing my capabilities, but it would have come to light sooner or later. Better they know now than to stumble upon the truth after the fact, and if it raised my standing in their eyes, all the better.
Whether or not this would bring The Simurgh crashing down upon my head like an F6 tornado, only time would tell.
For now, I had a meeting to conclude and negotiations to handle.
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- Location
- England
The final name could be Ass Pull because she keeps pulling powers out of her ass.
Report on test subject 2380_7 assessment of Stranger powers.
A: Did [Redacted] show any stranger powers?
B: Who?
A: You were just testing a parahuman's abilities, right.
B: Yes.
A: Who was it you were testing?
B: Oh, [Redacted].
A: Who?
B: Who, what?
*Door opens*
C: Both of you report for Master/Stranger processing immediately! Session #487 terminated, tapes to be reviewed at a later date in a remote facility.
A: Don't you just hate it when that happens.
B: When what happens?
A: Exactly.
The phrase is "hare-brained". It probably comes from the phenomenon of the so-called "mad march hare" where male hares in the breeding season show off by fighting and chasing each other.
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Sam does not currently possess the raw, unbridled charisma of DOCTOR MOBIUS. I foresee terrible failure if she tries to ham it up to that degree. not that she'll be as serious as Armsmaster. Somewhere in the middle ground makes the most sense.
She can, and she will, and it won't even be black boxed.
Nice catch, I wasn't aware of that one.
Speaking of mad march hares, how do y'all feel about March playing a part in the story? To be honest, I haven't read Ward, but I'm a huge fan of her characterization in Brockton's Celestial Forge as a main antagonist. She's definitely a sleeper hit for me.
Chapter Eight: Earning Concessions
Chapter Eight: Earning Concessions
Piggot could glare daggers through an endbringer. At least, that's what it felt like to be on the receiving end of her hardened gaze.
"You declined to inform us of critical information relating to your power, Dimension Pull. Do you understand why we might be apprehensive to place our full trust in you?"
So that's how she wanted to play it, huh, the old "How can we trust you for not telling us all your dirty secrets?" angle.
"Director, I should think that-" Dad started to speak on my behalf, but I signaled him to stop with a hand on his shoulder.
If I wanted to gain respect in the Director's eyes, I had to make my own case, show her I wouldn't cower behind my parents.
"Director Piggot, I had good reasons for not immediately telling you the nature of my technology, and it's for those reasons that I think it important we ensure word of this doesn't leave the room. Do you have a way to check for bugs?"
Piggot stared at me for a few, long seconds. Don't crack. Remain strong.
"Armsmaster, perform a sweep." she said.
"Affirmative."
The hero pressed a button on the side of his head, while the director reached under her side of the table. Window shutters drew close, diminishing the lighting to an artificial overhead bulb, while a staticy sound droned at the edge of hearing.
"No signs of spying detected."
Piggot leaned forward in her seat, "Inbound and outbound signals are being jammed. Now, tell me why you withheld this."
I'd get right to the point then, "If the world at large got this information, it could put me in extreme danger. A Tinker who can make reproducible tech has a huge target painted on their back. Gangs, the national government, even other countries are going to come after me if they get their hands on this. I didn't tell you or my parents initially because that would put them in danger, and it would give more opportunities for the information to leak out."
"I assure you the PRT treats vital information with the utmost seriousness. You're right that this would make you a target by unsavory groups inside and outside of the country, but we would never allow it to be revealed."
Never willingly, "With all due respect, can you guarantee 100% that it won't ever leak out of your servers, or that you won't have the documents stolen? Or that none of your employees will ever be tempted to sell me out for a hefty reward?"
If Dad was content to let me lead the discussion before, that was no longer the case. He spoke over my next words, "My daughter is right. We both know how tenuous operational security can be before parahumans come into play. I won't allow her to be put in danger any more than strictly necessary. This information doesn't leave the room. You, Armsmaster, Rivers, Watanabe, Gabby and I can be the only ones to know this. Don't put it in a database, don't even write it down."
Piggot scrunched her eyebrows, lips pursed like she had sucked on a particularly sour lemon, "I can agree to the last part, but I will be informing the Chief Director."
"I'm not so sure that's a good idea."
Oh dang, things were getting heated, and I was the awkward child stuck in the middle of two bickering adults.
"Excuse me," Piggot was scandalized, "You don't dictate PRT policy, Brown."
"That's true. Frankly however, I don't believe Costa-Brown has Brockton's best interests at heart, and I'm certain she doesn't care about my daughter's well being beyond what political benefits it gives her," Serious accusations, yet my father maintained a level tone, never once raising his voice.
"Is this really the best time and place for this?" The implication was clear, she didn't think it appropriate for me to hear Dad's unguarded opinions on the subject.
"It concerns her future. She made the decision to inform Armsmaster. Sam's the one in most danger, and so I think she deserves to know the full extent of the situation."
That's a good sentiment Dad, but Cauldron -and by extension, Rebecca Costa-Brown- doubtlessly are already aware of me. Nothing slips past the Thinker 12 besides restricted Shard data.
I didn't want to get Piggot or myself into trouble when the dual leader of the PRT and high ranking Protectorate hero learned of our lie.
It was a gamble, but I was betting that Becky would value my potential more than she valued whatever she would get from revealing my secrets.
I made my case, "Ma'am, I think it's okay if you tell the Chief Director. It'd mean big trouble if we were caught out in a lie, and if the leader of the PRT can't be trusted, then who can be?" After decades of leading a split life, there were few secret keepers that could call themselves Costa-Brown's equal, "Besides, even if we do keep it a secret, it'll get out eventually anyways. I don't plan on telling anyone else, but all it takes is one enemy Tinker stealing my tech. It would be better to be proactive about this. At least, that's what I think."
"You've both made your points. Regardless, I am obligated to inform the Chief Director, that's not up for debate. I will be using the most secure channels available to me, no one else hears a peep."
Piggot straightened a thick stack of papers and cleared her throat, "With that in mind, let's get to our original business."
I'd like to say that I was attentive and alert the whole time, but that would be a big fat lie. The majority of the meeting was spent with my parents and the Director haggling for royalty percentages and trust fund interest allotments. I spent some of that time reading over the Wards documents pertaining to my duties, obligations, and privileges, and during the rest, I fought off sleep (It was getting late, and I'd had a long day, okay?).
The default contract listed 20 hours of commitment a week, split between after school hours and weekends. I had a modest Tinker budget, but I was obviously going to bargain that up. One clause essentially said that the PRT owns my image rights. That's fine -I don't care enough to make my own merchandise- but I'll be the one to decide what my name is, not PR, thank you very much.
It was while I was struggling with droopy eyed stupor that the Director addressed me, "Dimension Pull, if these clauses are satisfactory, you can sign the documents."
Mom and Dad gave me expectant looks. Now was the time to argue for my own terms. They'd back me up, but the impetus had to come from me.
"I have a few points of contention, Director. Firstly, while the budget you have listed is generous, I feel that it wouldn't be a good fit for me. My Tinker powers are highly irregular. While you are fully aware of the more… grounded side of my tinkering, I also have many creations that are, um, esoteric. And decidedly not replicable. Many of these require components that are, let's say, potentially very difficult to obtain, and I'm not sure how to even go about calculating the cost."
She narrowed her eyes, steepling her fingers, "I'm not writing you a blank check."
At this, Dad interjected, "If I might make a suggestion, what if we trialed a hybrid system. For materials that get classified under the PRT's Standardized List of Budgetable Items, we can use a direct allotment, and for other requests, we could determine the efficacy on a case by case basis."
Armsmaster, being a Tinker himself, was invested enough into the conversation to make his own suggestion, "Such an idea isn't unheard of. Many Tinkers have abnormal specialties, and have made requests outside the purview of standard materials. What sorts of "esoteric" components would you require?"
Ohhh, let me think. Spell tomes had lots of weird items involved in their creation. Yeah, how the heck would I get that?
"Let me answer with a question. How would you go about bottling a cloud? What amount would it cost to import a 10x10x10 meter slab of granite? Those are the kinds of questions I'm dealing with for material requirements."
"I see."
Do you?
The hero turned his visor towards the Director, "I can review Dimension Pull's more problematic material requests."
"Fine," she sighed, "We'll amend the contract."
I didn't want her to think we were done yet, "Another thing, I want final say on all my power-granting creations. No vetoing them."
"All Tinker products go through a strict review process to ensure their safety. That includes a pre-review process. This is non-negotiable," The Director was adamant, but I wouldn't back down from this no matter what.
"Even if they pose no danger whatsoever? The creations I'm talking about are completely unusable by anyone but myself, to the point where you may as well not even consider it Tinker tech. Think of it more like a bizarre delivery system for my Trump power."
She took a long time to consider. Internally, I was praying that she'd agree to this concession, already having severely handicapped my progress with regulations and restrictions on my available builds. If Piggot denied my appeal, I would have little recourse. This late into the game, after giving up so much, could I really refuse to sign the paperwork? I'd put myself in a bad spot.
Deliberation came to an end, and Piggot's next words would decide my fate.
"I can agree to lessening oversight on power augmentations only. However, you will inform me exactly what powers you expect to be making before you do so. Abuse this privilege, and I will revoke it, am I clear?"
"Crystal, ma'am."
"Excellent, if that's all, then I'd like your signature on the Wards membership documents. We'll fast track the changes to budgetary and merchandising. That can get signed tomorrow."
I had one last point to bring up. One more argument to make, but it should be the easiest of the night.
"Wait, I have one more request."
"I'm listening."
"Um, I'm totally willing to work with Image," I gave Mom a nod, "They know how best to represent heroes in the public sphere. But I want to pick my own name."
I was expecting Piggot to give a denial just for the sake of argument -she seemed reluctant to give up any concession too easily, no matter how trivial- but it was Mom who spoke up.
"We're not going to stick you with the first name out of our pens, Sweetheart. Image is a process, and we'll make a whole list you can choose from based on the direction you take your costume and theme."
Great, my mom is doing the Director's job for her.
"That's, er, not what I meant. I want to choose my name entirely by myself."
Uh-oh, Mom got that stern look on her face that says "I know better".
"Names are important. You have to put a lot of thought into the presentation you put on for the world. Think about how the average person will react to your name, what kinds of images it conjures."
Yes, Mom, I understand how hero names work, she still wasn't getting it.
"Look, how about a compromise, I-"
"You can discuss this later," Piggot had apparently heard enough of our arguing, "Naming rights isn't actually something I can grant you, bring it up with PR."
Oh. I guess that makes sense.
I had no more contentions, having succeeded in arguing for the two most important points. I signed the contract with a fancy ball point pen, marking the end of today's meeting.
Piggot had one last statement before dismissing us, "I can offer you a tour of the Wards HQ, but be aware that it's unlikely for any of them to be in at this time."
So I probably wouldn't get to meet the Wards today.
"That's okay," I said, "I'd rather go tomorrow when more of them will be here."
Polite farewells were given, and I shuffled out of the conference room with my parents. Ugh, I was so mentally drained. I'd be skipping skill grinding tonight, just a late dinner, homework, and then bed for me.
My jaw split open, a yawn escaping. Maybe I could go for a short nap on the ride home.
Meeting the Wards tomorrow, huh? That'll be interesting.
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