I suspect it's because Wildbow neglected to make him grimdark enough for the setting. As evidenced by the fact that when he did finally go and address the matter he made the whole thing extra grimdark.
One of the things a Ward needs to know is how to transport an injured person without causing further injury. That's not always feasible, and it's definitely not something one should attempt without knowing how, but it comes up pretty often. Waiting for normal emergency responders isn't always an option, especially when Capes are involved. And even if it is, it's not always a viable option. So we're supposed to get a fairly thorough set of training in the process, adapted for our powers, along with first aid and things like how to keep a perimeter unpermeated by civilians.
For keeping them out, not in, I shouldn't have to say. Yes, I am saying it, but I shouldn't have to. Sadly, the world I live in causes me to need to be specific about that. That sort of thing is necessary sometimes, especially after Simurgh attacks, but they don't make Wards do it. It's a ridiculously grim duty even by Earth Bet standards. It needs to be done, unfortunately, but it's not even remotely kid-friendly. Or anybody-friendly.
Honestly, neither is any situation where one needs to transport a severely injured person, especially without specialised tools, but at least with most of those one knows that they're at least trying to help the unfortunate souls they're encountering. If one is properly trained and doing things right, like most experienced heroes, they're probably even going to succeed a decent portion of the time.
Browbeat actually did a fairly good job of that, aside from the icewater thing. I think. At a minimum, he managed to bring me to a medical area without further aggravating my face, though he might have had some help with that. Alice Stone was right there, after all, and I think PRT agents get the same training. Except theirs isn't adapted to the powers they don't have, obviously.
Well, I suspect that it's probably adapted to powers they're likely to encounter, friendly or otherwise. But not having to adapt to the trainee's specific powers probably makes it a bit simpler. I'd guess they'd covered most of the most likely scenarios.
Superstrong Brutes needing to carry people is a pretty common situation, since there are a lot of capes that fit that descriptor in one way or another and a lot of people who need to be removed from cape fights. And both superstrong brutes and people needing evac are even more common than usual in these parts, so she'd quite possibly had actual experience with the matter.
However it happened, I arrived safely and securely, aside from my scalded face. Which I promptly received treatment for, after which I was instructed to lay still for half an hour with cool stuff on my face.
Well, cool temperature-wise. I can't imagine it was all that fashionable. Not that the rest of me was much better, what with the massive milk stain I'd been in too much pain to notice when it happened. I couldn't actually see it, since I was lying back with my eyes closed, but I could feel it just fine. It's actually rather hard to ignore the feeling of wet clothes, especially when you're on a dry surface. So I knew the milk was there.
Unless that was spillover from the icewater, warmed up by the tea and my face, but Alice told me it was milk and I trusted her. Of course, it could have been milk and water and tea, but that wouldn't make a meaningful difference to the amount of staining. Whatever it was, she quickly volunteered to fetch new clothing, and, since I had no desire to walk around with a huge milk stain on me, I nodded my approval.
Then she went off, leaving me alone with Browbeat. And the nurse, Derrick Faultner according to his nametag, but he seemed to be staying out of it. So mostly just me and Browbeat.
Who had something he needed to say:
"I am so, so sorry."
I, on the other hand, said nothing. Partially because I didn't know what to say, but mostly because my mouth was covered with cool stuff and I didn't want to disturb it. What I did do was put my hand on his shoulder and pat it a few times before withdrawing.
Fortunately, he was sitting down and the medical examination thing I was laying on was raised pretty high, or I would have been left patting his inhumanly large pectorals. That would have sent a rather different message.
Well, maybe I would have just patted his arm or something instead. That would have been the sensible course of action, and I do try to be sensible most of the time. I don't always manage it, and I suspect that my understanding of "sensible" isn't exactly universal, but I do try.
Sometimes I wonder if everybody's trying for sensibility and just failing sometimes and having different views, or if some of us just don't care. It doesn't make all that much of a difference on a practical level, but it's definitely an interesting question.
"Thomin and the Nightlord" is a cartoon, as it turns out, and Browbeat apparently really, really cares about it. Enough to have practically memorised the first episode "Darkest Magic". Or such was the impression I received from his enthusiastic explanations. He'd actually started by trying to explain all the little problems today, apparently going in temporal order, but his train of thought had derailed somewhere.
To be completely honest, I didn't actually care about a fairly typical standard boy-appeal protagonist sounding suburban kid and his adventures leading an army of noble savage mice types from a magical land to defeat a fairly standard big bad evil guy and sell merchandise. Obviously, he described it in more positive terms, but it still didn't sound appealing. Even if the whole thing wasn't rife with unfortunate implications, which I doubted, it just didn't seem interesting to me.
It was nice that he had something he clearly enjoyed, though. Ours was a very stressful line of work, and we all desperately needed ways to unwind. Even if they were saturday morning cartoons with all their silliness and frequent insensitivity towards important issues.
In truth, I don't know if "Thomin and the Nightlord" airs on saturday mornings, or even if it's still airing at all, but everything I've heard about it indicates it's typical of the type even if it doesn't fit the exact requirements.
Still, I was paying attention, if only out of politeness and not any real interest.
"Mom doesn't like me watching it though. She says it's just for boys."
Until that. That was something I actually had to talk for. There was something that needed to be said, especially since Browbeat looked just about ready to rip the tongue from his mouth. Well, two things, but only one of them directed to Browbeat.
"Can we have the room for a bit, please?" was instead asked of Nurse Faulkner, and I waited for him to nod and leave before I said anything more. There was a chance that he hadn't heard or hadn't put it together. I wasn't about to spill the beans, even if that chance really wasn't a good one.
Fortunately, he did in fact leave. I doubt he went very far, and he'd doubtlessly be back if anything loud happened, but it was enough for a private conversation.
"It's okay," I said, as I lowered the pointer finger I didn't remember raising from Browbeat's mouth. "If you're worried I'm going to react badly, or share this with anybody, I won't. I know exactly how important, and how dangerous, being true to oneself is, and I wouldn't do anything to endanger you for it. And you don't need to share anything you don't want to, but I'm open if you do."
It was a good speech, I thought. Definitely worth the red-hot pain shooting through my lips as I spoke. And the cool stuff slipping into my mouth. Okay, the metre was a little off, and it wasn't exactly a rhetorical masterpiece, but it said what needed to be said, and what needed to be said really needed to be said. Although in hindsight it was more like a bunch of things than one. My apologies.
Yeah, it needed to be said, even if it didn't end up going anywhere. It didn't, not that time, but that's only as far as I know. Hopefully, it was making an impression where it counted.
The big lawn by the PRT building was actually quite nice. Technically, it was a public park, but today, and apparently on quite a few days, it was where the PRT announced stuff to the public. There weren't any trees or pieces of playground equipment or anything, just grass and a scant few benches by one edge. A fairly standard business area type park, too small and too unenhanced for most park-type stuff, though in Brockton Bay it was actually one of the nicer examples of its kind. Mostly, though, it was where the PRT announced stuff, usually in the form of a Press Conference, like the one I was at.
And the thing about Press Conferences is that, despite their differences from ordinary conferences, they're still conferences. And a conference is just another type of meeting. You know how meetings tend to go for me. So I was understandably nervous as I waited in the section of chairs marked off for the public.
Maybe it would have been better if I'd been the focus of things. It would have been less like a meeting and more like an interview, and that was at least a skill I needed to develop. Even if it turned out that this me was indeed vulnerable to stagefright, at least it would have been a new kind of nervousness. Or maybe if I'd been one of the reporters, there to ask questions and write stories, then I might have been too busy. Either way, it would have been different.
But I wasn't really comfortable as it was, even with Alice Stone sitting right beside me.
Don't get me wrong, I did appreciate her presence. She was, after all, comparatively large and strong and reassuring, and I trusted her. It helped, it really did, but it mostly just took the edge off without fixing the core issue. After all, she'd been at several of the previous meetings where horrible things happened or were learned. Most of them, actually.
If only I had been able to decline when Browbeat invited me to watch his debut.
"No. Thank you, but no," would have been perfect for that. Tone and all, not that you can hear the tone. Unfortunately, it was said by Browbeat instead of too him, and about sharing more of something that was very personal. Which was fine, I had no inherent right to his secrets, except for the part where I wish I could have said it (or written it, which would have been a much better idea,) at a later point.
Plus, he did confirm that I should refer to him as him when I asked, which was the only thing I really needed to know. Though I did hope he had somebody to talk to about it with. Probably not his mom, but maybe Doctor Maina? She seemed nice.
Either way, I quickly changed the uncomfortable discussion topic to something I knew he could ramble on about for quite some time.
"So what happened after Thomin escaped the Citadel of Horror and claimed the Sword of Light?"
"Well you see, after Princess Pureheart tried to rally the villagers…"
Episode two of "Thomin and the Nightlord" didn't sound any better than the first one did, but at least it wasn't going to get right into dangerous territory. Even if Princess Pureheart was a classic example of the "Damsel in Distress" archetypes and her getting kidnapped while failing to convince the people to rise up, only to be rescued by the white male lead who succeeded in her place played right into longstanding patriarchal tropes and narratives.
Okay, maybe it was dangerous territory, but I'd put up with a lot worse, and Browbeat clearly needed something. He seemed more oblivious to the subtle toxic ideologies involved than buying into them, so maybe he'd need to be made aware later, but now wasn't the time. Not when we'd just met, not when I'd just stumbled across something very personal for him, not when I'd only heard things secondhand, and not when a mere six sentences (well, four sentences and two questions) spoken made my lips hurt more than the time I'd bitten into an especially spicy pepper thinking it was the sweet kind.
So I sat and suffered through Browbeat's rendition of the second episode, then a pretty big chunk of the third before Alice Stone came back and I was able to politely gesture for him to leave so I could change.
To which he said the standard "goodbye, Jacqueline, it was nice meeting you," looked at his phone, exclaimed "My debut! I'm late! I'll see you there, right? Gotta go, thanks, bye!" and ran out the door and down the hall. The wrong way down the hall, if Stone's hurried correction was any indicator. All in the space of approximately half a nanosecond.
So you see why I couldn't exactly decline. Though even I'd had the chance, I doubted I would have. Despite everything, there was something endearing about Browbeat and his enthusiasm. Kinda like a big, happy, fun dog that wants to help. Even if it gets mud and slobber all over your carpets while trying to lick them clean, you can't help but appreciate it a little.
At least the aura flaring meeting screening thing went well. On my end. Given how things had gone so far, it was entirely possible the meeting itself had degenerated into some sort of brouhaha, but I didn't need to know about it if it did.
The introduction and such was pretty boilerplate. There's a standard formula for these things that's basically the same every time, aside from the details of who's doing it and the specific new hero being introduced. Things usually don't get interesting till the new face steps up and gives their first speech and/or power demonstration, and sometimes not even then. I'd never attended any of these things live before, but it was basically the same as all the videos I'd checked out on the internet after such things suddenly seemed very relevant to my life.
Browbeat's own performance wasn't exactly the best of the lot, but he was at least competent. Good looks, (if you liked the big and muscley He-Man type, anyway,) a cheerful presence, and a special wave for the largest concentration of children in the audience made for a good first impression, aided by the way his navy blue costume somehow sparkled in the sunlight.
Studded on gemstones, probably, though small and probably not very valuable ones. Or semi-precious stones, or artificial substitutes or something. I don't know why he had a night sky theme, but it suited him. As did the cheering from the children, hero fans, and PRT plants in the audience. He somehow grew even more enthusiastic and cheerful as he hoisted a pair of full-size and fully loaded barbells over his head, then turned to give his speech.
He spoke about hope. He spoke about ideals, about standing up, and about the triumph of good over evil. He promised to do his best, for everyone, and despite, or perhaps because of, the events of the morning, I believed him. The words probably weren't his own, but I could tell he meant them, and I wanted for his clean and simple vision of the way the world would get better, if we just tried, to be true.
It wasn't anything I hadn't heard before. But this was in person, and closer up, and obviously sincere, and I so desperately wanted it to be true.
I wanted to believe things could be okay.
And then he was interrupted. A single beep, low pitched and sinister, louder than any alert or notification. Then another, perhaps half a second later, louder still. I was vaguely aware of the sound of fleeing. Then one last, horrendously sonorous note filled the air. Silence, blessed silence, for perhaps a single precious second.
Well, there's so many brutes they're willing to grab anything to differentiate them.
Specifically anything that leans way from the "bio-manipulation" part.
Well, there's so many brutes they're willing to grab anything to differentiate them.
Specifically anything that leans way from the "bio-manipulation" part.
I gotta admit, that really wasn't the part of the chapter I was expecting commentary on.
It does make sense that Browbeat's design would draw away from that, but there's nothing to his character that explains why he went that way instead of any of the other options. And Jacqueline doesn't know about the bio-manipulation, which you can tell because she shows no signs of the massive amount of envy that would draw from her.
Author's Note: So, if you read the previous chapter's end thoroughly enough you're probably expecting this, but this arc is somewhat darker, gorier, and more explicit than usual for Orderly, There isn't a lot of detail, and there is definitely no reveling or presenting it as a positive, but still.
If you don't know why this warning is here, go back and read the last paragraph or two of the previous chapter again. The story will still be here when you get back.
Yeah, it's not exactly an easy topic. As such, looking back at this one, I've decided to put in a warning for this entire arc, chapters 28-1 to 28-5, and add a brief summary at the start of the next one covering most of the plot points. I think the arc is worth reading, and the summary won't really explore anything about anything in any depth, but if you can't bring yourself to read about the aftermath of a bombing, or if you just don't want to risk it, there is now another option.
Nothing good comes in the aftermath of a bomb. This wasn't any different.
Though there wasn't just a bomb, there were more than half a dozen. Each of them carefully placed and arranged for effect. Things had been set up beyond just blowing things up. I couldn't tell during the moment of the explosions, of course, everything then was just noise and light and heat, but once that was done and the screaming started?
I knew.
Maybe I was in shock, but I could analyse. At least a bit.
The beeping had been very obviously deliberate. Most bombs don't do that, and for good reason: it warns people about what's going to happen. Which doesn't exactly help with the usual purposes of bombs. Granted, some groups like to give warning for their bombings to demonstrate capability without causing casualties, but that requires more than a few seconds of warning.
No, the reason for that infernal beeping was to induce panic. Startle people into rushing as far away from the apparent bomb as the could as quickly as possible. Straight into exitways that, while probably far wider than necessary most of the time, weren't meant to take so many at once. The obvious ways out. The park had been somewhat crowded, but the exitways would have concentrated things. A crush, in all likelihood, and people would have been hurt even if the beeping had been all there was to it.
The beeping had not been all there was to it. Each and every one of those obvious ways out had a bomb in it.
The intent was clear. Maximum casualties and maximum cruel irony. Whoever did it probably thought it was funny, scaring people into running to their deaths. Patting themselves on the back for being oh so much cleverer than the silly little panicking mobs. They were smarter than us, and they wanted any survivors to know it.
Of course, most of the people hadn't been able to get in place that fast, so maybe they weren't so smart after all. Only the swiftest, and those at the very edges, had been in the area of the explosions.
I would have been happier about that if there hadn't still been far too many dead and injured.
It was horrific. It was tragic, and awful, and nightmarish, but it wasn't clever. Maybe getting the devices in place and avoiding any security was tricky, but the rest of it? Anybody with a basic understanding of bombmaking and a complete disregard for human life could have done the "spook and bomb" trick.
It wasn't until I stopped looking at the mess at the exits that I realised it couldn't have been just any random spree killer. Normal bombs could be made by anybody, especially since Brockton Bay was rife with clandestine chemistry. The strange napalm-like substance was probably harder, at least in terms of its extremely even distribution, but it could conceivably be done via mundane means.
The unfortunate reporters who hadn't fled quickly enough being suddenly composed of glass, however, meant parahuman involvement, and the unnaturally slowly descending cloud of sharpness over the stage probably wasn't normal either.
This was a villain attack.
Tinkertech, probably, unless there were multiple powerful capes around who could throw around extremely dangerous and obvious attacks without being detected doing so and unafraid of using mundane means to supplement their extremely dramatic massacre.
Which was unlikely. That last one maybe not quite so much, but capes tended to be flashy, and the ones with flashy powers were usually more flashy. Two subtle ones at once, or one with two very different power expressions wasn't an impossibility, but it was far more likely to just be Tinkertech. I knew Leet's stuff had demonstrated stranger abilities (and Stranger abilities, on occasion), and if he'd gotten tired of never being taken seriously this was certainly a way to make an impression.
Über could have pulled the planting off pretty easily, with his power, or Leet could have used some of his sneakier stuff. It could have been either or both of them. Or Coil could have discovered what we were up to and decided to take drastic measures, he wasn't known to have anything like this but he did have Tinkertech, and from an unknown source at that. Or there could be a new player in town.
Whoever it was, they weren't pulling any punches, even if the execution was a little sloppy.
The stage bomb had failed completely. It was impressive, in a way, a massive plume of tangled and presumably razor-sharp wire hung in the air above and around where the podium had been. But Browbeat hadn't bothered to use the podium, and he'd been out of the comparatively small danger area. It hadn't taken any lives.
It was, however, an extremely blatant and direct attempt to murder a Ward, in just about the most public way imaginable. And that wasn't even the most vicious part. Browbeat was, at least technically, a law enforcement officer, and thus an enemy to the villains of Brockton Bay. Basic decency would call for the kid gloves, but he wasn't exactly a civilian. Unlike the vast majority of the crowd caught in the entranceway traps, unlike the reporters turned to glass, and unlike the victims of what was undoubtedly the cruellest part of the whole thing.
You see, the PRT had set up a little roped off area for all the little kids too rambunctious to sit patiently and wait to play in. There'd been little kids inside it, and most of them hadn't known to run when the beeping happened. Kids aren't entirely stupid, but they generally don't have great response times. So there were still a bunch of them inside the area when it was covered in liquid fire.
I knew how to put out small fires. I didn't know how to put out Tinkertech infernos, especially not without harming the children inside. I also don't know if Alice Stone knew how, but she didn't let that stop her and I followed her lead. Along with several other people whose names and faces seem faint in my memory, especially when compared to those poor children.
Them, I can't seem to forget.
It wasn't easy. Or painless. My face was all but literally burning, and the children didn't even have that small mercy. I don't think the experience is gonna stop haunting me anytime soon.
Whoever did this was a villain in the darkest and most violent sense of the word, and they wanted us, wanted everybody, to know it. Nothing was sacred. Nobody was safe. No line would go uncrossed, no amount of violence would ever be enough. They wanted to hurt us, and they could.
They'd attacked the PRT at its moment of triumph, wreaking havoc and death at what should have been a happy, reassuring occasion. They'd deliberately attempted to slaughter a new hero right at his announcement, in an exceedingly gruesome manner, and they'd taken the time to hit the audience as well. In the most sadistic way they could.
They'd crossed the line. Crossed every line. Brutally murdered the line, tortured its spouse to death, strapped incendaries to their children and launched them straight into an entire series of overcrowded orphanages and desperately needed hospitals.
Somebody really wanted to send a message. The message itself was a little complicated. They weren't afraid of the PRT. They weren't afraid of the Unwritten Rules. They weren't afraid of the consequences of their actions. That was part of it. They hated the PRT, or perhaps what it stood for, and they wanted it gone. That was another part. Part of it was a challenge, an atrocity that could not be ignored. Most of all, though, this whole thing sent a message of ruthlessness, of a viciousness that knew no limits and no restraints.
Most of all, it said to be afraid.
What I didn't get was why it hadn't gone all the way. If they could pull this off, were evil enough to do this, why not go all the way? Why not add another dozen or so bombs, make sure there were no survivors?
And then there were more bombs, off in the distance. No doubt the ones that were recognisable as the sound of explosions were only part of the carnage being wrought.
That was why. They probably only had so many bombs, and only so many ways of delivering them.
Too bad that what they did have was still had far too many.
Earth Bet is a horrible place, a lot fanfics involving it either ignore the fact or don't really explore it at a very immediate level, and most of the rest focus very specifically on a specific incident or area, usually Winslow. I wanted to do better, and exposing Jacqueline to the stuff is my primary means of doing so, though not the only one.
The horrible and scarring elements also help make the rest of Orderly better. Partially by sheer weight of contrast, but also by providing a solid need for the fluff and comedy elements. In particular, it really helps flush out Jacqueline's character: her funny moments have more weight to them because of the awfulness, her compassionate moments seem more meaningful and more informed by the things she's seen and suffered through, and her need for comforting and affection flares to life in the context of what's happened and what keeps happening.
It also helps with establishing the heinousness of certain characters. Certainly, I could just say dozens of people died in a bombing Jacqueline was nowhere near, but it wouldn't have the same impact, the same narrative weight, the same imposition of the desire to see the bombings stopped and Bakuda brought to justice. Not in Jacqueline, and, perhaps more importantly, not in the reader.
Emotions are important to storytelling, even the unpleasant ones. Perhaps especially the unpleasant ones, if only for the sake of understanding and setting up the rest. It's not easy, but perhaps it shouldn't be.
Oof. That was almost painful to read; good job capturing the mood of the scene, and creating - without ever even showing her face - a villain to contend with all but the very worst Bet has to offer.
Oof. That was almost painful to read; good job capturing the mood of the scene, and creating - without ever even showing her face - a villain to contend with all but the very worst Bet has to offer.
Bakuda is terrifying, not just for her exotic Tinkertech bombs, but also for her sheer willingness to use bombs without the slightest regard for anyone or anything, and it's easy to forget that when a story, like most of the stories featuring her, doesn't really go into detail about the bombings.
He could do this. Sure he'd screwed up a lot today, and he felt bad about that, and sure, it was scary, but it was time for Browbeat to make his heroic debut!
This was the first step to being big and strong and brave and protecting people, just like Nathan Thomin! So he pulled himself together and stepped out there and did his best, just like Mr. Jackson had told him. He could do this.
And then it turned out that he could do this. It hadn't been easy, stepping onto the stage, but once he did he just acted like Nathan Thomin would have, and it worked! The crowd loved him! He could do it!
They loved Browbeat, and he'd do his best to live up to that. It was a promise. No, it was more than a promise, it was a sacred oath!
It was only in his head and in his heart, and not out loud yet, but it was sacred nonetheless!
Then he'd been interrupted by that beeping, and he knew in his heart it was an attack. Well, Browbeat wasn't scared of no cowardly supervillain. He was strong, and tough, and brave!
Then came a moment of noise and heat and light and in front of Browbeat there was…
Oh god.
Oh god.
Oh god.
Alice Stone:
No matter how many times it happened, no matter how many "incidents" she investigated, Alice never stopped being surprised (and horrified) at how quickly a situation could turn from idyllic to nightmarish. All the more so during the rare occasions where she was on the scene when things kicked off.
One moment, everything had been fine. Browbeat's debut, as rushed as it had been, seemed to be going well. Not to everybody's taste, perhaps, but childish enthusiasm and idealism always went over well, especially with so many children in the audience. And Alice, for one, had been glad to see it.
Browbeat hadn't exactly had it easy, and it was good to see his experiences hadn't quashed his passion.
Then there was the beeping, and every iota of Alice's experience screamed at her to grab her charge and run. Except she couldn't, because there were civilians all around them and there was no way to get out safely in the scant seconds before the bombs went off.
And then everything was chaos and confusion, followed by carnage and screaming. And children, burning children, because bombing a crowd of civilians apparently wasn't atrocity enough.
The depths some people would sink to was another thing that never ceased to surprise and horrify Alice.
Honestly, there were a lot of those. At least she hadn't become completely jaded.
And at least she knew what to do.
Mostly.
At least she managed to put the fires out, and the children were fine.
Mostly.
At least they were still alive. She could credit herself with that much.
It helped. A bit.
She could follow her training and convincingly act like it didn't feel grossly inadequate, anyway.
Mostly.
Mei:
The world was a confusing and scary place, as Mei had learned. Mommy had always warned her and Daddy about some places, but Mei hadn't really understood until one day some strange men had cornered them and scared Daddy.
Mei didn't remember much of what happened after that, but Mommy had told her it was really, really bad. And that Mei was hurt really, really bad.
Mei hadn't felt hurt, but she was really tired sometimes and she'd had to stay at the hospital for a while, and everybody was really sad. And then one day Daddy had come to visit, and he was really happy, and Mommy had come in and she was really happy too, and they'd gone to a weird building to see a clock-lady. Mei didn't understand what happened next very well, but there was a lot of ticking, and shininess, and all sorts of clock stuff and then the white-dress lady had said Mei was all better, and they all hugged the clock-lady for making Mei better, and then they had gone home.
Mei had been a little sad that the clock-lady couldn't come with them, but then they had gone to a special park to see the clock-lady's "debut". Mei didn't know what Mommy meant by that, but it sounded fun!
It wasn't fun. Mei had been excited to see the clock-lady, but there were a lot of people and Mommy and Daddy had been confused to see the clock-lady in the seat in front of Mei, but that wasn't the bad part. First there had been beeping, like Daddy's alarm clock but way louder, and that hadn't been good, but then Daddy had grabbed Mei really hard and ran somewhere and then everything was bright and there was an even louder noise and then there was screaming and blood and lots and lots of hurt people and Mei couldn't find Mommy or Daddy and Mei was alone and scared and everything was bad and mean and horrible.
One of the things a Ward needs to know is how to transport an injured person without causing further injury. Very important, that. I could remember that much, and this was the time for it. Or one of the times for it at least, and this was urgent. The park, or at least this park, definitely wasn't a good place to treat anybody, especially with the small but very real possibility of follow-up attacks.
Or the various possibilities of unexploded ordnance going off, opportunists deciding to settle grudges or grab somebody valuable, that slowly descending column of razor-sharp metal suddenly not descending slowly, any leftover pseudo-napalm catching alight, the glass from the glass bomb breaking and inflicting more cuts, one of the buildings around the edges collapsing from the damage I hadn't actually checked out or any of the countless other things that could go wrong in the aftermath of a Tinkertech bombing. We needed to clear the area of the injured (and probably everybody else too) if at all possible.
And it wasn't something I could help with. Too small, too weak, and I didn't know how to do it. Being part of a program that will teach you something vital isn't much help when you need that thing immediately and haven't learned it yet. Browbeat could help with getting people out, he had an appropriate powerset, but I couldn't.
Meanwhile, my powers would probably cause a panic if I used them, especially since bizarre Shaker-esque effects were a major part of the attack. So they were out. My understanding of mundane first aid wasn't quite nonexistent, but it wasn't to a level where I could be trusted to actually do it unsupervised. And I definitely couldn't protect anybody, because I didn't know where the threat was, if there was one. And because I'd probably fail even if I did, since I wasn't good at fighting.
And, perhaps more pertinently, I had even less idea how to go about bomb disposal than I did applied violence.
For some reason the public education system doesn't cover those topics. Not even in Brockton Bay.
So I was pretty much useless. Helpless. Powerless. Unable to do anything to make things right, or even just make things better. Ineffectual. Pathetic.
I wasn't completely devoid of ability, of course. I could at least keep pressure on a wound, once asked. And I did. Probably improved the guy's chances at least a bit. But in the face of the sheer scale of the carnage, it didn't feel like enough.
Even when I realised I could subtly push my aura out short of the point where it became obvious, it still felt grossly insufficient, particularly because it was, well, subtle. Maybe a dozen seriously injured people would be helped at best, and only a nudge in the right direction.
But going all out would almost definitely make somebody do something stupid, and that was the last thing we needed. My skin getting just a touch more reflective was fine, gleaming like the sun's own daughter was not. Tiny glints of light were fine, ghostly cogs and gears floating unnaturally everywhere weren't. And I especially couldn't risk creating ticking. Sure, the bomber apparently preferred beeping, and a follow up likely wouldn't have any deliberate warning at all, but people couldn't be expected to realise that in a situation like this.
Maybe one could expect it of heroes, and PRT personnel, though even they probably wouldn't want to risk it. Civilians on the other hand absolutely shouldn't have to make that kind of call, and most of the people around, most of the people hurt, were civilians.
As tends to be the case at press conferences, especially ones open to the public. Especially when the PRT's the one throwing it, with their family-friendly and public-facing persona. Indiscriminately attacking civilians is a violation of the laws and customs of war, of course, but evidently somebody didn't care about niceties like that.
Probably in the same sort of way that they didn't care for the laws of physics, or criminal law, or basic human decency.
You know, depravedly.
At least the burning children were no longer burning, and remained alive. I thought they were still alive, anyway. They were in more medically-capable hands than mine, and all of them looked like they were being attended to, so probably. Hopefully. As far as I knew.
I didn't check. Maybe it was selfish of me, but if they weren't, I didn't want to know.
I didn't think I could have taken it. I don't think I could have taken it.
I still don't know for sure. Not whether they lived, and not whether I could have taken it if they didn't.
I hope I never find out.
And so, for a time, I was left to silence, except for all the screaming and the distant explosions and the sirens and the hustle and bustle of first aid and the scraping of metal and the indiscernible discussions of those too afraid to flee. So not really silence at all, but no words that I could make out. Until, at last, somebody said: "I'm scared."
I was honestly surprised that it wasn't me.
Not that I wasn't scared, but I didn't say anything about it. Calm and fear are contagious, and the appearance of one or the other encourages anybody paying attention to oneself to feel the same. It's hardly all-powerful, but people were already very much on edge. Understandably so, but it was a good time to be hiding my feelings.
And also my burns were aggravated enough that even breathing was painful, so I probably couldn't have said anything without it devolving into screaming anyway. And there was already enough of that going around.
Fortunately from a "not starting a stampede" perspective, but unfortunately from a "comforting people" perspective, I was the only one who heard the little girl's quaking, nervous voice. Or at least the only one who responded.
Not that I could do much. I had one hand very much tied up with keeping a guy from bleeding out, even if my aura was probably helping with that, and the other was on the wrong side of my body. And also forcing oxygen into my lungs was still agony, so I probably couldn't have said anything without it devolving into screaming, and screaming at small children is wrong. Even if it was in agony rather than anger, you couldn't expect a little kid to understand that.
It's especially wrong when the small child in question is hugging you, and especially especially wrong when said hugging is clearly an effort to use you as a teddy bear and ward off all the terrifying and bizarre things in a world gone catastrophically wrong.
As was the case here.
And there I was, pity and commiseration and trauma running through my brain like Velocity with an airhorn and her clinging to me, very obviously sniffling. I had to do something. Something that wasn't grabbing on and crying just as hard, tempting as that sounded, and something that would let me keep applying pressure on the wound.
Using my free arm to tug her over to the side where I could hug back probably wasn't the best thing I could have done, and the angles involved were definitely awkward, but I couldn't bring myself to regret it.
I'll be honest, I wanted something happier for the two hundreth chapter. But this is where the story is at the moment. Things will get better before the end, I promise.
Unfortunately, something like a massive bombing spree really shouldn't just get glossed over. One of my main goals with Orderly was to make it so that things things didn't automatically turn for the worse for the sake of grimdark, but another was to actually explore the consequences of such a generally dark setting on a personal level, and not in a "hard men making hard decisions" sort of way. It's hard to balance, especially with the third pillar of comedy added in, but I hope I've done a good job of it.
Unfortunately, something like a massive bombing spree really shouldn't just get glossed over. One of my main goals with Orderly was to make it so that things things didn't automatically turn for the worse for the sake of grimdark, but another was to actually explore the consequences of such a generally dark setting on a personal level, and not in a "hard men making hard decisions" sort of way. It's hard to balance, especially with the third pillar of comedy added in, but I hope I've done a good job of it.
True. Destruction that only hits what you want it to without spiralling out into something worse is a lot harder than just plain destruction, but creation is even tougher. And it gets a lot less coverage in fiction, especially self-inserts and worm fics.
