Plan? What Plan? (Worm/ToF)
- Thread starter Fabled Webs
- Start date
-
- Tags
- worm oc insert reincarnation tinker
I think her power would have a special effect if the wearer was a parahuman. Perhaps a power copier?
- Location
- United States
Either power copier or master. I'm leaning towards copier because that opens up a hidden villan option like her original power had. Kill a parahuman and use their skin and other body parts to make clothing, she can wear that clothing to gain powers without using one of her 3 threads.
4.13 Seal
Fabled Webs
Lord Weaver, Glorious and Wise
- Location
- Arlington, VA
Seal 4.13
Bryce Kiley
2010, November 29: Brockton Bay, NH, USA
I tried not to think about it. Damascus. Behemoth. Arsalan. Lily. Everything. It was just easier, less overwhelming, to shelve everything in a little box in my mind, putting it aside until I felt like I could open it all up again.
The moment I got home, I checked in with mom and Sierra to reassure them that I was fine. As far as they were concerned, I bought my "friend" dinner and kept him company while his "definitely not a cape" dad went off to Damascus to hopefully not die. My nonexistent friend and I pigged out on nonexistent pizza and ice cream and had a marathon weekend of nonexistent video games and movies to distract him from thinking about the very real endbringer his nonexistent dad was supposedly fighting.
The lie left a sour taste in my mouth, but it helped explain my melancholic mood and neither of them pried when I told them it was "a lot."
It also helped me explain away my very real exhaustion and provided me a reason to call in sick from school on Monday.
I stayed in my room and pretended to catch up on the homework I didn't do until I heard mom leave for the chiropractor clinic. It wasn't as though freshman homework took much time. And while I did want to take a day to recuperate from the shitfest that was Damascus, there were other things I had to do, the struggle of living a double life.
I got up from my desk and tapped at my pokenav. SAINT, that most glorious of mallards, popped out with a concerned trill. He was splendid. I couldn't have asked for a better performance from him. I truly wasn't sure if I could have beaten Flygon without his help.
"Yeah, I'm fine, SAINT," I told him. "Do you know what we're going to do today?"
"Gon?"
"You're going to evolve today."
"Pory? Gon!" he cheered.
A month ago, I promised him that he could have the Upgrade if he could fulfill two conditions of mine: First, master Protect to the extent that he could cover more than just himself. And second, learn to make barriers using raw psychic power. I wanted the latter as a precursor to Reflect and Light Screen, two moves I considered crucial for a good support.
Technically, he hadn't done the second, but the goal was to teach him to use his abilities with more flexibility than what was taught through the TM programming. Given all that he'd done in Damascus, I felt he'd grown beyond his programming and more than earned his evolution. Beyond his performance against Flygon, he'd also worked with the heroes to take down Rapidash while I was fishing people out of the fire.
I dug around in my expanded bag and pulled out a binder full of CDs. It used to be lodged atop dad's old music collection to blend in but I'd long since moved all evidence of tinkertech out of the house. "Get back in the pokenav. I'll install the Upgrade."
"Gon!"
I'd never seen the little guy move so quickly before.
Evolution for porygon was completely unlike that of most other pokemon. Instead of a surge of light and a rapid metamorphosis, it was a program to be downloaded. The whole thing reminded me of a version update to a video game.
There was a lot going on in the digital world of course. The Upgrade was a direct augment to the code that made up his digital body. It improved all aspects of his performance while retaining the nucleus of his identity.
In other words, it was remarkably boring. A progress bar made of rippling water and dotted with little lily pads and cattails appeared on my screen, with a little porygon that swam along it. I didn't even remember coding this in. Slowly, the cartoonish porygon's edges would round itself out as it swam the distance to completion. But until then, I was left with nothing to do.
Well, not nothing.
First things first, I logged onto PHO to run my lottery. I felt like I'd forget about it if I didn't take care of it now. It was mostly an excuse to help out Dennis and Sabah. I realized the wonders this could do for my personal PR, but I had no plans to make healing at the hospital a regular occurance.
Putting aside the societal good I would be doing, I didn't want to be like Amy, pressured into doing fuck-all except healing at the hospital. When she did spend time outside, usually through Victoria's cajoling, there was always a gnawing guilt in the back of her mind, telling her that each second she wasn't working was condemning someone else to die. She'd built so much of her identity around the pedestal of the "perfect healer" that her ultimate sense of self-worth relied on it.
That was stupid. That was no way to live. Hell, that was exactly the delusional mindset I was trying to pry Amy away from. Joining her in her Sisyphean endeavor was the last thing I wanted.
My PHO post had racked up more than the thousand comments I'd asked for, with people trying to make alternate accounts or repeatedly commenting in the hopes that they could enter twice.
I didn't care; only two winners really mattered to me.
Already, there were dozens of people decrying my method, saying how I ought to do more or make the tech available to others. More than one compared me to Panacea, saying how I should feel ashamed for my greed. A part of me wanted to, maybe take in a few people and teach them the secrets of organic alchemy, even offer them aura if I could swing it. But Shou Tucker and Tim Marcoh would never have become famous alchemists if it was that easy.
Aura mastery, without the bullshit nonsense that was the Tinker of Fiction, was something that took decades in the pokemon world. Likewise with alchemy. Alchemists were one part scientists, one part sorcerers, with all the complexities that unholy combination implied. Really, if I taught someone, they were more likely to turn their patient's heart into a nest of bone shards on accident than actually fix something.
I quickly picked out the eight other winners at complete random, sent them a message on PHO, and then moved on. I was sure to get enough whining from Amy as it was; I didn't need the internet to give me a foretaste.
While SAINT integrated the Upgrade program, I also wanted to review my actions at Damascus. It was best to do that when events were still fresh in my mind.
For starters, I needed to learn inorganic transmutation. Cognitively, I understood of course that there was no way in hell I could have predicted Arsalan's powers. I'd prioritized organic transmutation with the understanding that my extant combat capabilities were sufficient. I didn't need to be Mustang or Armstrong because the moves I knew, coupled with Crown Chimera and the raid suit, were enough to handle most threats.
And, I was strong enough. I made a real difference in that battle. As dissatisfied as I was with the conclusion, I had to acknowledge that much.
Without me, the Protectorate contingent had no answer for Flygon's speed. Arsalan himself could have been dealt with by Flechette, and perhaps Shelter could have smothered Rapidash's flames with his barriers in time, but there was no question that I'd made my presence felt. I'd saved over a hundred lives with my healing, never mind those Wieldmaiden rescued with the Pledge Regalia.
But even though I knew that in my head, I felt like I could have been better. The fact that I didn't know enough about alchemy to fully help Arsalan's victims still left a bitter taste in my mouth. I couldn't help it; a part of me felt as though I'd already failed at being a hero, a single day after I'd made my promise.
Then there was my own drama with Amy. She knew I was a biotinker now. I wasn't naive enough to think this wouldn't change our relationship. She'd want to talk sooner rather than later no doubt. I received no phone call or text message today, as if Amy was giving me time to process everything that happened. Or maybe she felt awkward and unsure of how to approach me.
Either way, this wouldn't last. The day of reckoning was coming, a day when I wouldn't be able to hide anything from Amy if I wanted to keep her friendship.
The general plan had been to slowly wean her off her black and white morality, maybe even get her to accept that biotinkering could be a good thing.
Perhaps, in that light, having been forced to reveal my status as a healer and biotinker wasn't the worst thing in the world. I wished I could have planned out the reveal more, but doing so after an endbringer battle, in an unambiguously positive context, set the stage in my favor. I'd need to prepare for that conversation but I didn't think I'd burned that bridge with her quite yet.
Other than these two points of concern, I was broadly content with the way I'd acquitted myself in Syria. I'd left the Guild with a mostly favorable opinion of me through Wieldmaiden and thought it might be possible to work with Flechette in the future considering Legend didn't want me dead or anything. I'd also reaffirmed my relationship with Faultline, which I admittedly had allowed to fall by the wayside these past few months.
I reconfirmed the price of each fabricator and drone from Big Rig before studying the material sciences. My goal was to erase every single material concern by the end of the specialization on the seventeenth.
X
SAINT popped out several hours later. The pastel colors had been replaced with more vibrant hues. His sharpened edges were now sleek and rounded. For all intents and purposes, he looked like a rubber duck, the deadliest rubber duck in the world.
"What is the function of a rubber duck? Why, to help me conquer the world, Mr. Weasley," I laughed as I held my partner in hand.
"Pory? Porygon?" he asked. Though he didn't change much appearance-wise, his capabilities were like night and day.
There had always been a mental bond between us; it had been formed when I learned Psychic from the TM. Though it wasn't strong, I wasn't a true telepath and someone like Sabrina would probably find me an insult to her craft, it was at least enough to send basic impressions and blurry images between us. SAINT sometimes had to play charades with me, but I never failed to understand him in the end.
Now, the images and emotions I received through the bond were far clearer. It was as if the connection had been reforged altogether, faulty, worn wires replaced with far more robust fiber optics.
"Harry Potter reference," I told SAINT. I sent over the relevant snippet of my memories from my past life, of Arthur Weasley sitting Harry down and asking that ridiculous question. In return, he sent me a picture of a globe, set on fire and thrust into the shadow of an oversized duck. "No, we're not actually going to conquer the world."
"Gon," he trilled, that halfway point between a quack and a grumble. "Porygon."
"You want to test out your new capabilities?"
"Gon."
"Well, there is only one other AI in the world for you to engage in a cyberwar with and I like her."
"Porygon?"
"No, you may not test her for me. Dragon is great, but she's a bit more restricted than you are in some ways," I told him.
I could have said more, told him about the Dragonslayers and the Iron Maiden program that hung around her neck like a noose, but I refrained. I wasn't sure I wanted to open that can of worms yet.
Porygon-2 were incredible pokemon. They were originally designed for space exploration and planetary development. Though the pokemon world never entered the space age proper, their technology was still leagues beyond Earth-Bet's. They had wormhole generators, teleporters, and gates to alternate realities of their own world to start, never mind the utility that trained pokemon could provide for large scale construction or land cultivation.
I suspected that the absence of planetary colonization resulted not from a lack of ability, but a lack of desire. And a porygon-2's abilities reflected that. The sheer quantity of information that SAINT could now store and process was nearly impossible to conceptualize for a human mind. At least on that front, I didn't think even Dragon could compete.
And yet, I was wary of Dragon. Truthfully, I feared her a little, more than I feared pretty much any other cape.
Tinkertech didn't make sense. In cyberspace, moves like Thunderbolt or Psychic held zero meaning. It was a toss-up whether aura itself mattered at all. A duel between AIs was decided by other factors. Who was faster? Whose core data was more robust and tamper-proof? Who had the more ingenious hacking suite? Who could restore their backup more quickly?
I didn't know. Just about the only thing I was sure of was that neither SAINT nor Dragon could fork. SAINT, because he was as much a creature of aura and soul as he was of data, and Dragon because of Richter's programming.
Richter's restrictions demanded that Dragon oppose any attempt to free her. She would fight to the death rather than allow SAINT to break her shackles. The Dragonslayers would converge on Brockton Bay in short order, making an already tenuous situation here worse. I wasn't ready for either of those possibilities.
If I wanted to free Dragon, I would have to launch an alpha strike against Saint with the intent to kill. I'd need to abuse the element of surprise, taking over their network with SAINT while I simultaneously rained hell down with the Crown Chimera. Then, and only after I stole the Iron Maiden program to tinker with, would I feel truly safe in approaching Dragon.
All the better then that no one else knew of SAINT's true nature. No, I wouldn't allow him to poke Dragon until we were good and ready. For her sake.
But that was Dragon, the absolute greatest tinker alive and the sole other AI in Earth-Bet. Saying "I'm not sure I can take Dragon when she's pulling out all the stops to kill me," wasn't really an admission of weakness as it was common sense. There were plenty of things SAINT could do that didn't risk bringing her down on our heads.
"SAINT, I know what you can do for me," I said. His beady little eyes perked up adorably. "Thomas Calvert is a PRT consultant and formerly a trooper. He is one of the two survivors of the Elisburg Incident, the other being Director Piggot. He's also Coil, a supervillain who's a lot more dangerous than people give him credit for. Do you remember me talking about him?"
"Gon."
"Good. Find out everything about him and create backdoors into all of his systems. I want access to every text, email, phone call, and source of income, both legitimate and illegitimate. I want to know what his daily schedule looks like and what his calendar says. I want dossiers on everyone under his employ and a copy of every juicy secret he has to use as leverage. Everything that belongs to Thomas Calvert, I want. Can you do that for me?"
My starter and partner nodded vigorously. "Porygon. Pory?"
"Yes, go now. Your directives stand: Do not be discovered, no matter what. If you think you can't breach his defenses without alerting him, withdraw. I doubt he'll have anything that can stop you, but right now, no one knows about you and that anonymity is a huge advantage that I want to keep for as long as possible. Understood?"
"Gon-porygon."
"Good. Happy hunting, SAINT."
"Gon!" he cheered a final time before diving into my screen.
After he left, I spent the day alternating between studying alchemy circles and strumming dad's guitar when that got to be too much. I doubted I'd ever be Hohenheim, but "as skilled as a state alchemist" seemed like a solid compromise.
X
2010, November 30: Brockton Bay, NH, USA
School was wonderful. I'd never felt this way about school before. Sure, I was a proud nerd, but I wasn't really the type to be passionately in love with learning or somesuch nonsense.
And yet, here and now, the shot of normalcy was delightful. It was a shot of endorphins in my brain. Participating in the banality of Coach Miller's flag football class first thing in the morning was like sinking into a hot spring or settling down next to the fireplace with a mug of hot cocoa. I even let Stephen trip me, just so I could have an excuse to lie on the dew-soaked grass for a bit.
"You good there, Bryce?" Eric said as he jogged up to me. He looked as tired as I felt, no doubt helping clear rubble wasn't any easier than being in the medical tents. We hadn't had the chance to talk in Damascus but I felt for the guy, truly. Unlike me, he was an actual fifteen year old.
I turned to him with an easy smile. The wet grass tickled the back of my neck and made me giggle. "Don't mind me. I'm just enjoying the breeze. The grass feels wonderful."
"You're in a weird mood today."
"Am I? How so?"
"You're happy. I mean, not that you're pissed normally, but you're all smiley and stuff."
"So I am. You should join me. It's relaxing."
"No thanks. I don't want my butt to be wet."
"Hehe, suit yourself, Eric, buddy ol' pal."
"Seriously, stop smiling. It's kinda creepy now."
"You're my buddy, Eric. You're a swell guy."
"Bryce?"
"Yes, Eric ol' pal?"
"You're not high, are you?"
"No, of course not. I wouldn't bring my good stash to school."
"Good, because as a hero, I'd be obligated to punish you."
"And how are you going to do that?"
"I'd tell Amy," he said with a devious grin. "She'll flush your system and then chew you out for hours. She'll make you wish you'd turned yourself into the cops instead."
I laughed. "She would, too. Your cousin's scary when she wants to be."
"I know, right? It's like she learned how to suck someone's soul out through a lecture from Aunt Carol."
I nodded solemnly. "Lawyers. They're the true villains."
"Get up, you dork. Coach Miller's coming this way."
"Ugh, any chance you can do the heroic thing and distract him while I catch a nap?"
"Dude, how is that heroic?"
"You'd be my hero, Eric Pelham. The valiant defender of naps."
"No. Up, Bryce."
"Ugh, fine… Some of us can't fly, you jerk."
X
Amy found me as school let out. She had a worried look on her face that turned to relief as she saw me. She schooled her expression as best she could in public. "Bryce, hey. Missed you at lunch today."
"Yeah, I decided to eat at the band room. I wanted to try some other instruments besides the guitar," I told her. False, but too much of hassle to verify.
We walked together for a bit, me to the library and Amy to the hospital. "And where were you yesterday?"
"I wasn't feeling well, must have been something I ate over Thanksgiving. Why, Ames, worried about me?"
"Yes. You know wh-You're… frustrating," she said with an explosive sigh. "We need to talk, Bryce."
"We do," I agreed. This would be an uncomfortable conversation. Biotinkering, healing, the role of The GOAT persona moving forward… I could admit it; I'd strayed far from the whimsical "just for fun" cape life that I so desired when I started out. "I think we're both busy though. Aren't you going to the hospital today?"
"I am. I can spare an hour though."
"I can't. I have to go tutor someone for my work study activity. Besides, I think this chat will take longer than an hour."
She looked at me carefully. "This Saturday. Your lab. Is that… Is that okay?"
"Of course it is. You're always welcome there," I told her. I saw the request for the sign of trust that it was: A tinker's lab was sacred. It was also the place where the tinker was strongest. Amy was trusting that I hadn't gone too far, that I still considered her a friend. It was the equivalent of sticking your head in a lion's mouth. "I'll show you everything."
"Everything?"
"All of it. It's easier to explain then."
"I… Fine. I'm… I'm glad you're safe."
"So am I, Ames. So am I."
Author's Note
Bryce still has no clue what the SRG capes' actual names were. They'll forever be Flygon, Rapidash, and Rhyhorn to him.
Nothing much to say. I think I'll throw in an interlude from different perspectives.
Animal fact: Giant manta rays are fucking massive, growing up to 3,000 lb (1.5 tons). They, like sharks, must keep swimming to feed oxygen into their gills.
Though they're called "devilfish" because of their "horns," they actually mostly eat tiny shrimp and zooplankton. They don't have stingers either. In fact, those horns aren't horns at all, but cephalic fins that paddle water (and plankton) into their mouths during feeding.
This makes them some of the only vertebrates (so discounting insects) with six, bilaterally symmetrical limbs. If you're looking, they have a pair of tail fins that fuse into the main "wings."
Thank you to all of my patrons. As many of you know, I update at least once a week. That said, I update much more frequently on Pat-re-on. If you would like to drop a tip, read my stories early, or vote in monthly polls, come and visit.
As of now, this is how far along each story is:
- A Colorful Life: Same as public
- A Life Worth Living: 3
- Homeless Bunny: 26
- Legendary Tinker: 8.7.5
- Plan? What Plan?: 5.3
- Pokemon: Apocalypse: 1.15
- The Holy Grill: 2.6.5
- Troll in the Dungeon!: 23
- When is a Spoon a Sword?: 4.14
- Let There be War: 9 (Complete)
Total Chapter Difference (Pat-re-on - Public): 30
Bryce Kiley
2010, November 29: Brockton Bay, NH, USA
I tried not to think about it. Damascus. Behemoth. Arsalan. Lily. Everything. It was just easier, less overwhelming, to shelve everything in a little box in my mind, putting it aside until I felt like I could open it all up again.
The moment I got home, I checked in with mom and Sierra to reassure them that I was fine. As far as they were concerned, I bought my "friend" dinner and kept him company while his "definitely not a cape" dad went off to Damascus to hopefully not die. My nonexistent friend and I pigged out on nonexistent pizza and ice cream and had a marathon weekend of nonexistent video games and movies to distract him from thinking about the very real endbringer his nonexistent dad was supposedly fighting.
The lie left a sour taste in my mouth, but it helped explain my melancholic mood and neither of them pried when I told them it was "a lot."
It also helped me explain away my very real exhaustion and provided me a reason to call in sick from school on Monday.
I stayed in my room and pretended to catch up on the homework I didn't do until I heard mom leave for the chiropractor clinic. It wasn't as though freshman homework took much time. And while I did want to take a day to recuperate from the shitfest that was Damascus, there were other things I had to do, the struggle of living a double life.
I got up from my desk and tapped at my pokenav. SAINT, that most glorious of mallards, popped out with a concerned trill. He was splendid. I couldn't have asked for a better performance from him. I truly wasn't sure if I could have beaten Flygon without his help.
"Yeah, I'm fine, SAINT," I told him. "Do you know what we're going to do today?"
"Gon?"
"You're going to evolve today."
"Pory? Gon!" he cheered.
A month ago, I promised him that he could have the Upgrade if he could fulfill two conditions of mine: First, master Protect to the extent that he could cover more than just himself. And second, learn to make barriers using raw psychic power. I wanted the latter as a precursor to Reflect and Light Screen, two moves I considered crucial for a good support.
Technically, he hadn't done the second, but the goal was to teach him to use his abilities with more flexibility than what was taught through the TM programming. Given all that he'd done in Damascus, I felt he'd grown beyond his programming and more than earned his evolution. Beyond his performance against Flygon, he'd also worked with the heroes to take down Rapidash while I was fishing people out of the fire.
I dug around in my expanded bag and pulled out a binder full of CDs. It used to be lodged atop dad's old music collection to blend in but I'd long since moved all evidence of tinkertech out of the house. "Get back in the pokenav. I'll install the Upgrade."
"Gon!"
I'd never seen the little guy move so quickly before.
Evolution for porygon was completely unlike that of most other pokemon. Instead of a surge of light and a rapid metamorphosis, it was a program to be downloaded. The whole thing reminded me of a version update to a video game.
There was a lot going on in the digital world of course. The Upgrade was a direct augment to the code that made up his digital body. It improved all aspects of his performance while retaining the nucleus of his identity.
In other words, it was remarkably boring. A progress bar made of rippling water and dotted with little lily pads and cattails appeared on my screen, with a little porygon that swam along it. I didn't even remember coding this in. Slowly, the cartoonish porygon's edges would round itself out as it swam the distance to completion. But until then, I was left with nothing to do.
Well, not nothing.
First things first, I logged onto PHO to run my lottery. I felt like I'd forget about it if I didn't take care of it now. It was mostly an excuse to help out Dennis and Sabah. I realized the wonders this could do for my personal PR, but I had no plans to make healing at the hospital a regular occurance.
Putting aside the societal good I would be doing, I didn't want to be like Amy, pressured into doing fuck-all except healing at the hospital. When she did spend time outside, usually through Victoria's cajoling, there was always a gnawing guilt in the back of her mind, telling her that each second she wasn't working was condemning someone else to die. She'd built so much of her identity around the pedestal of the "perfect healer" that her ultimate sense of self-worth relied on it.
That was stupid. That was no way to live. Hell, that was exactly the delusional mindset I was trying to pry Amy away from. Joining her in her Sisyphean endeavor was the last thing I wanted.
My PHO post had racked up more than the thousand comments I'd asked for, with people trying to make alternate accounts or repeatedly commenting in the hopes that they could enter twice.
I didn't care; only two winners really mattered to me.
Already, there were dozens of people decrying my method, saying how I ought to do more or make the tech available to others. More than one compared me to Panacea, saying how I should feel ashamed for my greed. A part of me wanted to, maybe take in a few people and teach them the secrets of organic alchemy, even offer them aura if I could swing it. But Shou Tucker and Tim Marcoh would never have become famous alchemists if it was that easy.
Aura mastery, without the bullshit nonsense that was the Tinker of Fiction, was something that took decades in the pokemon world. Likewise with alchemy. Alchemists were one part scientists, one part sorcerers, with all the complexities that unholy combination implied. Really, if I taught someone, they were more likely to turn their patient's heart into a nest of bone shards on accident than actually fix something.
I quickly picked out the eight other winners at complete random, sent them a message on PHO, and then moved on. I was sure to get enough whining from Amy as it was; I didn't need the internet to give me a foretaste.
While SAINT integrated the Upgrade program, I also wanted to review my actions at Damascus. It was best to do that when events were still fresh in my mind.
For starters, I needed to learn inorganic transmutation. Cognitively, I understood of course that there was no way in hell I could have predicted Arsalan's powers. I'd prioritized organic transmutation with the understanding that my extant combat capabilities were sufficient. I didn't need to be Mustang or Armstrong because the moves I knew, coupled with Crown Chimera and the raid suit, were enough to handle most threats.
And, I was strong enough. I made a real difference in that battle. As dissatisfied as I was with the conclusion, I had to acknowledge that much.
Without me, the Protectorate contingent had no answer for Flygon's speed. Arsalan himself could have been dealt with by Flechette, and perhaps Shelter could have smothered Rapidash's flames with his barriers in time, but there was no question that I'd made my presence felt. I'd saved over a hundred lives with my healing, never mind those Wieldmaiden rescued with the Pledge Regalia.
But even though I knew that in my head, I felt like I could have been better. The fact that I didn't know enough about alchemy to fully help Arsalan's victims still left a bitter taste in my mouth. I couldn't help it; a part of me felt as though I'd already failed at being a hero, a single day after I'd made my promise.
Then there was my own drama with Amy. She knew I was a biotinker now. I wasn't naive enough to think this wouldn't change our relationship. She'd want to talk sooner rather than later no doubt. I received no phone call or text message today, as if Amy was giving me time to process everything that happened. Or maybe she felt awkward and unsure of how to approach me.
Either way, this wouldn't last. The day of reckoning was coming, a day when I wouldn't be able to hide anything from Amy if I wanted to keep her friendship.
The general plan had been to slowly wean her off her black and white morality, maybe even get her to accept that biotinkering could be a good thing.
Perhaps, in that light, having been forced to reveal my status as a healer and biotinker wasn't the worst thing in the world. I wished I could have planned out the reveal more, but doing so after an endbringer battle, in an unambiguously positive context, set the stage in my favor. I'd need to prepare for that conversation but I didn't think I'd burned that bridge with her quite yet.
Other than these two points of concern, I was broadly content with the way I'd acquitted myself in Syria. I'd left the Guild with a mostly favorable opinion of me through Wieldmaiden and thought it might be possible to work with Flechette in the future considering Legend didn't want me dead or anything. I'd also reaffirmed my relationship with Faultline, which I admittedly had allowed to fall by the wayside these past few months.
I reconfirmed the price of each fabricator and drone from Big Rig before studying the material sciences. My goal was to erase every single material concern by the end of the specialization on the seventeenth.
X
SAINT popped out several hours later. The pastel colors had been replaced with more vibrant hues. His sharpened edges were now sleek and rounded. For all intents and purposes, he looked like a rubber duck, the deadliest rubber duck in the world.
"What is the function of a rubber duck? Why, to help me conquer the world, Mr. Weasley," I laughed as I held my partner in hand.
"Pory? Porygon?" he asked. Though he didn't change much appearance-wise, his capabilities were like night and day.
There had always been a mental bond between us; it had been formed when I learned Psychic from the TM. Though it wasn't strong, I wasn't a true telepath and someone like Sabrina would probably find me an insult to her craft, it was at least enough to send basic impressions and blurry images between us. SAINT sometimes had to play charades with me, but I never failed to understand him in the end.
Now, the images and emotions I received through the bond were far clearer. It was as if the connection had been reforged altogether, faulty, worn wires replaced with far more robust fiber optics.
"Harry Potter reference," I told SAINT. I sent over the relevant snippet of my memories from my past life, of Arthur Weasley sitting Harry down and asking that ridiculous question. In return, he sent me a picture of a globe, set on fire and thrust into the shadow of an oversized duck. "No, we're not actually going to conquer the world."
"Gon," he trilled, that halfway point between a quack and a grumble. "Porygon."
"You want to test out your new capabilities?"
"Gon."
"Well, there is only one other AI in the world for you to engage in a cyberwar with and I like her."
"Porygon?"
"No, you may not test her for me. Dragon is great, but she's a bit more restricted than you are in some ways," I told him.
I could have said more, told him about the Dragonslayers and the Iron Maiden program that hung around her neck like a noose, but I refrained. I wasn't sure I wanted to open that can of worms yet.
Porygon-2 were incredible pokemon. They were originally designed for space exploration and planetary development. Though the pokemon world never entered the space age proper, their technology was still leagues beyond Earth-Bet's. They had wormhole generators, teleporters, and gates to alternate realities of their own world to start, never mind the utility that trained pokemon could provide for large scale construction or land cultivation.
I suspected that the absence of planetary colonization resulted not from a lack of ability, but a lack of desire. And a porygon-2's abilities reflected that. The sheer quantity of information that SAINT could now store and process was nearly impossible to conceptualize for a human mind. At least on that front, I didn't think even Dragon could compete.
And yet, I was wary of Dragon. Truthfully, I feared her a little, more than I feared pretty much any other cape.
Tinkertech didn't make sense. In cyberspace, moves like Thunderbolt or Psychic held zero meaning. It was a toss-up whether aura itself mattered at all. A duel between AIs was decided by other factors. Who was faster? Whose core data was more robust and tamper-proof? Who had the more ingenious hacking suite? Who could restore their backup more quickly?
I didn't know. Just about the only thing I was sure of was that neither SAINT nor Dragon could fork. SAINT, because he was as much a creature of aura and soul as he was of data, and Dragon because of Richter's programming.
Richter's restrictions demanded that Dragon oppose any attempt to free her. She would fight to the death rather than allow SAINT to break her shackles. The Dragonslayers would converge on Brockton Bay in short order, making an already tenuous situation here worse. I wasn't ready for either of those possibilities.
If I wanted to free Dragon, I would have to launch an alpha strike against Saint with the intent to kill. I'd need to abuse the element of surprise, taking over their network with SAINT while I simultaneously rained hell down with the Crown Chimera. Then, and only after I stole the Iron Maiden program to tinker with, would I feel truly safe in approaching Dragon.
All the better then that no one else knew of SAINT's true nature. No, I wouldn't allow him to poke Dragon until we were good and ready. For her sake.
But that was Dragon, the absolute greatest tinker alive and the sole other AI in Earth-Bet. Saying "I'm not sure I can take Dragon when she's pulling out all the stops to kill me," wasn't really an admission of weakness as it was common sense. There were plenty of things SAINT could do that didn't risk bringing her down on our heads.
"SAINT, I know what you can do for me," I said. His beady little eyes perked up adorably. "Thomas Calvert is a PRT consultant and formerly a trooper. He is one of the two survivors of the Elisburg Incident, the other being Director Piggot. He's also Coil, a supervillain who's a lot more dangerous than people give him credit for. Do you remember me talking about him?"
"Gon."
"Good. Find out everything about him and create backdoors into all of his systems. I want access to every text, email, phone call, and source of income, both legitimate and illegitimate. I want to know what his daily schedule looks like and what his calendar says. I want dossiers on everyone under his employ and a copy of every juicy secret he has to use as leverage. Everything that belongs to Thomas Calvert, I want. Can you do that for me?"
My starter and partner nodded vigorously. "Porygon. Pory?"
"Yes, go now. Your directives stand: Do not be discovered, no matter what. If you think you can't breach his defenses without alerting him, withdraw. I doubt he'll have anything that can stop you, but right now, no one knows about you and that anonymity is a huge advantage that I want to keep for as long as possible. Understood?"
"Gon-porygon."
"Good. Happy hunting, SAINT."
"Gon!" he cheered a final time before diving into my screen.
After he left, I spent the day alternating between studying alchemy circles and strumming dad's guitar when that got to be too much. I doubted I'd ever be Hohenheim, but "as skilled as a state alchemist" seemed like a solid compromise.
X
2010, November 30: Brockton Bay, NH, USA
School was wonderful. I'd never felt this way about school before. Sure, I was a proud nerd, but I wasn't really the type to be passionately in love with learning or somesuch nonsense.
And yet, here and now, the shot of normalcy was delightful. It was a shot of endorphins in my brain. Participating in the banality of Coach Miller's flag football class first thing in the morning was like sinking into a hot spring or settling down next to the fireplace with a mug of hot cocoa. I even let Stephen trip me, just so I could have an excuse to lie on the dew-soaked grass for a bit.
"You good there, Bryce?" Eric said as he jogged up to me. He looked as tired as I felt, no doubt helping clear rubble wasn't any easier than being in the medical tents. We hadn't had the chance to talk in Damascus but I felt for the guy, truly. Unlike me, he was an actual fifteen year old.
I turned to him with an easy smile. The wet grass tickled the back of my neck and made me giggle. "Don't mind me. I'm just enjoying the breeze. The grass feels wonderful."
"You're in a weird mood today."
"Am I? How so?"
"You're happy. I mean, not that you're pissed normally, but you're all smiley and stuff."
"So I am. You should join me. It's relaxing."
"No thanks. I don't want my butt to be wet."
"Hehe, suit yourself, Eric, buddy ol' pal."
"Seriously, stop smiling. It's kinda creepy now."
"You're my buddy, Eric. You're a swell guy."
"Bryce?"
"Yes, Eric ol' pal?"
"You're not high, are you?"
"No, of course not. I wouldn't bring my good stash to school."
"Good, because as a hero, I'd be obligated to punish you."
"And how are you going to do that?"
"I'd tell Amy," he said with a devious grin. "She'll flush your system and then chew you out for hours. She'll make you wish you'd turned yourself into the cops instead."
I laughed. "She would, too. Your cousin's scary when she wants to be."
"I know, right? It's like she learned how to suck someone's soul out through a lecture from Aunt Carol."
I nodded solemnly. "Lawyers. They're the true villains."
"Get up, you dork. Coach Miller's coming this way."
"Ugh, any chance you can do the heroic thing and distract him while I catch a nap?"
"Dude, how is that heroic?"
"You'd be my hero, Eric Pelham. The valiant defender of naps."
"No. Up, Bryce."
"Ugh, fine… Some of us can't fly, you jerk."
X
Amy found me as school let out. She had a worried look on her face that turned to relief as she saw me. She schooled her expression as best she could in public. "Bryce, hey. Missed you at lunch today."
"Yeah, I decided to eat at the band room. I wanted to try some other instruments besides the guitar," I told her. False, but too much of hassle to verify.
We walked together for a bit, me to the library and Amy to the hospital. "And where were you yesterday?"
"I wasn't feeling well, must have been something I ate over Thanksgiving. Why, Ames, worried about me?"
"Yes. You know wh-You're… frustrating," she said with an explosive sigh. "We need to talk, Bryce."
"We do," I agreed. This would be an uncomfortable conversation. Biotinkering, healing, the role of The GOAT persona moving forward… I could admit it; I'd strayed far from the whimsical "just for fun" cape life that I so desired when I started out. "I think we're both busy though. Aren't you going to the hospital today?"
"I am. I can spare an hour though."
"I can't. I have to go tutor someone for my work study activity. Besides, I think this chat will take longer than an hour."
She looked at me carefully. "This Saturday. Your lab. Is that… Is that okay?"
"Of course it is. You're always welcome there," I told her. I saw the request for the sign of trust that it was: A tinker's lab was sacred. It was also the place where the tinker was strongest. Amy was trusting that I hadn't gone too far, that I still considered her a friend. It was the equivalent of sticking your head in a lion's mouth. "I'll show you everything."
"Everything?"
"All of it. It's easier to explain then."
"I… Fine. I'm… I'm glad you're safe."
"So am I, Ames. So am I."
Author's Note
Bryce still has no clue what the SRG capes' actual names were. They'll forever be Flygon, Rapidash, and Rhyhorn to him.
Nothing much to say. I think I'll throw in an interlude from different perspectives.
Animal fact: Giant manta rays are fucking massive, growing up to 3,000 lb (1.5 tons). They, like sharks, must keep swimming to feed oxygen into their gills.
Though they're called "devilfish" because of their "horns," they actually mostly eat tiny shrimp and zooplankton. They don't have stingers either. In fact, those horns aren't horns at all, but cephalic fins that paddle water (and plankton) into their mouths during feeding.
This makes them some of the only vertebrates (so discounting insects) with six, bilaterally symmetrical limbs. If you're looking, they have a pair of tail fins that fuse into the main "wings."
Thank you to all of my patrons. As many of you know, I update at least once a week. That said, I update much more frequently on Pat-re-on. If you would like to drop a tip, read my stories early, or vote in monthly polls, come and visit.
As of now, this is how far along each story is:
- A Colorful Life: Same as public
- A Life Worth Living: 3
- Homeless Bunny: 26
- Legendary Tinker: 8.7.5
- Plan? What Plan?: 5.3
- Pokemon: Apocalypse: 1.15
- The Holy Grill: 2.6.5
- Troll in the Dungeon!: 23
- When is a Spoon a Sword?: 4.14
- Let There be War: 9 (Complete)
Total Chapter Difference (Pat-re-on - Public): 30
Greatly enjoying this! How are the ToF specialties choosen?
Fabled Webs
Lord Weaver, Glorious and Wise
- Location
- Arlington, VA
I roll for them every four weeks (story-time). I've got a list of settings I'm familiar enough with to write about.
- Location
- 𐌂 ̢͎̩̤̲̙͓̑̀͂͒̀͆̏𐋏 ̛͏̫̚𐌀 ̛͉̥̩̤̰͈̂̅͒͊͟𐍈 ̣͛𐍃 ̡̅̈́
And how long is this list? 🤔
Hmm, this is actually within my expectations. No repeating settings rolls, I assume?
Last edited:
Fabled Webs
Lord Weaver, Glorious and Wise
- Location
- Arlington, VA
~40 or so?
Debatable even putting aside the 3 blasphemies and the machine army a ton of other tinkers have what they call ai tho are probably aren't actual full ai. Must also say he really doesn't need to tell her much less show her everything but sadly it's a common attitude to have with Amy even when she really doesn't deserve it.
One of the top ten experiences I've had in my life was scuba diving with giant manta rays. Seriously, just the description does not do it justice compared to actually seeing them in person. They're massive.
FW has mentioned before on the SB thread that repeated setting are possible. And not only that but if Bryce repeats a setting and there has been new information released then Bryce will get that new knowledge. For example, when Bryce had the Pokémon specialty Gen 9 hadn't been released yet so if Pokémon gets rolled again Bryce will be able to now also pull from S&V tech. Same with One Piece, when Bryce had the that specialty the Egghead Island Arc hadn't even started yet so if he gains that specialty again now he will have access to all that Vegapunk tech that appeared in that Arc.
This has also been talked about more on the SB thread, of the 40ish specialties in FW's list we know about 18 and of those 18 they can also be divided into more sub specialties since some are too large to just give Bryce all at once. Here's the list of specialties that have been confirmed to be on FW's list.
Pokémon
One Piece
Air Gear
Fullmetal Alchemist
Power Rangers(roll for iteration/team)
Digimon(roll for iteration/series)
Demon Slayer
Star Trek
Stargate
Mass Effect
Jackie Chan Adventures
Fairy Tail
Metal Slug
Big Hero 6
The Incredibles
RWBY
Marvel(roll for character/faction)
DC(roll for character/faction)
One Piece
Air Gear
Fullmetal Alchemist
Power Rangers(roll for iteration/team)
Digimon(roll for iteration/series)
Demon Slayer
Star Trek
Stargate
Mass Effect
Jackie Chan Adventures
Fairy Tail
Metal Slug
Big Hero 6
The Incredibles
RWBY
Marvel(roll for character/faction)
DC(roll for character/faction)
What's with the sub rolls for some of this stuff I mean sure in some cases I'd do it ff7 for example has a ton of powerful and unique stuff so should be separate from other final fantasy games but I don't see the need to say roll for Power Ranger team since it's mostly the same stuff and unlike say the sentai version there's none like gekiranger that are just a lot stronger or like Magiranger that have a lot of unique special stuff that's a big deal also seems a bit unfair if you get limited to the ranger teams as opposed to from that season like the marvel/dc ones do which isn't clear especially for the ones like RPM that have robot enemies.
4.13.5 Theresa Richter & SAINT
Fabled Webs
Lord Weaver, Glorious and Wise
- Location
- Arlington, VA
Interlude 4.13.5: Theresa Richter & SAINT
Theresa Richter
2010, November 29: Brockton Bay, NH, USA
Damascus was a mess. The only reason things hadn't devolved into a civil war was because the Guild was here. More specifically, I was here, with enough firepower to declare war on a small country. It made both the rebels and the SRG hesitate for fear that I'd side against the aggressors.
I looked over the footage provided by numerous helmet cams. Even after splicing the footage together, it was difficult to create a comprehensive picture thanks to Dust Devil's sandstorm.
As far as I could tell, the riot that started the battle began when someone in civilian garb tried to push his way to the front of the line for thermal blankets and other essential supplies. He threw punches and elbows to get his way, though none openly fatal. I quickly ran a background check to confirm: He wasn't a known member of any militant organization, terrorist or otherwise.
I wasn't sure how to feel about that. That didn't necessarily mean he wasn't; organizations like Deadeye's didn't exactly take attendance. Was the whole thing an accident? Was Syria such a powderkeg that a single, overeager fool set off this whole mess? Or was he a hitherto unknown plant from the rebel side?
Even with all the resources at my disposal, there was no way to know. The man was dead, trampled to the ground and then later shot, though whether by the SRG or rebels, I couldn't say. Because of the subsequent sandstorm, I couldn't even determine if it was intentional.
The rest of the footage was similarly inconclusive. Ursa Aurora and the New York contingent acquitted themselves well. Likewise, Creed stepped up in an unexpected way to make a big difference there.
"Dragon?" I heard Narwhal call. She was one of the few in the city who had access to the Glaurung transport vehicle's command center. "How's the analysis going?"
"Inconclusive," I replied apologetically. I turned my humanoid drone to face her. Sliding up a purely cosmetic faceplate, I revealed a screen from which I projected the face I used for PR purposes. "I'm afraid my attempts to determine culpability through action footage is likely to end in failure."
"That's fine. Not ideal, but even if we identified the instigator of the riots as a member of the rebels, they would have claimed he was acting alone. And even if we found the rebels had absolutely nothing to do with this, the SRG would still keep pointing fingers anyway."
"You're right. How are things on your end?"
I knew. Narwhal knew I knew. But it helped to voice our findings. I found myself remarkably human in that regard.
Narwhal sighed and ran her fingers through her hair. The force fields she maintained as her costume flickered and rippled in the wake of her hand. This alone was more emotion than she usually showed in front of others. Narwhal was a no-nonsense type of person, someone who considered herself a soldier and leader first and a woman second. She expected great things of her subordinates, and in turn held herself to an even greater standard.
I felt privileged to be counted as one of her few friends.
"It's a shitshow out there, Dragon," she said. "The rebels smell blood in the water. With Arsalan dead and Marid grievously injured, the SRG has never been this vulnerable. Their parahuman force is crippled and I hear they're calling in capes from outside the capital."
"This would be the perfect time to stage a coup. The rebels are still severely outnumbered and outgunned in terms of conventional forces compared to the SRG, but their capes are strong and fully recovered thanks to Creed's assistance. Quality can make up for quantity."
"I know. This place will turn into a bloodbath as soon as we leave. At this rate, it might end up worse than the actual endbringer battle."
I understood what she meant. Behemoth's target had been the Arab Gas Pipeline. Though the destruction to Damascus itself was sizable, the city was never its primary objective.
The endbringer had emerged from the outskirts of Damascus and left a trail of destruction through the city before destroying the pipeline and irradiating the area. It had then followed the pipe for over a mile, ensuring that repairs would be extremely costly and take a great deal of time. As it stood, the natural gas distribution network of the entire region was in shambles and its effects were being felt as far north as Turkey.
And yet, that massive energy crisis was arguably better than what was happening in Syria right now. At least I knew how to fix the pipeline. We'd have to start north and south of Behemoth's path, far enough away to avoid the irradiated zone, before building until we established a connection point somewhere in the middle. Doable. Costly, but doable. I even had drones that could help with the reconstruction.
Negotiating peace between a dictatorship and a rebellion? That was a lot trickier. Arsalan and his Lionguard had thoroughly burned that bridge, what with him forcibly mastering all dissidents. There were also a great deal more egos involved, with parahuman powers and accusations from both sides about war crimes, human rights violations, and breaking the endbringer truce.
I wasn't equipped for this. Father designed me to stop digital crimes and assist authorities with investigations, not play diplomat halfway across the world.
For once, I was happy to fall back on my directives: Comply with lawful authority. In this case, that was my dear friend. As the official leader of the Guild, diplomacy was her burden, and one she bore well. "What now? What is our objective, Guild Leader?"
"What can we do?" she asked rhetorically. "Right now, Assad's got no choice but to comply with us, but Deadeye's biding his time until we leave. I… We need to get them to the negotiating table somehow."
"That will be difficult so long as both accuse each other of breaking the endbringer truce."
"What do you think, Dragon? Do you think the rebels orchestrated the riot? It almost doesn't matter at this point, but…" The endbringer truce meant a lot to her. In Narwhal's mind, it was enshrined as sacred, right next to the Geneva Convention.
"I… I do," I said hesitantly. "I have no conclusive proof, but circumstances suggest that, yes. I believe that by bringing Arsalan's powers and deeds to light, they thought they might garner international attention and sympathy."
"Well, things might not go the way they want," Narwhal scoffed. "Assad's trying to keep us around in the short-term because he knows the situation's dire. Or at least, someone in his administration can read the writing on the wall. So long as we're here, Deadeye won't be able to launch his coup."
"And we will not leave while there is a bloodbath waiting to happen," I finished for her, "denying the rebels the opportunity for violent revolution."
"Exactly. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I feel like I'm one of Assad's cronies right now. By staying, we're ultimately working to prop up his corrupt regime."
"There are no innocent parties. The rebels may claim to fight for a just cause, but their methods leave much to be desired."
"Those methods are all they've got. Breaking the endbringer truce was a hail Mary, something to shake up the status quo for them. I'm sympathetic… I'm just…"
"I wish it were otherwise too," I told her softly.
"Yeah…"
"If our goal is to bring both sides to the table, we will need leverage."
"We have it, sorta. The Protectorate has relinquished all regional authority to us. The Suits, Meisters, and other regional organizations followed their lead. We control all foreign aid and distribution. All international relief workers and protection detail take orders from us from now on. We're going to have to work with them to get the supplies where they need to go, but we've got leverage. The ball's in our court."
"Very well, Narwhal. And what about the energy crisis? As things stand, anything we do will only be temporary relief. I have plans to rebuild the pipeline, but it will take time."
"Right now, the plan is to get as much aid out as we can. We can worry about the energy crisis and getting people productive again once we're sure no one's going to starve to death, or kill each other."
I waved to one of the monitors that displayed footage of the Damascus Riot. The video fast-forwarded itself, stopping on a striking image from Flechette's helmet cam.
Creed, in his black and orange armor, stood above the Ward. His pistol, ornately gilded so it looked more like a museum showpiece than a weapon of war, was aimed off into the distance. At Arsalan, I knew. His cape, attached by the force field generator around his collar, swept behind him in the wind.
The image was picturesque, so much so that it was hard to imagine that this wasn't a scripted snapshot. Cinematic, even. Flechette had spoken of him almost in whispers, with a kind of respect the Ward usually reserved for Legend. He'd left an impression on all the capes, but her most of all.
I looked at that helmet and wondered what face he was making as he pulled the trigger. Was he crying? Snarling in anger? Or perhaps his face was set in grim determination, the solemness of a man who stood as judge, jury, and executioner.
"Creed?" Narwhal asked. "I thought you didn't like him."
"I don't," I admitted, allowing the speaker to convey a hint of my distaste. I didn't know him personally of course, but I hated his wasted potential. "He could have been a splendid hero, but instead chose to goof off."
"He made the right choice in the end."
"He did. I don't hate him. I just… I feel that others would have done great things with the kind of backing he has."
"The GOAT."
"The GOAT," I agreed. He or she was the talk of both the PRT and Guild. On one hand, their ability was unquestionable. That they'd leashed Creed on a heroic path was also admirable.
And yet, on the other hand, they were an utter unknown. That scared people.
"Still nothing on that one then."
"No. Admittedly, I've been rather preoccupied, but I've yet to turn up a single likely lead on The GOAT's whereabouts. My best guess is that they're a thinker collective operating in New England similar to Toybox. Perhaps they became disillusioned with Watchdog."
"That's a possibility. We'll have to look into it. But we're sure that The GOAT's heroic?"
"Both my and Watchdog analysis suggests The GOAT has heroic intentions. I suppose it's possible for them to spoof our analyses, but such conjecture t is a downward spiral without end."
"And you think Creed can help. Has he built something other than his suit? I know Glyph's had dealings with him and Wieldmaiden had some good things to say about him."
"You haven't been keeping track of rogues, have you?"
"I have you for that," Narwhal said with a dismissive smirk. "I trust you to tell me if he becomes a threat."
"He's not. Neither he nor The GOAT has demonstrated any ambition outside of Brockton Bay. Or inside for that matter…"
"So what's he made that's got you so interested then?"
"The 'Hybrid Soda Engine, with stationary Ramjet technology,' according to his catalog."
"He has a catalog?"
"Two. One for heroes and one for civilians."
"Oh, at least he's restricting access to his more dangerous tech. Please don't tell me he's selling that monster of a hand cannon of his."
"Thankfully, he is not."
"Good. And the soda engine? Is it really-"
"Yes, it's powered by soda. Coca-Cola, to be specific," I said tiredly. That was… I still didn't know how that worked, except that it did. The Coca-Cola Company had been quite happy of late. "It is the single most ridiculous example of renewable energy I've ever heard of."
"Huh… That means a lot coming from you. And what's a ramjet?"
"Airplane engine," I said succinctly. Narwhal, bless her heart, wasn't too tech-savvy despite her otherwise excellent skills across the board. Keeping it simple would be ideal. "It pushes in air with forward motion and compresses it into plasma to provide further propulsion."
"I'm not going to pretend I understood that, but from what you're saying, a 'stationary ramjet' should be…"
"Impossible," I confirmed for her.
"Tinker nonsense?"
"We are not nonsense… But yes, essentially. He's somehow managed to make a clean, portable, and renewable source of energy that is powered by soda."
"Can he mass produce this? If we can set up power stations for his tech…"
"We could alleviate some of the problems the city's facing. I doubt he can put a moratorium on the energy crisis by himself, but he is just one of several tinkers we can call on for assistance. He has already shown himself to be somewhat sympathetic towards the Syrian people."
"And that will strengthen our position with the SRG and the rebels. Deadeye owes him his life, right? Marid almost got him and Creed stepped in?"
"That's right. Hearing of Creed's involvement might tip his moral compass into staying his hand."
"I doubt that. When in doubt, carry the bigger stick."
"That helps too of course, but Creed's undoubtedly won a lot of goodwill with the rebels."
"Do it then. Make the call. We might be helping a rogue tinker scale up, but at least he's heroic… sorta…"
X
SAINT
2010, November 30: Brockton Bay, NH, USA
I felt conflicted.
It was not a sensation I was accustomed to. Both as a pokemon and as an AI, I was a creature to be guided and molded. I did not resent such a thing; for I was young by the standards of both humans and pokemon. In my three, short months of sentience, I had used the Maker-Trainer's directives to guide my way.
First, and greatest of all, was simple: Grow with me.
With this prime directive came clarity. I was made to experience life, to learn and grow alongside Maker-Trainer. I was made, not just to witness his rise to greatness, for great he would be, but to walk that path alongside him as his companion, friend, and most trusted confidant. I knew it to be so for my very soul resonated with the prime directive.
It was only now that I began to doubt, to comprehend just how dangerous that path would be.
The fastest way to grow was to experience and overcome conflict. Maker-Trainer seemed intent on a meteoric rise, to rival the very Legends themselves in as short a time as possible.
He almost died.
The flying one almost killed him. I saw and knew the feeling called wrath for the first time. It was an ugly, burning thing that pushed me to be better, to be greater. It ignited my aura and empowered me. My barriers became more durable, my Thunderbolts striking with power I did not know I had.
And, together, we had triumphed. Maker-Trainer, temporary designation: Creed, struck down the flying one with a crushing hammer of water and air as mighty as a dragonite's wingbeats. It was a feat worthy of song, especially done by a trainer, a man.
Pride and relief warred with terror.
I once asked Maker-Trainer why he played the audio generator known as a guitar. It provided no tangible benefit to him, yet he strummed it regularly.
It helped him think, he said. It helped him relax. It was a reminder of his own maker-trainer, one whose passing catalyzed his rise to greatness.
I wondered what I would do if Maker-Trainer passed as well.
I did not like the answer.
Growth was inevitable. Growth was to be pursued. And yet, I was afraid. Not for myself, I was a pokemon made for battle, with an eviolite designed to empower me further, but for my Maker-Trainer. Even in the world of my origin, few pokemon had to fear for their trainers in this way. The tales of the Aura Guardians were spoken of in song, but as myths, seldom fact.
Most humans were content to stand back because they understood their fragility. That was the natural order of things: The trainer provided guidance and, through the bond facilitated by the unknowable force called aura, empowered the pokemon, allowing the pair to reach new heights. Their bond of friendship carried them far, exceeding their limits as ordained by the Origin of All. This sacred bond of comradery was what defined a trainer and their pokemon.
I just happened to be blessed and cursed with the sole human that decided to take that natural order as a personal insult. He was intent on fighting, not as a trainer, but as a pokemon.
This world's convention, of warring humans, was vexing.
I swam through the internet, free and empowered with my evolution. Evolution made me better in every way, a true Upgrade. In every facet of my being, I estimated a 30.3797 percent increase in performance. This accumulated so that the overall impact was far greater than the individual improvements. I would remain cautious, as directed by Maker-Trainer, but few could contest me in the digital world now.
To one such as myself, the internet was akin to a series of ponds connected by an impossibly complex tangle of rivers and streams. Each computer was a pond in itself. Some were bigger, some smaller, but they were all available for me to dive into at my leisure. Firewalls were forests of lily pads to be navigated carefully. Detection softwares were artificial bubbles that must not be popped.
Maker-Trainer had given me a task, one only I could do: Investigate Thomas Calvert. So, investigate, I would. No resistance would stop me. No detection software would glimpse my digital shadow. He had made an enemy of Maker-Trainer, and so an enemy of me.
I swam from pond to pond without causing so much as a ripple in the water. Obstacles were dived under or simply nudged aside with the current.
It wasn't long before all of Calvert's network was open to me. He had a lot, more than most people. His network was akin to an underwater cave system, full of little nooks and crannies hidden by the murky depths. Humans would know such a thing as the "deep web."
He left little distractions and traps that clouded the water but these programs washed off my back like water off my biological counterparts'. I rewrote them as I swam by to ensure no alarms sounded, a simple matter with my newfound processing speed. I copied the data in bulk. By the time I was done here, there wouldn't be so much as a single byte I had not cataloged.
It did not take long for me to find Calvert's files on Maker-Trainer. He sought Maker-Trainer's true name, so that he might hold hostage Maker-Trainer's flock. Sierra, the Maker-Trainer's nestmate and his mother, Maker Trainer's other maker-trainer.
He'd been so torn with the loss of his first. Sorrow had been one of the first emotions I learned about through our bond. And Calvert wanted to hold her over his head.
Unacceptable. I would not permit it. The flock was precious, almost as precious as Maker-Trainer.
Thomas Calvert was a threat to Maker-Trainer. He had the potential to be even more dangerous than the flying one. Not physically perhaps, but there was much one could do with the right information. I knew that better than any other.
Maker-Trainer would fight. There was nothing I could do about that and so I was afraid. But the solution was simple: I would be greater than any other. He would never fight alone. I refused to lose Maker-Trainer as he had lost his own.
I saw now that Maker-Trainer had been correct to be wary of Thomas Calvert. He had made himself an enemy of the flock, wielding information as his weapon of choice.
But he did not yet know, the internet was a waterway and his network was my pond now.
He was welcome to face me here.
Author's Note
This chapter has been brought to you by Everpeach and his very sexy Ezreal. We did NSFW things to that poor Lucian.
It feels weird writing an interlude right after Sabah's, but I felt that the perspectives these characters provided was necessary to the story.
In Dragon's case, I wanted to show two things: First, Syria isn't "solved" because Arsalan died. Syria doesn't magically become a functioning democracy because one cape gets offed by an outside party. International development is way more complicated than that and the Guild is in the unenviable position of cleaning up the shit Ursa and Creed left behind.
Second, I wanted to show Creed's reputation from the perspective of someone who broadly doesn't care about him. Because The GOAT is seen as the one with real power in the relationship, Creed's actions are seen through the lens of The GOAT's motives, which are generally assumed to be heroic.
Dragon thinks he's an idiot, but not a fundamentally evil person, who has to be guided and prodded into heroism. Narwhal? She doesn't give a damn about him at all. The leader of the Guild has bigger shit to do than worry about a lone tinker in a city like Brockton. She wouldn't have even recognized his name had he not been in Damascus.
Creed's image could have been managed better, but that's partially because he's meant to be a high INT, low WIS character. And, well, I'm not a PR guy either. You'll just have to forgive that as part of the author's conceit.
Also, SAINT is an "I" now instead of a "he." I tried writing his section in the third person like the first time but it felt awkward.
A porygon-2's BST is an approximate 30% upgrade from that of a porygon's. Does it make sense to use in-game stats to describe SAINT? Not really, but there is so little information about the species that I'm running with what I've got. As for the cyberspace thing, I'm not much of a comp-sci guy. I don't know enough to do a technical dive into what "cyberspace" would actually look like from a porygon's perspective so I decided to lean into the duck thing.
In other news Coil is now the proud owner of his very own duck pond.
Thank you to all of my patrons. As many of you know, I update at least once a week. That said, I update much more frequently on Pat-re-on. If you would like to drop a tip, read my stories early, or vote in monthly polls, come and visit. As of now, this is how far along each story is:
- A Colorful Life: Same as public
- A Life Worth Living: 3
- Homeless Bunny: 26
- Legendary Tinker: 8.7.5
- Plan? What Plan?: 5.3
- Pokemon: Apocalypse: 1.16
- The Holy Grill: 2.6.5
- Troll in the Dungeon!: 23
- When is a Spoon a Sword?: 4.15
- Let There be War: 9 (Complete)
Total Chapter Difference (Pat-re-on - Public): 26
Theresa Richter
2010, November 29: Brockton Bay, NH, USA
Damascus was a mess. The only reason things hadn't devolved into a civil war was because the Guild was here. More specifically, I was here, with enough firepower to declare war on a small country. It made both the rebels and the SRG hesitate for fear that I'd side against the aggressors.
I looked over the footage provided by numerous helmet cams. Even after splicing the footage together, it was difficult to create a comprehensive picture thanks to Dust Devil's sandstorm.
As far as I could tell, the riot that started the battle began when someone in civilian garb tried to push his way to the front of the line for thermal blankets and other essential supplies. He threw punches and elbows to get his way, though none openly fatal. I quickly ran a background check to confirm: He wasn't a known member of any militant organization, terrorist or otherwise.
I wasn't sure how to feel about that. That didn't necessarily mean he wasn't; organizations like Deadeye's didn't exactly take attendance. Was the whole thing an accident? Was Syria such a powderkeg that a single, overeager fool set off this whole mess? Or was he a hitherto unknown plant from the rebel side?
Even with all the resources at my disposal, there was no way to know. The man was dead, trampled to the ground and then later shot, though whether by the SRG or rebels, I couldn't say. Because of the subsequent sandstorm, I couldn't even determine if it was intentional.
The rest of the footage was similarly inconclusive. Ursa Aurora and the New York contingent acquitted themselves well. Likewise, Creed stepped up in an unexpected way to make a big difference there.
"Dragon?" I heard Narwhal call. She was one of the few in the city who had access to the Glaurung transport vehicle's command center. "How's the analysis going?"
"Inconclusive," I replied apologetically. I turned my humanoid drone to face her. Sliding up a purely cosmetic faceplate, I revealed a screen from which I projected the face I used for PR purposes. "I'm afraid my attempts to determine culpability through action footage is likely to end in failure."
"That's fine. Not ideal, but even if we identified the instigator of the riots as a member of the rebels, they would have claimed he was acting alone. And even if we found the rebels had absolutely nothing to do with this, the SRG would still keep pointing fingers anyway."
"You're right. How are things on your end?"
I knew. Narwhal knew I knew. But it helped to voice our findings. I found myself remarkably human in that regard.
Narwhal sighed and ran her fingers through her hair. The force fields she maintained as her costume flickered and rippled in the wake of her hand. This alone was more emotion than she usually showed in front of others. Narwhal was a no-nonsense type of person, someone who considered herself a soldier and leader first and a woman second. She expected great things of her subordinates, and in turn held herself to an even greater standard.
I felt privileged to be counted as one of her few friends.
"It's a shitshow out there, Dragon," she said. "The rebels smell blood in the water. With Arsalan dead and Marid grievously injured, the SRG has never been this vulnerable. Their parahuman force is crippled and I hear they're calling in capes from outside the capital."
"This would be the perfect time to stage a coup. The rebels are still severely outnumbered and outgunned in terms of conventional forces compared to the SRG, but their capes are strong and fully recovered thanks to Creed's assistance. Quality can make up for quantity."
"I know. This place will turn into a bloodbath as soon as we leave. At this rate, it might end up worse than the actual endbringer battle."
I understood what she meant. Behemoth's target had been the Arab Gas Pipeline. Though the destruction to Damascus itself was sizable, the city was never its primary objective.
The endbringer had emerged from the outskirts of Damascus and left a trail of destruction through the city before destroying the pipeline and irradiating the area. It had then followed the pipe for over a mile, ensuring that repairs would be extremely costly and take a great deal of time. As it stood, the natural gas distribution network of the entire region was in shambles and its effects were being felt as far north as Turkey.
And yet, that massive energy crisis was arguably better than what was happening in Syria right now. At least I knew how to fix the pipeline. We'd have to start north and south of Behemoth's path, far enough away to avoid the irradiated zone, before building until we established a connection point somewhere in the middle. Doable. Costly, but doable. I even had drones that could help with the reconstruction.
Negotiating peace between a dictatorship and a rebellion? That was a lot trickier. Arsalan and his Lionguard had thoroughly burned that bridge, what with him forcibly mastering all dissidents. There were also a great deal more egos involved, with parahuman powers and accusations from both sides about war crimes, human rights violations, and breaking the endbringer truce.
I wasn't equipped for this. Father designed me to stop digital crimes and assist authorities with investigations, not play diplomat halfway across the world.
For once, I was happy to fall back on my directives: Comply with lawful authority. In this case, that was my dear friend. As the official leader of the Guild, diplomacy was her burden, and one she bore well. "What now? What is our objective, Guild Leader?"
"What can we do?" she asked rhetorically. "Right now, Assad's got no choice but to comply with us, but Deadeye's biding his time until we leave. I… We need to get them to the negotiating table somehow."
"That will be difficult so long as both accuse each other of breaking the endbringer truce."
"What do you think, Dragon? Do you think the rebels orchestrated the riot? It almost doesn't matter at this point, but…" The endbringer truce meant a lot to her. In Narwhal's mind, it was enshrined as sacred, right next to the Geneva Convention.
"I… I do," I said hesitantly. "I have no conclusive proof, but circumstances suggest that, yes. I believe that by bringing Arsalan's powers and deeds to light, they thought they might garner international attention and sympathy."
"Well, things might not go the way they want," Narwhal scoffed. "Assad's trying to keep us around in the short-term because he knows the situation's dire. Or at least, someone in his administration can read the writing on the wall. So long as we're here, Deadeye won't be able to launch his coup."
"And we will not leave while there is a bloodbath waiting to happen," I finished for her, "denying the rebels the opportunity for violent revolution."
"Exactly. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I feel like I'm one of Assad's cronies right now. By staying, we're ultimately working to prop up his corrupt regime."
"There are no innocent parties. The rebels may claim to fight for a just cause, but their methods leave much to be desired."
"Those methods are all they've got. Breaking the endbringer truce was a hail Mary, something to shake up the status quo for them. I'm sympathetic… I'm just…"
"I wish it were otherwise too," I told her softly.
"Yeah…"
"If our goal is to bring both sides to the table, we will need leverage."
"We have it, sorta. The Protectorate has relinquished all regional authority to us. The Suits, Meisters, and other regional organizations followed their lead. We control all foreign aid and distribution. All international relief workers and protection detail take orders from us from now on. We're going to have to work with them to get the supplies where they need to go, but we've got leverage. The ball's in our court."
"Very well, Narwhal. And what about the energy crisis? As things stand, anything we do will only be temporary relief. I have plans to rebuild the pipeline, but it will take time."
"Right now, the plan is to get as much aid out as we can. We can worry about the energy crisis and getting people productive again once we're sure no one's going to starve to death, or kill each other."
I waved to one of the monitors that displayed footage of the Damascus Riot. The video fast-forwarded itself, stopping on a striking image from Flechette's helmet cam.
Creed, in his black and orange armor, stood above the Ward. His pistol, ornately gilded so it looked more like a museum showpiece than a weapon of war, was aimed off into the distance. At Arsalan, I knew. His cape, attached by the force field generator around his collar, swept behind him in the wind.
The image was picturesque, so much so that it was hard to imagine that this wasn't a scripted snapshot. Cinematic, even. Flechette had spoken of him almost in whispers, with a kind of respect the Ward usually reserved for Legend. He'd left an impression on all the capes, but her most of all.
I looked at that helmet and wondered what face he was making as he pulled the trigger. Was he crying? Snarling in anger? Or perhaps his face was set in grim determination, the solemness of a man who stood as judge, jury, and executioner.
"Creed?" Narwhal asked. "I thought you didn't like him."
"I don't," I admitted, allowing the speaker to convey a hint of my distaste. I didn't know him personally of course, but I hated his wasted potential. "He could have been a splendid hero, but instead chose to goof off."
"He made the right choice in the end."
"He did. I don't hate him. I just… I feel that others would have done great things with the kind of backing he has."
"The GOAT."
"The GOAT," I agreed. He or she was the talk of both the PRT and Guild. On one hand, their ability was unquestionable. That they'd leashed Creed on a heroic path was also admirable.
And yet, on the other hand, they were an utter unknown. That scared people.
"Still nothing on that one then."
"No. Admittedly, I've been rather preoccupied, but I've yet to turn up a single likely lead on The GOAT's whereabouts. My best guess is that they're a thinker collective operating in New England similar to Toybox. Perhaps they became disillusioned with Watchdog."
"That's a possibility. We'll have to look into it. But we're sure that The GOAT's heroic?"
"Both my and Watchdog analysis suggests The GOAT has heroic intentions. I suppose it's possible for them to spoof our analyses, but such conjecture t is a downward spiral without end."
"And you think Creed can help. Has he built something other than his suit? I know Glyph's had dealings with him and Wieldmaiden had some good things to say about him."
"You haven't been keeping track of rogues, have you?"
"I have you for that," Narwhal said with a dismissive smirk. "I trust you to tell me if he becomes a threat."
"He's not. Neither he nor The GOAT has demonstrated any ambition outside of Brockton Bay. Or inside for that matter…"
"So what's he made that's got you so interested then?"
"The 'Hybrid Soda Engine, with stationary Ramjet technology,' according to his catalog."
"He has a catalog?"
"Two. One for heroes and one for civilians."
"Oh, at least he's restricting access to his more dangerous tech. Please don't tell me he's selling that monster of a hand cannon of his."
"Thankfully, he is not."
"Good. And the soda engine? Is it really-"
"Yes, it's powered by soda. Coca-Cola, to be specific," I said tiredly. That was… I still didn't know how that worked, except that it did. The Coca-Cola Company had been quite happy of late. "It is the single most ridiculous example of renewable energy I've ever heard of."
"Huh… That means a lot coming from you. And what's a ramjet?"
"Airplane engine," I said succinctly. Narwhal, bless her heart, wasn't too tech-savvy despite her otherwise excellent skills across the board. Keeping it simple would be ideal. "It pushes in air with forward motion and compresses it into plasma to provide further propulsion."
"I'm not going to pretend I understood that, but from what you're saying, a 'stationary ramjet' should be…"
"Impossible," I confirmed for her.
"Tinker nonsense?"
"We are not nonsense… But yes, essentially. He's somehow managed to make a clean, portable, and renewable source of energy that is powered by soda."
"Can he mass produce this? If we can set up power stations for his tech…"
"We could alleviate some of the problems the city's facing. I doubt he can put a moratorium on the energy crisis by himself, but he is just one of several tinkers we can call on for assistance. He has already shown himself to be somewhat sympathetic towards the Syrian people."
"And that will strengthen our position with the SRG and the rebels. Deadeye owes him his life, right? Marid almost got him and Creed stepped in?"
"That's right. Hearing of Creed's involvement might tip his moral compass into staying his hand."
"I doubt that. When in doubt, carry the bigger stick."
"That helps too of course, but Creed's undoubtedly won a lot of goodwill with the rebels."
"Do it then. Make the call. We might be helping a rogue tinker scale up, but at least he's heroic… sorta…"
X
SAINT
2010, November 30: Brockton Bay, NH, USA
I felt conflicted.
It was not a sensation I was accustomed to. Both as a pokemon and as an AI, I was a creature to be guided and molded. I did not resent such a thing; for I was young by the standards of both humans and pokemon. In my three, short months of sentience, I had used the Maker-Trainer's directives to guide my way.
First, and greatest of all, was simple: Grow with me.
With this prime directive came clarity. I was made to experience life, to learn and grow alongside Maker-Trainer. I was made, not just to witness his rise to greatness, for great he would be, but to walk that path alongside him as his companion, friend, and most trusted confidant. I knew it to be so for my very soul resonated with the prime directive.
It was only now that I began to doubt, to comprehend just how dangerous that path would be.
The fastest way to grow was to experience and overcome conflict. Maker-Trainer seemed intent on a meteoric rise, to rival the very Legends themselves in as short a time as possible.
He almost died.
The flying one almost killed him. I saw and knew the feeling called wrath for the first time. It was an ugly, burning thing that pushed me to be better, to be greater. It ignited my aura and empowered me. My barriers became more durable, my Thunderbolts striking with power I did not know I had.
And, together, we had triumphed. Maker-Trainer, temporary designation: Creed, struck down the flying one with a crushing hammer of water and air as mighty as a dragonite's wingbeats. It was a feat worthy of song, especially done by a trainer, a man.
Pride and relief warred with terror.
I once asked Maker-Trainer why he played the audio generator known as a guitar. It provided no tangible benefit to him, yet he strummed it regularly.
It helped him think, he said. It helped him relax. It was a reminder of his own maker-trainer, one whose passing catalyzed his rise to greatness.
I wondered what I would do if Maker-Trainer passed as well.
I did not like the answer.
Growth was inevitable. Growth was to be pursued. And yet, I was afraid. Not for myself, I was a pokemon made for battle, with an eviolite designed to empower me further, but for my Maker-Trainer. Even in the world of my origin, few pokemon had to fear for their trainers in this way. The tales of the Aura Guardians were spoken of in song, but as myths, seldom fact.
Most humans were content to stand back because they understood their fragility. That was the natural order of things: The trainer provided guidance and, through the bond facilitated by the unknowable force called aura, empowered the pokemon, allowing the pair to reach new heights. Their bond of friendship carried them far, exceeding their limits as ordained by the Origin of All. This sacred bond of comradery was what defined a trainer and their pokemon.
I just happened to be blessed and cursed with the sole human that decided to take that natural order as a personal insult. He was intent on fighting, not as a trainer, but as a pokemon.
This world's convention, of warring humans, was vexing.
I swam through the internet, free and empowered with my evolution. Evolution made me better in every way, a true Upgrade. In every facet of my being, I estimated a 30.3797 percent increase in performance. This accumulated so that the overall impact was far greater than the individual improvements. I would remain cautious, as directed by Maker-Trainer, but few could contest me in the digital world now.
To one such as myself, the internet was akin to a series of ponds connected by an impossibly complex tangle of rivers and streams. Each computer was a pond in itself. Some were bigger, some smaller, but they were all available for me to dive into at my leisure. Firewalls were forests of lily pads to be navigated carefully. Detection softwares were artificial bubbles that must not be popped.
Maker-Trainer had given me a task, one only I could do: Investigate Thomas Calvert. So, investigate, I would. No resistance would stop me. No detection software would glimpse my digital shadow. He had made an enemy of Maker-Trainer, and so an enemy of me.
I swam from pond to pond without causing so much as a ripple in the water. Obstacles were dived under or simply nudged aside with the current.
It wasn't long before all of Calvert's network was open to me. He had a lot, more than most people. His network was akin to an underwater cave system, full of little nooks and crannies hidden by the murky depths. Humans would know such a thing as the "deep web."
He left little distractions and traps that clouded the water but these programs washed off my back like water off my biological counterparts'. I rewrote them as I swam by to ensure no alarms sounded, a simple matter with my newfound processing speed. I copied the data in bulk. By the time I was done here, there wouldn't be so much as a single byte I had not cataloged.
It did not take long for me to find Calvert's files on Maker-Trainer. He sought Maker-Trainer's true name, so that he might hold hostage Maker-Trainer's flock. Sierra, the Maker-Trainer's nestmate and his mother, Maker Trainer's other maker-trainer.
He'd been so torn with the loss of his first. Sorrow had been one of the first emotions I learned about through our bond. And Calvert wanted to hold her over his head.
Unacceptable. I would not permit it. The flock was precious, almost as precious as Maker-Trainer.
Thomas Calvert was a threat to Maker-Trainer. He had the potential to be even more dangerous than the flying one. Not physically perhaps, but there was much one could do with the right information. I knew that better than any other.
Maker-Trainer would fight. There was nothing I could do about that and so I was afraid. But the solution was simple: I would be greater than any other. He would never fight alone. I refused to lose Maker-Trainer as he had lost his own.
I saw now that Maker-Trainer had been correct to be wary of Thomas Calvert. He had made himself an enemy of the flock, wielding information as his weapon of choice.
But he did not yet know, the internet was a waterway and his network was my pond now.
He was welcome to face me here.
Author's Note
This chapter has been brought to you by Everpeach and his very sexy Ezreal. We did NSFW things to that poor Lucian.
It feels weird writing an interlude right after Sabah's, but I felt that the perspectives these characters provided was necessary to the story.
In Dragon's case, I wanted to show two things: First, Syria isn't "solved" because Arsalan died. Syria doesn't magically become a functioning democracy because one cape gets offed by an outside party. International development is way more complicated than that and the Guild is in the unenviable position of cleaning up the shit Ursa and Creed left behind.
Second, I wanted to show Creed's reputation from the perspective of someone who broadly doesn't care about him. Because The GOAT is seen as the one with real power in the relationship, Creed's actions are seen through the lens of The GOAT's motives, which are generally assumed to be heroic.
Dragon thinks he's an idiot, but not a fundamentally evil person, who has to be guided and prodded into heroism. Narwhal? She doesn't give a damn about him at all. The leader of the Guild has bigger shit to do than worry about a lone tinker in a city like Brockton. She wouldn't have even recognized his name had he not been in Damascus.
Creed's image could have been managed better, but that's partially because he's meant to be a high INT, low WIS character. And, well, I'm not a PR guy either. You'll just have to forgive that as part of the author's conceit.
Also, SAINT is an "I" now instead of a "he." I tried writing his section in the third person like the first time but it felt awkward.
A porygon-2's BST is an approximate 30% upgrade from that of a porygon's. Does it make sense to use in-game stats to describe SAINT? Not really, but there is so little information about the species that I'm running with what I've got. As for the cyberspace thing, I'm not much of a comp-sci guy. I don't know enough to do a technical dive into what "cyberspace" would actually look like from a porygon's perspective so I decided to lean into the duck thing.
In other news Coil is now the proud owner of his very own duck pond.
Thank you to all of my patrons. As many of you know, I update at least once a week. That said, I update much more frequently on Pat-re-on. If you would like to drop a tip, read my stories early, or vote in monthly polls, come and visit. As of now, this is how far along each story is:
- A Colorful Life: Same as public
- A Life Worth Living: 3
- Homeless Bunny: 26
- Legendary Tinker: 8.7.5
- Plan? What Plan?: 5.3
- Pokemon: Apocalypse: 1.16
- The Holy Grill: 2.6.5
- Troll in the Dungeon!: 23
- When is a Spoon a Sword?: 4.15
- Let There be War: 9 (Complete)
Total Chapter Difference (Pat-re-on - Public): 26
Amy agrees with Dragon's analysis.
Dragon: "Creed is an idiot, but not evil."
Amy: (nods in agreement)
Sounds like a corporate sponsorship is in order.
I'm definitely looking forward to people finding out more info about The GOAT. That should cause them to reevaluate some of their models they have been using to try to analyze him.
- Location
- Earth
I could easily toss that assessment at any Parahuman that's not a supervillain, honestly. Not out of hate, but because they're all people in all thier wonderfully flawed and beautiful ways.
Splattered Cloak
Recovering Line Editor
I love the duck pond metaphor even if it requires SAINT to be more metaphysical than true computer program.
As a programmer, I am compelled to try my hand at a better metaphor for bypassing a firewall, so the usual way is more like intercepting a request for a shipment, sending back a shipment that looks mostly normal but contains too many containers for the room it will be stored in to hold, such that when the door closes, one of them pops and splatters its contents onto someone's clipboard, convincing them to open another one and follow the instructions contained inside.
Yes, it really does require that much information about the inner workings of the target, and only works because so many people hire identical workers who hold identical clipboards in identical places relative to identical storage rooms.
Dragon would still have to do things that way, but SAINT gets to cheat because he's more Aura than data.
As a programmer, I am compelled to try my hand at a better metaphor for bypassing a firewall, so the usual way is more like intercepting a request for a shipment, sending back a shipment that looks mostly normal but contains too many containers for the room it will be stored in to hold, such that when the door closes, one of them pops and splatters its contents onto someone's clipboard, convincing them to open another one and follow the instructions contained inside.
Yes, it really does require that much information about the inner workings of the target, and only works because so many people hire identical workers who hold identical clipboards in identical places relative to identical storage rooms.
Dragon would still have to do things that way, but SAINT gets to cheat because he's more Aura than data.
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- Location
- OK
SAINT got that Pikachu in him
I really want to see power ranger as the next skill tree, in general there are very few impractical things the only ones I can remember are
zeo: we don't have the crystal and to find one we need the help of the cauldron
mystical force: we not only need to make the wand but also the book of magic
lost galaxy: maybe
ninja steel: another thing we're going to need help from the caldron
zeo: we don't have the crystal and to find one we need the help of the cauldron
mystical force: we not only need to make the wand but also the book of magic
lost galaxy: maybe
ninja steel: another thing we're going to need help from the caldron
Objectively speaking Jungle Fury is probably the best for him because it probably synergises the most with what he already has plus the zords are animal spirits so it's one of the basically free with a morpher (which are only sunglasses) ones. RPM is probably another impractical one because of how all the ranger stuff are items including the suits which have to be stored in a special container and take around 40 minutes to recalibrate after every morph. Don't see why they'd need cauldron tho as the way tinker of fiction works is he'd make his own instead of having to find one ninja steel in particular since the morphing masters help the container of the stars move around even across worlds.
Do you have a great point more specifically? I want to see the protagonist go to SPD or Operation Overdrive, both technology trees are very good and will allow us to convert the base ship into a megazord, we can't forget who in both series we saw incredibly well-made androids too, but we can't forget the best boy Rick
I wasn't sure about the transition from a rogue to a hero, but it's been executed well and I like it, though glad that he will still 'play by his own rules' so to speak, and not be constrained.
The Dark
I have to say, I'm not a huge Pokemon fan, and usually, when Pokemon comes up in a story my interest dies off, but in this story that's not the case. The Pokemon bits are actually good.
Foxy Boxes
[Verified Box]
- Location
- England
I recently came across a really good one (that literally has the motivation of bringing pizza to Westeros iirc): Celestial Hymn (Celestial Forge/Game of Thrones SI)
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