This is the result of my ADHD mind getting so off track the train has left the station.
I...
I...
Shining Example (WORM ORIGIN QUEST)
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Interlude: The Right Questions....
IKnowNothing
....What?
- Location
- I got lost so.....Where are we?
Cambridge, England.
August 19th, 1986
Rain hits the glass windows of the quiet cafe, hushed conversations from what few customers sat huddled inside the only din to be heard. Sitting in a booth, alone from everyone else, sits a young man. Slim fingers twirl what looks to be a rather heavy pen, taking a few moments every now and then to tap it on the notepad in front of him. His other hand taps at a small cup of coffee almost rhythmically, still full to the brim, heat wafting off the top. There's a quiet ding from the front door as a person walks in, closing an umbrella and brushing off what little rain had made it past.
In the booth, the young man's smile creeps up an inch. The person makes his way over to the booth, ignoring the looks from the other patrons and the staff. He sets down his umbrella and a small conductor's baton. "I was told finding you would be the easy part," the man says.
Across from him, the young man just smiles and raises his cup, taking a quiet, but long, sip. "Richard, I presume?" he asks, the expression on his face betraying that he very well knew the answer.
Richard matches the man's smile with his own, bowing his head slightly in answer. "I didn't even wear a name tag," Richard jokes, but both men knew a falsehood when they heard one.
There's a slight chuckle as the young man with oddly colored eyes puts his cup back down, and leans back into the chair behind him. "Perhaps not, but exchanging names and pleasantries isn't why you found me, now is it? Why would somebody like you, want something from somebody like me, I wonder?"
Richard drops his smile, leaning back into his own chair. "I was told that if I wanted to know something, I would need to visit the Seer first. What I need, is something only one such as yourself can provide. If, the rumors are true." Richard slowly turns his gaze, and points to a single patron sitting alone in the cafe. She held a single cup of coffee to her lips, and Richard smiles at the action. "Tell me, if I snap my fingers, how will that person react?" Richard asks in challenge.
"How would that woman react if you were to snap your fingers?" The younger man asks, before raising an eyebrow slightly, "I believe she would fumble around looking for something to dry herself off with."
Richard eyes the man, daring him to change his answer. He waits for a second, then two. Then, he snaps. A single ping, not unlike a bell chime rings throughout the room. Across the cafe, the coffee cup shudders for a moment before shattering. Hot coffee spills all over the unprotected woman. She, as predicted, jumps in her seat and reaches for anything capable of drying the searing hot liquid out of her clothes.
Richard tries to keep the pleased glint out of his eye, but his smile returns full force. He leans in, his posture completely business like if not for the bluntness of his approach. "It seems you might be him him. If you are, I assume you know what I'm going to ask of you?"
Again, the younger man just raises his eyebrow slightly, smile rising up ever so slightly with it. "What you want of me? What you sought me out for? Those are very interesting questions, of course, but I'm a little more interested in something else."He leans forward and opens up the notebook on the table. Even at a glance, it's easy to tell that it's completely full of exactly what Richard wants. Names, times, locations, everything. As if to prove the point, he turns the page, and then to another, and another. Every page is full, full of information. Information that was vital to him. He closes the notebook, puts the pen down beside it, and then steeples his fingers. "I'm very willing to give you what you're asking of me, but first…"
The young man's oddly colored eyes glint in the dreary light. "What is it that you're willing to pay me for this?"
Richard taps his finger on the table, eyeing both the young man and the notebook in front of him. He stops tapping for a moment, then a faint chuckle escapes him. "Well then, I guess you could say that if you gave me what I want, I could give you the city of London in all her glory. But that's not what you would want, is it" He shakes his finger almost hypnotically. "No, you're the kind of guy who wants more immediate pay. To that question, I answer this."
He spreads his arms out wide, an inviting gesture, if it were anyone else. On Richard, it seemed more of an invitation to your own destruction. "Whatever I can give, it is yours. All I need… Well, you already know what I need." he says, gesturing at the notebook.
Across from him, the younger man's smile creeps up into something almost resembling normality. On him, however, it looked more akin to a predator staring down its prey. "That is rather convenient. You see, I was just thinking I needed somebody that owed me a favor. Still, favors are only so valuable as you keep them, yes? So, Richard…" His fingers unclasp, and he pushes the notebook over to the other side of the table."What do you think about keeping in contact? It just so happens that I think our plans seem to coincide on a number of… Important matters. If you promise to do a few things for me here and there, I would be happy to answer questions of this calibre whenever you feel the need."
Richard lifts a skeptical eyebrow. "Any question? And more than one at that?" he asks.
"Of this calibre," the young man, tapping the top of the notebook, before smiling lightly, "Some questions would cost you more than this world could ever offer. I wouldn't suggest asking those."
Silence reigns for a moment, Richard remaining utterly still. He reaches forward, touching the notebook, but not opening. His finger hovers over for a second, then retreats. He tips a non-existent hat to the young man. "Mind if I borrow your pen?" he asks.
Rather slowly, the younger man's eyebrow arches back down, almost furrowing. "Would I mind if you borrow my pen?" he returns, before shaking his head. With a delicate grip, he lifts the oddly expensive looking writing device by one end, offering the other to Richard. Richard takes the offered pen, and nods. "I don't think you do, since I'm going to be writing your price." He casually picks up a napkin and writes down a series of numbers. He closes the pen, and hands both back to the man.
"A pleasure doing business with you," the young man replies with a quaint smile, pocketing both the note and pen, before tapping his cup, "Ah, before you depart, would you care for a cup? Just because you didn't come for pleasantries doesn't quite mean we should ignore them, don't you think?"
Richard tilts his head, surprise clear on his features. He raises a hand, beckoning a waitress towards the table. "One cup of whatever's brewing."
She doesn't write it down, only nodding and returning to her work. Richard settles back into his seat and smiles. "I don't see why not."
The young man's smile returns to its prior state as he lifts his cup. He takes a sip, and waits in silence for the waitress to return with Richard's drink.
"I wonder, exactly, how long it is that this relationship of ours will last?" The young man asks innocently.
Richard lets out a rue chuckle "Long enough for both of us to get what we want."
The young man matches his chuckle as Richard raises his cup "Alea iacta est." Richard whispers.
The young man raises his as well, and the two glasses connect.
Finally alone, Oracle lets out a quiet sigh and loosens his tie a little bit. A new cup of coffee sits at the edge of the table, freshly brewed, and all evidence of his compatriots' cup and the notebook gone entirely. After taking all of a moment to relax, he reaches inside his coat and pulls out a notebook similar to the one he'd handed off, if just a little smaller. He opens it with practiced ease, flipping through the pages until he reaches one where the writing seems to stop.
He pulls his pen from his pocket, pulls off the cap, and writes a series of seemingly random letters beside a name. Nodding to himself, he taps the back of the pen to his lips, a thoughtful expression in place.
"Now, who should I focus on next…?" His eyes glaze over for a bit, and it takes a few seconds before the pen lowers, and he writes a name.
Alex Everett
A slight smile plays at his lips.
"What kind of person is he, I wonder?" He pauses, tapping the pen against his chin now.
"What kind of person is he going to be?" The pen stops, resting against the side of his lips.
"And how do I kill him?"
August 19th, 1986
Rain hits the glass windows of the quiet cafe, hushed conversations from what few customers sat huddled inside the only din to be heard. Sitting in a booth, alone from everyone else, sits a young man. Slim fingers twirl what looks to be a rather heavy pen, taking a few moments every now and then to tap it on the notepad in front of him. His other hand taps at a small cup of coffee almost rhythmically, still full to the brim, heat wafting off the top. There's a quiet ding from the front door as a person walks in, closing an umbrella and brushing off what little rain had made it past.
In the booth, the young man's smile creeps up an inch. The person makes his way over to the booth, ignoring the looks from the other patrons and the staff. He sets down his umbrella and a small conductor's baton. "I was told finding you would be the easy part," the man says.
Across from him, the young man just smiles and raises his cup, taking a quiet, but long, sip. "Richard, I presume?" he asks, the expression on his face betraying that he very well knew the answer.
Richard matches the man's smile with his own, bowing his head slightly in answer. "I didn't even wear a name tag," Richard jokes, but both men knew a falsehood when they heard one.
There's a slight chuckle as the young man with oddly colored eyes puts his cup back down, and leans back into the chair behind him. "Perhaps not, but exchanging names and pleasantries isn't why you found me, now is it? Why would somebody like you, want something from somebody like me, I wonder?"
Richard drops his smile, leaning back into his own chair. "I was told that if I wanted to know something, I would need to visit the Seer first. What I need, is something only one such as yourself can provide. If, the rumors are true." Richard slowly turns his gaze, and points to a single patron sitting alone in the cafe. She held a single cup of coffee to her lips, and Richard smiles at the action. "Tell me, if I snap my fingers, how will that person react?" Richard asks in challenge.
"How would that woman react if you were to snap your fingers?" The younger man asks, before raising an eyebrow slightly, "I believe she would fumble around looking for something to dry herself off with."
Richard eyes the man, daring him to change his answer. He waits for a second, then two. Then, he snaps. A single ping, not unlike a bell chime rings throughout the room. Across the cafe, the coffee cup shudders for a moment before shattering. Hot coffee spills all over the unprotected woman. She, as predicted, jumps in her seat and reaches for anything capable of drying the searing hot liquid out of her clothes.
Richard tries to keep the pleased glint out of his eye, but his smile returns full force. He leans in, his posture completely business like if not for the bluntness of his approach. "It seems you might be him him. If you are, I assume you know what I'm going to ask of you?"
Again, the younger man just raises his eyebrow slightly, smile rising up ever so slightly with it. "What you want of me? What you sought me out for? Those are very interesting questions, of course, but I'm a little more interested in something else."He leans forward and opens up the notebook on the table. Even at a glance, it's easy to tell that it's completely full of exactly what Richard wants. Names, times, locations, everything. As if to prove the point, he turns the page, and then to another, and another. Every page is full, full of information. Information that was vital to him. He closes the notebook, puts the pen down beside it, and then steeples his fingers. "I'm very willing to give you what you're asking of me, but first…"
The young man's oddly colored eyes glint in the dreary light. "What is it that you're willing to pay me for this?"
Richard taps his finger on the table, eyeing both the young man and the notebook in front of him. He stops tapping for a moment, then a faint chuckle escapes him. "Well then, I guess you could say that if you gave me what I want, I could give you the city of London in all her glory. But that's not what you would want, is it" He shakes his finger almost hypnotically. "No, you're the kind of guy who wants more immediate pay. To that question, I answer this."
He spreads his arms out wide, an inviting gesture, if it were anyone else. On Richard, it seemed more of an invitation to your own destruction. "Whatever I can give, it is yours. All I need… Well, you already know what I need." he says, gesturing at the notebook.
Across from him, the younger man's smile creeps up into something almost resembling normality. On him, however, it looked more akin to a predator staring down its prey. "That is rather convenient. You see, I was just thinking I needed somebody that owed me a favor. Still, favors are only so valuable as you keep them, yes? So, Richard…" His fingers unclasp, and he pushes the notebook over to the other side of the table."What do you think about keeping in contact? It just so happens that I think our plans seem to coincide on a number of… Important matters. If you promise to do a few things for me here and there, I would be happy to answer questions of this calibre whenever you feel the need."
Richard lifts a skeptical eyebrow. "Any question? And more than one at that?" he asks.
"Of this calibre," the young man, tapping the top of the notebook, before smiling lightly, "Some questions would cost you more than this world could ever offer. I wouldn't suggest asking those."
Silence reigns for a moment, Richard remaining utterly still. He reaches forward, touching the notebook, but not opening. His finger hovers over for a second, then retreats. He tips a non-existent hat to the young man. "Mind if I borrow your pen?" he asks.
Rather slowly, the younger man's eyebrow arches back down, almost furrowing. "Would I mind if you borrow my pen?" he returns, before shaking his head. With a delicate grip, he lifts the oddly expensive looking writing device by one end, offering the other to Richard. Richard takes the offered pen, and nods. "I don't think you do, since I'm going to be writing your price." He casually picks up a napkin and writes down a series of numbers. He closes the pen, and hands both back to the man.
"A pleasure doing business with you," the young man replies with a quaint smile, pocketing both the note and pen, before tapping his cup, "Ah, before you depart, would you care for a cup? Just because you didn't come for pleasantries doesn't quite mean we should ignore them, don't you think?"
Richard tilts his head, surprise clear on his features. He raises a hand, beckoning a waitress towards the table. "One cup of whatever's brewing."
She doesn't write it down, only nodding and returning to her work. Richard settles back into his seat and smiles. "I don't see why not."
The young man's smile returns to its prior state as he lifts his cup. He takes a sip, and waits in silence for the waitress to return with Richard's drink.
"I wonder, exactly, how long it is that this relationship of ours will last?" The young man asks innocently.
Richard lets out a rue chuckle "Long enough for both of us to get what we want."
The young man matches his chuckle as Richard raises his cup "Alea iacta est." Richard whispers.
The young man raises his as well, and the two glasses connect.
Finally alone, Oracle lets out a quiet sigh and loosens his tie a little bit. A new cup of coffee sits at the edge of the table, freshly brewed, and all evidence of his compatriots' cup and the notebook gone entirely. After taking all of a moment to relax, he reaches inside his coat and pulls out a notebook similar to the one he'd handed off, if just a little smaller. He opens it with practiced ease, flipping through the pages until he reaches one where the writing seems to stop.
He pulls his pen from his pocket, pulls off the cap, and writes a series of seemingly random letters beside a name. Nodding to himself, he taps the back of the pen to his lips, a thoughtful expression in place.
"Now, who should I focus on next…?" His eyes glaze over for a bit, and it takes a few seconds before the pen lowers, and he writes a name.
Alex Everett
A slight smile plays at his lips.
"What kind of person is he, I wonder?" He pauses, tapping the pen against his chin now.
"What kind of person is he going to be?" The pen stops, resting against the side of his lips.
"And how do I kill him?"
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Talking to the right people
IKnowNothing
....What?
- Location
- I got lost so.....Where are we?
Quiet streets, quiet night, quiet city. The first time that Rebecca had earned her first stakeout mission with Contessa, it didn't take long for the first lesson to sink in. It's not the mission that's the hard part, it's waiting for it to start that will kill you.
The waiting, sitting around, doing nothing, literally allowing fate to set the scene for you. All the while, you can't do a thing.
It was for a good cause, but that didn't make the waiting any less boring. She knew it would be a long conversation, any family member separated from one another for an extended period of time would make sure to spend an adequate amount of time just to convince themselves that it was actually happening.
Knowing Clint, he probably would ask any number of questions.
It would take an hour, at the very least, for everything to be done.
Which was fine. They would spend the time laughing, crying, being brothers. It's exactly what Alex needed. It would be an interesting conversation, when the two of them got back, but that didn't matter.
He visited, every day. He never stopped. Letting him see his family again sooner than expected was one way she could start paying him back.
So, come what may, this trip was the right choice.
"Cold night, isn't it?"
Rebecca jumps a little in surprise. Not because of the sudden voice cutting through her thoughts, but more because she hadn't heard anyone walk up on her. People didn't get the drop on her, not anymore.
Her hand starts to curl into a fist on reflex, and carefully, she slowly turns towards the owner of the voice. Whatever she was expecting, the man standing aside the bench, one hand in his pocket and an almost mischievous smile in place, wasn't quite it.
"Still, it's rather heartwarming to see someone willing to wait for their boyfriend in such conditions," the man says, violet eyes glinting even despite the dim light, "I would say I'm surprised, but you do seem to give off that kind of warm presence."
Rebecca felt her jaw drop. Her mouth moves, but the only thing that comes out is a gibbering mess of syllables. She forces her jaw shut, and tries to get her thoughts in order as she studies him a little more closely. A nice suit, definitely custom-made, but the way he wore it was just a little too casual for the money it must have cost. There was a very obvious bump in his breast pocket, but it wasn't big enough to be a gun. Even as time starts to drag on, the man's smile doesn't really waver; if anything, it starts to get a little amused.
On the subject of his comment, there was no need to react like that. It was just layover surprise from his ability to sneak past her senses. The comment was made in friendly conversation, nothing more. If anything, the intended effect could have been just the reaction that it could have caused. A bit of a joker perhaps, but hides it behind professionalism and kindness. Not a single hint of malice.
"I will admit, it's not that often that I get to talk to another special one. You're changing the answers about every few seconds, you know?"
Rebecca's second fist curls, who was he? He's smart, observant, but he doesn't want to do anything harmful. His visit, his speech, even his posture point towards curiosity. But, there had to be purpose. His clothes are wrinkled slightly, and unwashed as of two days. His accent is curious; a mixture of Eastern European, American and British English. A traveler, hearing so many different forms of speech he forgot his native tongue. If so, why here? Alex? Her? No, how would he know to meet them here?
She felt a small shiver run down her back. A precog? If so… there was no need to be subtle.
"Precognition is a bit of a strong word for it," the man interrupts her thoughts, still smiling.
"Then what else should I call the facts? No normal man could know I was here, and who I am. But here you are. So, I'll ask this once, why are you here?" she asks.
She made a point to grip the railing of the bench, slowly bending the metal. He taps the tip of his shoe against the pavement, looking somewhat pleased with himself.
"I thought it prudent to make my introductions to the future Alexandria, before she becomes too famous and I'd be forced to make an appointment. I'm afraid I wouldn't do well with your organization, there's far too much red tape."
The metal of the bench screamed. Alexandria, that was going to be her name. A homage to the lost city, its great library of knowledge.
And a reminder, of the first real… friend she had.
She had never told a soul, yet he knew. The evidence of another honest to god precog standing in front of her continued to pile up.
Yet, she had to be sure.
"How do you know that name?"
Violet eyes glint against the dark city backdrop.
"I asked."
"And you just happened to get an answer?"
He nods a little at that, smile shifting down into something that could only be called businesslike.
"Indeed, although I should admit there were more questions to ask to get that name than just one. I learned a lot of things along the way; such as the fact that you're one of the few people in this world willing to stick by what they believe is good. Or the fact that you have a very bright future, alongside the people you care about."
And just like that, his smile curls into something genuine.
"Or the fact that you felt obligated to visit your boyfriend's bed every day even when they told you that you shouldn't. If I wasn't already trying to do what I think is good in this world, that very well may have convinced me that I should."
He's not lying, he's not trying to make any assumptions. He was stating fact, just because he could so that he could see her reaction. It made Rebecca blink. A precog, one good enough to know her inner thoughts, is standing in front of her and all he wants to do is make casual conversation?
That… doesn't make sense.
"Why do you think he's my boyfriend?"
Rebecca felt her face pale, and the need to go to the other end of the bench felt very prevalent at that moment. She… she just asked that. No, it was just a joke for a reaction. Nothing more. He wouldn't think anything of it. For some strange reason, her heart almost sank when he raised up an eyebrow.
"So you aren't dating yet? My mistake, I must have gotten the dates mixed up. Perhaps in a month or two… Definitely a year."
"Wait we will?"
"Well…" the man trails off, smile moving right into a knowing smirk, "Is that the question you want to ask of me? Normally I would charge for this kind of service, but I can think of something much better."
"C-can we change the subject first?"
His eyebrow raises up a little more, her heart sinking with it.
"Well, I suppose we could discuss the payment first, that would likely be the proper way to go about this."
Wait, payment?
"I didn't agree to any service."
Across from her, the man lets out a little 'ah' of disappointment, eyebrow moving down as his eyes close for a brief moment.
"That's quite a shame, considering your payment was just to keep our little rendezvous between us. If not, though, I'm afraid I can't even do something as simple as to give you my name. That would be a question, after all."
Rebecca lets out an "ah" of disappointment of her own, but next to his, it wasn't extreme.
"You know so much about me, a bit rude not to even the scales."
His eyes open, revealing deep violet once more.
"I suppose it would be. Normally I would give my title, but for you… My name is Roland King. It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Costa-Brown. Or would you prefer Miss Costa, now?"
"I would prefer that you stop knowing so much about me," she says, "but precogs can't help what they know, and I can't help wondering why you would want to get to know me before I made a name. You're not the only one I know who plays the long game."
Roland's eyes actually seem to flash, but it must just be a reflection of a streetlight catching at an odd angle.
"I wouldn't say that's quite true; there may be others that play the long game, but I play the longest game."
"I have a friend who would disagree with you."
He slips his other hand into his hip pocket, smile returning to that brief hint of genuineness.
"While that may be so, it can't hurt to have someone else along for the ride, no? We're all passengers on this little ship we call 'life,' and I would be far more interested in seeing us all make it through that trip without hitting something on the way."
Rebecca waited a second, studying every part of Roland that she could. There had to be something, anything that would give any indication of an ulterior motive. But, there's nothing. No twitch, no nervous shuffle. He… truly wants to help.
Just like Alex.
Rather out of the blue, a draft comes down the street. For what's perhaps the first time, the shiver he suddenly has doesn't seem planned in the slightest. While Rebecca blinks in surprise, he sidles forward a bit and takes a seat on the bench, putting her between him and the oncoming wind. Rebecca found herself moving to the side, giving him as much room as needed.
Again, there was no ulterior motive to this. He wanted to sit down, but it wasn't that cold. Low body temperature due to… less than desirable amounts of body fat and muscle. No need to judge, but it did feel weird. Like sitting next to David, except on some level she actually enjoyed this conversation.
"My initial assessment was correct, I think," Roland speaks up, looking far happier now, "You do have quite the warm presence."
"... th-thank you?"
Rebecca tries to move further away, but the bench was only so big. He chuckles quietly to himself, but it's hard to tell if it's at her attempts to escape or what exactly she'd said.
"Really, I should be the one thanking you. Most times everyone is so caught up with who I am that they don't have any real interest in figuring out what I am, so to speak. It's refreshing."
Everyone, multiple subjects and interactions? It would explain the lack of weight on him. Someone so focused on the meeting wouldn't care for the mundane details of everyday life.
"So you just walk up to everyone thinking of making a name for themselves and offer them a deal?"
Next to her, Roland taps a finger to his cheek, as if in thought.
"Sometimes. Sometimes I offer deals to those who weren't interested at all, but had the potential to make great changes to the world."
His smile rises up a bit.
"I've also saved those that otherwise would have fallen to cruel fates. Usually in ways that won't have them feel indebted to me, I should add. Loyalty like that is dangerous, and tends to corrupt. Far better that people make their own choices, I feel."
"You chose to do this, and you didn't do it just for the reward?"
"My reward came at the start of the journey," he replies simply, "I'm taking advantage of that by doing what I feel is right. If that helps others, then all the better."
Pure honesty. Everything pointed to that one conclusion. It was difficult to see, much less believe, but here it was. Rebecca shifted into a more comfortable position on the bench.
"So… your service."
Roland looks over to her, smile curving back into that initial mischievousness from when she'd first seen him.
"My services… Well, to put it simply, you may ask me questions. Questions small, questions large. If it's not something I feel I need to keep to myself for obvious reasons, I'll answer you honestly. Normally I would require a substantial monetary advance just to give that explanation, but I've enjoyed myself enough tonight that I'll waive that. Then there would be an individual price depending on the question…"
His eyes glint yet again.
"But as I said, my cost is only that you keep our little meeting a secret."
After a few moments, he pulls his other hand free from his pocket, and extends it out towards her.
"Do we have a deal?"
No, that would be the sensible answer. Contessa laid direct objectives to follow. Don't reveal Cauldron, its members, or inner workings. Report all unknown variables. A precog is the perfect unknown variable. On the other hand, it was also the perfect advantage. Contessa alone could shift the course of the world. To be in contact with another like her… the risk is great, but calculated so long as she told Contessa the second she returned to base.
In the end, there was only one conclusion that allowed for the greatest potential for success.
"I can't tell anyone?" she asks.
His hand doesn't waver, even with how long it's been hovering there by this point.
"I would add on that you also couldn't write it down on a piece of paper for someone to read, or anything similar, but that would be a little unnecessary a tag-on. As rare as it is for me, I'd like to believe that I can trust you to hold up your end of this arrangement."
She drums her fingers on the bench before taking the offered hand in her own. Just like she practiced, simple, slow, easy motions. Anything more would hurt him.
"Deal," she answers.
The mischievousness in his face depletes into an almost relief as she shakes his hand, and she can't help but note that the way he grips it is strangely easy. As though he knows exactly how to make it easiest on her to use that practiced motion she'd learnt.
Precogs are terrifying.
"I'm glad we could come to a deal," Roland states happily, before dropping her hand from his and actually standing up, "Though I'm afraid we'll have to leave it at that for tonight. I'll be sure to contact you soon, but as your boyfriend is on his way back I wouldn't exactly want to give him the wrong impression, now would I?"
Rebecca's hand freezes in place, and she started saying incoherent syllables again. This time, she managed something intelligible.
"I thought you said it wasn't time yet?"
...not her best response.
Roland gives her a sidelong look and opens his mouth, and then a surprisingly deep expression paints over his features.
"Well, it might never be the time if Alex lets himself get caught up in a sandstorm without protection."
He looks a little perplexed for the briefest of moments before his face smooths back over into a light smile.
"Well, I'm sure things will turn out fine, but be sure to keep it in mind, won't you? The world would be a much better place if your… future boyfriend stayed alive."
"Ahhh….."
The one part of Rebecca's brain in charge of formulating intelligent responses decided enough was enough for the night. So it allowed her jaw to hang open and a single syllable to play itself until she ran out of breath. Roland just gives her one last smirk before slipping both hands into his pockets, taking just one step.
"Ah, for the record? Your boyfriend's here."
And then he starts walking.
The waiting, sitting around, doing nothing, literally allowing fate to set the scene for you. All the while, you can't do a thing.
It was for a good cause, but that didn't make the waiting any less boring. She knew it would be a long conversation, any family member separated from one another for an extended period of time would make sure to spend an adequate amount of time just to convince themselves that it was actually happening.
Knowing Clint, he probably would ask any number of questions.
It would take an hour, at the very least, for everything to be done.
Which was fine. They would spend the time laughing, crying, being brothers. It's exactly what Alex needed. It would be an interesting conversation, when the two of them got back, but that didn't matter.
He visited, every day. He never stopped. Letting him see his family again sooner than expected was one way she could start paying him back.
So, come what may, this trip was the right choice.
"Cold night, isn't it?"
Rebecca jumps a little in surprise. Not because of the sudden voice cutting through her thoughts, but more because she hadn't heard anyone walk up on her. People didn't get the drop on her, not anymore.
Her hand starts to curl into a fist on reflex, and carefully, she slowly turns towards the owner of the voice. Whatever she was expecting, the man standing aside the bench, one hand in his pocket and an almost mischievous smile in place, wasn't quite it.
"Still, it's rather heartwarming to see someone willing to wait for their boyfriend in such conditions," the man says, violet eyes glinting even despite the dim light, "I would say I'm surprised, but you do seem to give off that kind of warm presence."
Rebecca felt her jaw drop. Her mouth moves, but the only thing that comes out is a gibbering mess of syllables. She forces her jaw shut, and tries to get her thoughts in order as she studies him a little more closely. A nice suit, definitely custom-made, but the way he wore it was just a little too casual for the money it must have cost. There was a very obvious bump in his breast pocket, but it wasn't big enough to be a gun. Even as time starts to drag on, the man's smile doesn't really waver; if anything, it starts to get a little amused.
On the subject of his comment, there was no need to react like that. It was just layover surprise from his ability to sneak past her senses. The comment was made in friendly conversation, nothing more. If anything, the intended effect could have been just the reaction that it could have caused. A bit of a joker perhaps, but hides it behind professionalism and kindness. Not a single hint of malice.
"I will admit, it's not that often that I get to talk to another special one. You're changing the answers about every few seconds, you know?"
Rebecca's second fist curls, who was he? He's smart, observant, but he doesn't want to do anything harmful. His visit, his speech, even his posture point towards curiosity. But, there had to be purpose. His clothes are wrinkled slightly, and unwashed as of two days. His accent is curious; a mixture of Eastern European, American and British English. A traveler, hearing so many different forms of speech he forgot his native tongue. If so, why here? Alex? Her? No, how would he know to meet them here?
She felt a small shiver run down her back. A precog? If so… there was no need to be subtle.
"Precognition is a bit of a strong word for it," the man interrupts her thoughts, still smiling.
"Then what else should I call the facts? No normal man could know I was here, and who I am. But here you are. So, I'll ask this once, why are you here?" she asks.
She made a point to grip the railing of the bench, slowly bending the metal. He taps the tip of his shoe against the pavement, looking somewhat pleased with himself.
"I thought it prudent to make my introductions to the future Alexandria, before she becomes too famous and I'd be forced to make an appointment. I'm afraid I wouldn't do well with your organization, there's far too much red tape."
The metal of the bench screamed. Alexandria, that was going to be her name. A homage to the lost city, its great library of knowledge.
And a reminder, of the first real… friend she had.
She had never told a soul, yet he knew. The evidence of another honest to god precog standing in front of her continued to pile up.
Yet, she had to be sure.
"How do you know that name?"
Violet eyes glint against the dark city backdrop.
"I asked."
"And you just happened to get an answer?"
He nods a little at that, smile shifting down into something that could only be called businesslike.
"Indeed, although I should admit there were more questions to ask to get that name than just one. I learned a lot of things along the way; such as the fact that you're one of the few people in this world willing to stick by what they believe is good. Or the fact that you have a very bright future, alongside the people you care about."
And just like that, his smile curls into something genuine.
"Or the fact that you felt obligated to visit your boyfriend's bed every day even when they told you that you shouldn't. If I wasn't already trying to do what I think is good in this world, that very well may have convinced me that I should."
He's not lying, he's not trying to make any assumptions. He was stating fact, just because he could so that he could see her reaction. It made Rebecca blink. A precog, one good enough to know her inner thoughts, is standing in front of her and all he wants to do is make casual conversation?
That… doesn't make sense.
"Why do you think he's my boyfriend?"
Rebecca felt her face pale, and the need to go to the other end of the bench felt very prevalent at that moment. She… she just asked that. No, it was just a joke for a reaction. Nothing more. He wouldn't think anything of it. For some strange reason, her heart almost sank when he raised up an eyebrow.
"So you aren't dating yet? My mistake, I must have gotten the dates mixed up. Perhaps in a month or two… Definitely a year."
"Wait we will?"
"Well…" the man trails off, smile moving right into a knowing smirk, "Is that the question you want to ask of me? Normally I would charge for this kind of service, but I can think of something much better."
"C-can we change the subject first?"
His eyebrow raises up a little more, her heart sinking with it.
"Well, I suppose we could discuss the payment first, that would likely be the proper way to go about this."
Wait, payment?
"I didn't agree to any service."
Across from her, the man lets out a little 'ah' of disappointment, eyebrow moving down as his eyes close for a brief moment.
"That's quite a shame, considering your payment was just to keep our little rendezvous between us. If not, though, I'm afraid I can't even do something as simple as to give you my name. That would be a question, after all."
Rebecca lets out an "ah" of disappointment of her own, but next to his, it wasn't extreme.
"You know so much about me, a bit rude not to even the scales."
His eyes open, revealing deep violet once more.
"I suppose it would be. Normally I would give my title, but for you… My name is Roland King. It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Costa-Brown. Or would you prefer Miss Costa, now?"
"I would prefer that you stop knowing so much about me," she says, "but precogs can't help what they know, and I can't help wondering why you would want to get to know me before I made a name. You're not the only one I know who plays the long game."
Roland's eyes actually seem to flash, but it must just be a reflection of a streetlight catching at an odd angle.
"I wouldn't say that's quite true; there may be others that play the long game, but I play the longest game."
"I have a friend who would disagree with you."
He slips his other hand into his hip pocket, smile returning to that brief hint of genuineness.
"While that may be so, it can't hurt to have someone else along for the ride, no? We're all passengers on this little ship we call 'life,' and I would be far more interested in seeing us all make it through that trip without hitting something on the way."
Rebecca waited a second, studying every part of Roland that she could. There had to be something, anything that would give any indication of an ulterior motive. But, there's nothing. No twitch, no nervous shuffle. He… truly wants to help.
Just like Alex.
Rather out of the blue, a draft comes down the street. For what's perhaps the first time, the shiver he suddenly has doesn't seem planned in the slightest. While Rebecca blinks in surprise, he sidles forward a bit and takes a seat on the bench, putting her between him and the oncoming wind. Rebecca found herself moving to the side, giving him as much room as needed.
Again, there was no ulterior motive to this. He wanted to sit down, but it wasn't that cold. Low body temperature due to… less than desirable amounts of body fat and muscle. No need to judge, but it did feel weird. Like sitting next to David, except on some level she actually enjoyed this conversation.
"My initial assessment was correct, I think," Roland speaks up, looking far happier now, "You do have quite the warm presence."
"... th-thank you?"
Rebecca tries to move further away, but the bench was only so big. He chuckles quietly to himself, but it's hard to tell if it's at her attempts to escape or what exactly she'd said.
"Really, I should be the one thanking you. Most times everyone is so caught up with who I am that they don't have any real interest in figuring out what I am, so to speak. It's refreshing."
Everyone, multiple subjects and interactions? It would explain the lack of weight on him. Someone so focused on the meeting wouldn't care for the mundane details of everyday life.
"So you just walk up to everyone thinking of making a name for themselves and offer them a deal?"
Next to her, Roland taps a finger to his cheek, as if in thought.
"Sometimes. Sometimes I offer deals to those who weren't interested at all, but had the potential to make great changes to the world."
His smile rises up a bit.
"I've also saved those that otherwise would have fallen to cruel fates. Usually in ways that won't have them feel indebted to me, I should add. Loyalty like that is dangerous, and tends to corrupt. Far better that people make their own choices, I feel."
"You chose to do this, and you didn't do it just for the reward?"
"My reward came at the start of the journey," he replies simply, "I'm taking advantage of that by doing what I feel is right. If that helps others, then all the better."
Pure honesty. Everything pointed to that one conclusion. It was difficult to see, much less believe, but here it was. Rebecca shifted into a more comfortable position on the bench.
"So… your service."
Roland looks over to her, smile curving back into that initial mischievousness from when she'd first seen him.
"My services… Well, to put it simply, you may ask me questions. Questions small, questions large. If it's not something I feel I need to keep to myself for obvious reasons, I'll answer you honestly. Normally I would require a substantial monetary advance just to give that explanation, but I've enjoyed myself enough tonight that I'll waive that. Then there would be an individual price depending on the question…"
His eyes glint yet again.
"But as I said, my cost is only that you keep our little meeting a secret."
After a few moments, he pulls his other hand free from his pocket, and extends it out towards her.
"Do we have a deal?"
No, that would be the sensible answer. Contessa laid direct objectives to follow. Don't reveal Cauldron, its members, or inner workings. Report all unknown variables. A precog is the perfect unknown variable. On the other hand, it was also the perfect advantage. Contessa alone could shift the course of the world. To be in contact with another like her… the risk is great, but calculated so long as she told Contessa the second she returned to base.
In the end, there was only one conclusion that allowed for the greatest potential for success.
"I can't tell anyone?" she asks.
His hand doesn't waver, even with how long it's been hovering there by this point.
"I would add on that you also couldn't write it down on a piece of paper for someone to read, or anything similar, but that would be a little unnecessary a tag-on. As rare as it is for me, I'd like to believe that I can trust you to hold up your end of this arrangement."
She drums her fingers on the bench before taking the offered hand in her own. Just like she practiced, simple, slow, easy motions. Anything more would hurt him.
"Deal," she answers.
The mischievousness in his face depletes into an almost relief as she shakes his hand, and she can't help but note that the way he grips it is strangely easy. As though he knows exactly how to make it easiest on her to use that practiced motion she'd learnt.
Precogs are terrifying.
"I'm glad we could come to a deal," Roland states happily, before dropping her hand from his and actually standing up, "Though I'm afraid we'll have to leave it at that for tonight. I'll be sure to contact you soon, but as your boyfriend is on his way back I wouldn't exactly want to give him the wrong impression, now would I?"
Rebecca's hand freezes in place, and she started saying incoherent syllables again. This time, she managed something intelligible.
"I thought you said it wasn't time yet?"
...not her best response.
Roland gives her a sidelong look and opens his mouth, and then a surprisingly deep expression paints over his features.
"Well, it might never be the time if Alex lets himself get caught up in a sandstorm without protection."
He looks a little perplexed for the briefest of moments before his face smooths back over into a light smile.
"Well, I'm sure things will turn out fine, but be sure to keep it in mind, won't you? The world would be a much better place if your… future boyfriend stayed alive."
"Ahhh….."
The one part of Rebecca's brain in charge of formulating intelligent responses decided enough was enough for the night. So it allowed her jaw to hang open and a single syllable to play itself until she ran out of breath. Roland just gives her one last smirk before slipping both hands into his pockets, taking just one step.
"Ah, for the record? Your boyfriend's here."
And then he starts walking.
Taking a different style than the main story. Fits better for this character I feel
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Steps on a Path
IKnowNothing
....What?
- Location
- I got lost so.....Where are we?
Interlude: Fortuna
May 6th, 1983
Cauldron
It's honestly disappointing, looking at them all. Every single one of them sitting in their vials.
All those agents.
So many paths, all leading to salvation.
All of them to stop the cycle that would ravage the world. The visions that would haunt her dreams, if she could have those anymore.
It took an entire year, an entire year of working, studying, and following the path to the letter. But finally, they were completed.
Wait.
There was no clock, but Fortuna counted the seconds. Everything was still as they ticked by. As the fourteen second mark drew near, the handle of the door started to open. Fifteen seconds, the hinges started to creek. Sixteen, begin to enter the room. Sixteen point five, finish action.
"Are they finished?" Doctor Mother asked.
Answer.
"The first set, yes, but the remainder will require more time." Fortuna answered.
She took a vial, holding it against the light for Doctor Mother to see. The light passes through, sending sparkles showing across the laboratory floor. "But this, and others, are ready."
A flick of her hand, and the vial was waiting in the palm of Fortuna's hand. The good doctor didn't take it, only looking over it and the girl holding it.
"Can they fail?" Doctor Mother asked.
Answer.
Fortuna nodded.
"There is a possibility that the agents will manifest."
Doctor Mother considered this for the briefest of moments. "Then find recipients, willing or unwilling."
Fortuna nodded, and the paths opened up.
Secure.
She placed the vial back into it's station, closing the case and clicking the locks into place.
Step back.
Leave.
June 2nd, 1984
Denver Colorado
As far as hospitals went, it wasn't the worst. The nurses were kind, their paths free of harm to themselves or their patients. That could be changed, but that wasn't why Fortuna was there. The first path, all of the steps lead to this hospital, at this time, and this room. Special care unit 108, the furthest from the welcoming lobby, but the closest to the emergency surgery rooms.
The door creaks open, and Fortuna stepped inside to find the sorry state of the first agent. His eyes were burned forever shut, his skin little more than bruised parchment paper. His hospital gown barely was hanging on as his chest slowly rose and fell. The sight of him made Fortuna grip the edge of the doorframe.
But that made her stay there for another two seconds, putting her behind the projected path. Despite that delay, the path simply reacted as it always did.
Move.
Fortuna's shoes clicked against the floor as she approached. The boy in the bed did nothing as she did, and he wouldn't, not until the next step.
Tap once.
Slowly, she raised a gloved hand and touched the base of his forearm. The effect was instant. The appendage twitched, before furiously tapping against the edge of his arm rest. The pattern goes on for several seconds before repeating.
Understand.
-. ..- .-. ... . --..-- / .. ... / - .... .- - / -.-- --- ..- ..--..
Nurse, is that you?
Respond
Fortuna raised a finger, and slowly tapped out the rhythm on his hand as lightly as she could.
-. ---
No.
The boy shivered in his bed, his heart monitor beeping ever faster as he tapped on her finger.
- .... . -. / .-- .... --- / .- .-. . / -.-- --- ..- ..--..
Then, who are you?
Respond.
... --- -- . --- -. . / .-- .... --- / .-- .- -. - ... / - --- / .... . .-.. .--. / -.-- --- ..- .-.-.-
Someone who wants to help you.
May 28th, 1985
Confluence Park, Denver.
Walk.
The park was busy this time of day, students rushing to their classes and families wanting to get a single moment of togetherness.
Stop.
Fortuna stopped, narrowly avoiding a bike speeding past her. At least, when he passed, the target finally showed himself. For a given value of showing of course.
Dozens of people passed by him every second, but he was alone on the bridge. His wheelchair was locked in place, by his own volition as he watched the river below. His blonde hair was trying and failing to grow out. His arms were little more than sticks with pale skin covering them.
A pile of rocks sat in his lap. Lazily, he took one and weakly threw it over the edge. It skipped once across the water's surface, then it landed with a thump, disappearing under the river's surface. It was barely ten feet, but the boy smiled at the small accomplishment.
Attract.
Fortuna glanced down, and picked up the smallest stone within reach. She tossed it once, testing the weight, all the while keeping the boy in sight. He took hold of another stone, and readied his arm.
Throw.
With a flick of her wrist, Fortuna sent the stone spiraling to the waters down below. The boy freezes, his motion stopping dead as he watches the stone skips once, twice, thrice, then a fourth time before going into the water. He turned as quickly as his body would allow. The second his eyes landed on Fortuna, a comical whistle sprung out.
Smile.
The smile felt fake, every inch of it the product of the path. But, Fortuna couldn't say no. Even if she wanted to.
Step forward, explain.
"You don't need to throw it harder," she explains "You just have to get a spin on it so it always lands on the flat side."
Approach.
She took another few steps, landing at the boys right. Fortuna leaned against the railing, getting comfortable on the metal as well as she could. As she moved, the boy didn't even blink. If she were any other woman, she might have taken offence to the small amount of drool about to make it's way down his lip.
At least all those steps to give herself a makeover had a worthwhile effect.
Contact.
She raised a hand, breaking the boy out of his stupor. She kept up her smile, to the point that it started to hurt "Fortuna."
The boy blinks and flushes red as he takes hold of the offered hand "C-Charles."
Repond.
"Nice to meet you Charles, you here alone? I see the wheelchair, and I have a bad-"
Stop speaking.
Charles threw up a shaking hand, cutting Fortuna off "No no it's fi-" He coughs, a sick, cracking sound coming from his throat. His skin paled as Fortuna watched him pull back his hand, a small puddle of blood in his hand.
React.
Fortuna's eyes shot open. She put a hand on his back, supporting him as best she could.
"Oh my god are you going to be-"
Stop.
"No no I'm fine!" Charles yelled defiantly.
Respond.
"You don't look fine," Fortuna points out. "Do you need to see a doctor?"
Her comment seemed to spark a chuckle in Charles. He kept a hand close by, but he smiled effortlessly, without a care in the world.
"Yeah, I've seen all of them, and I've ended up with three. But I got to say, the medicine they put me on really isn't doing the job if it's making me screw up talking with someone like you."
Question.
"Someone like me?"
Charles smiled.
"Most nines usually give me one look and go on their merry way. Honestly I'm surprised I'm lasting this long next to you. My heart's racing. I think I'm going to have another attack."
Chide.
"I guess I should be going then, that would be better for you, right?" She asked, the sound almost innocent in a way.
Charles' smile flickered, but it didn't fade. He didn't want it to fade, so it stayed despite the reaction.
"I-I… yeah. I guess you can." Charles said, defeated.
He perked up a moment later.
"I don't suppose I could get your number after all of this right?"
Respond.
Fortuna shook her head, and the downcast look that hits Charles is almost painful to see.
Almost.
"But you can have this," she said.
She reached into her breast pocket, and pulled a single laminated card. She passed it along, and Charles took hold with shaking fingers. She watched him read the fine print, and slowly, the confusion settled in.
"I thought you said I wouldn't get your number?" He joked.
Explain.
"You didn't, this is the number of the Doctor that you haven't tried yet." Fortuna said.
Charles rolls his eyes "Yeah, ok, what does this doc specialize in?"
"Curing the impossible."
Charles leaned back in his chair. A second passed, then two, finally he broke out into laughter.
"Am I being punked?"
Redirect.
"Think what you might, but some of us nines actually take a longer look than you might think," Fortuna said.
She kicked off the railing and made steps toward the other end of the bridge "You can blow it off, but you're not the first to be cured. We want to help people, and you're someone worth helping."
Charles blinked.
"...You think so?"
Step back, respond.
"I know so," she smiled.
It felt… better than the other did.
"Give us a call, and I guarantee that you'll get the help you need."
Step back.
She takes another step, and in the corner of her eye Fortuna sees the gears spinning in his head. Charles looked at the card, then to Fortuna, then he shook his head "Will it be dangerous?"
Lie.
She shook her head.
"No."
Charles nods, and rubs his chin. He teeth grit, and he lets out a broken sigh.
"I'll…. think about it." He said.
Respond.
"I look forward to hearing from you Charles." Fortuna said.
Go forward, don't stop.
Obeying the path, she avoided several bikers, and even more onlookers. Never once did the path allow her to turn to look. To confirm, to make sure that he wasn't coughing again.
"Is it dangerous?"
That's what he asked.
She lied, she said it was going to be fine. But that wasn't the case. No matter what happened, the poor boy was going to hate her in the end.
And the path didn't stop that feeling from creeping in.
June 1st, 1985
Cauldron
For the first time since the path opened itself to her, Fortuna felt an emotion truly overwhelm her.
That emotion...
This disgust at the pitiful sight in front of her.
This was the path that was going to lead to salvation? What kind of sick joke was that? Out of the dozens of chosen, only two had been true successes.The others… were not as fortunate. Her agent was toying with her, it had to be to let something like this happen.
The boy, if you could even call it was a boy anymore, was reaching out a malformed limb towards them. His flesh was bubbling and popping, swelling in different areas before returning to a liquidy puss. She could barely make out the joints, and the only thing indicating it's face was it's eyes. Manton had the decency to visible hold back the bile building in his throat. Doctor mother had no such kindness.
"Another failure?" Doctor Mother asked.
"Obviously," came Manton's curt reply. "The subject was suspected to gain a form of combustion control. Clearly this was not the case. My mixture must have been off in some calculation. At least, the amount of agent used was minimal. The total loss is minimal, with roughly 92% of the original source still operable."
As they talked the boy clawed at his cage, drops of water streaming down what remained of his face.
She didn't need a step to understanding this. Fortuna reached behind her to where her glock was waiting.
Aim, fire.
Two snaps cracked the air in the small room, and the boy stopped clawing at his cage. Neither Manton or Doctor Mother flinched, despite being so close to the sound. Ignoring whatever facial expressions the two of them were making, Fortuna holstered her glock and stared unnervingly still at the two of them.
Explain.
"The path demanded a more convenient state for transport."
Doctor Mother seemed to refused the statement before raising a questioning brow.
"Were no beneficial paths open that insured its survival?"
Fortuna shook her head "The subject would achieve the bare minimum level of competence required. Overall, his effect would have been insignificant at best, utterly ignorable at worst. His agent was leaving him, no hope of salvage." she replied.
Maton raised a curious eyebrow, but Doctor Mother simply nodded.
"Very well, dispose of the remains." she ordered.
With that, she walked through the lone door, leaving the two remaining heads of Cauldron alone. Manton cleared his throat, shifting through papers as Fortuna opened the cage. The corpse squelched as the bars pushed it back, breaking through the fragile bones and tissue.
Call, wait.
Fortuna reached up and clicked the receiver in her ear.
"Door me."
Space flashed in front of her, the door tearing itself into existence right under the corpse. It opens, and the smell of the sea filled the room. Fortuna watches without reaction as the corpse slips into the door, sails into the air, and crashing into the sea below. The crack as he hits the water is just as powerful if he had hit concrete. What little remained of his corpse became little more than paste, quickly dissolving and falling apart in the salty waters.
"I find it hard to believe that a power that sees all and knows all has no use for a malfunctioning project." Manton wondered aloud.
Question.
Fortuna looked back to Manton.
"Is there something you wish to comment on, Doctor Manton?"
The good doctor simply shrugged.
"Nothing that your path won't simply find a justification for."
He pushed up his glasses and glances behind at the sea through the door.
"But if I were to make a comment, I would say that simply allowing the subject to live could prove whether our hypothesis was correct. That would have been the more prudent action. Additionally, out of the twenty three failed experiments, this is the only situation that you decided required immediate... 'relief'."
Elaborate.
"What makes you think it was relief for the subject?"
"Given your actions, I would say that the relief was for you, not the subject," Manton clarified.
Indifference.
Fortuna went still. A marble statue would have shown more emotion. Manton picked a file off the table, leafing through the papers as he headed out of the room.
"Despite your path, some people just can't do this line of work. No matter how the agent affects their mental state."
Fortuna felt her hand twitch, a singular emotion straying ever so slightly from the path. She saw Manton shift his gaze, and she followed it to the offending appendage.
A small, disappointed frown crossed Manton's face as he finally opened the door and steps out.
"But, strategy is not my area of expertise. Forgive me if I have overstepped my station, Deputy Director."
The door clicked shut, leaving Fortuna alone.
She lifted up a hand and the path allowed it.
Fortuna had been running off the path for years now, but… it hadn't been as perfect as it could. Deep down, the little girl from the village was still trying to change things for the better. For everyone.
It was admirable, but that wouldn't do if she wanted to complete the path. A single second of disparity would cost time. Time was something this world didn't have, not when the Warrior remained in hiding.
Efficacy beyond the path was required. Cut out the loose ends, and become perfect.
Reevaluate.
The mission was absolute. If she didn't complete the path, everyone, on every earth would suffer.
Leave one, save a hundred, that's what she was doing right?
No, that's what the path was doing. Fortuna on the other hand, she was adding to many extra steps. Steps that she wanted, but didn't need.
Discard.
Personal attachment to any of the subjects would result in additional steps.
Additional steps required time.
Time wasn't a luxury that she had.
She had to save the world… no matter what she had to lose.
Something needed to be disposed. Utter removal of the offending affliction.
Understand.
No. It wasn't simply one thing that needed to be removed, it all had to go.
The useless experience.
The attachment.
The innocence.
It all needed to go.
Only information, and experience could remain.
Anything less would insult the woman that cared for that little girl in the village. She wouldn't want her daughter to do these things. Commit these atrocities, and say that it was all for the sake of humanity. She wouldn't want her to use her name.
If anyone else could, she would let them do it, keep that name pure and good.
But there was no one else.
Only her.
A smile of farewell came to that little girl as she closed her eyes, and followed the path one last time.
Remake.
Her eye swelled, a tear making its way down as they left her.
The feeling of cold, the impatience, the dependency, the dream, the name.
The hope.
The fear.
The weakness.
It all and more left her, leaving something else behind.
Continue.
The Deputy Director of Cauldron flexed her hand. She watched the digits move, and for every muscle that moved, a million more paths appeared. They came effortlessly, ignoring all but the most essential steps.
Because anything less was no longer needed. Because while Fortuna required step by step instructions to reach the outcome she wished...
Contessa had already completed the mission.
August 15th, 1986
Cauldron
Remote.
She watched silently in the corner as the newest sucess walked through the marble halls of their base. It took over a year of preparation, even with the path setting everything up. Hundreds of possible candidates ignored, thousands of potential clients either ignored or dealt with. He, and he alone was the exception to whatever rule the path had set up.
Every path put her here, and none of them had her moving. Only observing, warning Doctor Mother if needed. But going by the wide grin on the client's gray features, everything was operating perfectly.
"So… " the client, Nicholas says, "I'm supposed to… what exactly?"
"Simply use your newfound gifts however you see fit," Doctor Mother started "but remember the consequences of your actions-."
"They affect you too? You wound me Doctor. Why would a client sully the reputation of his supplier?" Nicholas asked.
Doctor Mother simply scribbles a note on her clipboard as Nicholas' eyes darted around, finally landing on Contessa.
Still.
Every muscle in her body went rigid, she couldn't even move her eyes if she wanted to. By all appearances, she didn't have any defining features. Just a woman in a suit, a bodyguard, anyone would dismiss her as a member of the organization and continue speaking to Doctor Mother about their purchase.
That's how it went with last two clients, and it would happen with this one as well.
"Nevertheless, your newfound abilities would attract a certain kind of attention," Doctor Mother continued. "Unless you want to be removed, I would suggest a low profile if you can manage it."
Nickolas stopped in his tracks and smiles ruefully at the doctor "Removed? Oh, I like the sound of that."
"I doubt that." Doctor Mother states.
"Oh, not the removal part," Nickolas clarified "I mean everything that'll come before that."
He reached out a hand and spat onto the back of his own palm. The saliva landed on his skin, then it flickered. It was like watching a tape flashing into static. The water mark was there, it flickers for a second, then it wasn't there anymore. The only thing that remained on his hand, was a small grey blob, like a malformed birthmark. Contessa found it rather unsightly, but Nickolas stared at it like he was looking at pure gold.
"If it happens, it'll be a fun chase. But I'm sure it will never come to that. Because of course, you'll definitely stop me." Nicholas smirked.
"If that's all, you can be transported anywhere you wish," Doctor Mother stated blankly.
Nickolas' smirk flickered, turning into a shade of annoyance, but he kept it on his face.
"New York, if you can manage it."
Doctor Mother nodded and glanced at Contessa.
Follow.
She felt the soft click of the receiver in her ear as she said the order.
"Door me."
In front of the doctor and Nicholas, the door shimmered into existence. She couldn't see it, but on the other side there would be a side alleyway, and the bustling streets of the great city wouldn't be too far away. Envy ripples across Nicholas as he eyes the door. He gave Doctor Mother a half bow that was deliberately incomplete. As he walked towards the door, his eyes darted back to Contessa.
She didn't move, the path wouldn't allow her. But that didn't stop Nicholas from pointing. "You're going to be fun to play with, I just know it."
He all but skipped through and the door closed behind him. Finally, the path loosened her muscles allowing her to look at Doctor Mother. The head looked almost wary, but she hid it well as she always did.
"Keep an eye on him," She ordered "A very, very, close eye."
Contessa didn't move, but the order was given. She watched Doctor Mother leave, and let the path guide her once more.
Step away.
Locate Charles
Convince him
August 20th, 1986
Los Angeles
The door creaked open and Doctor Mother stepped out. She didn't even bat an eye as the boy behind her thrashed in his bed, as the agent forced itself through him. The head of cauldron glanced at Contessa, her waiting enforcer.
"There will be no more pure agent failures brought back. A single shot, no more."
Contessa nodded and the good doctor moved down the hallway where the second recipient waited. As soon as she was gone contessa cracked the door open and stepped inside. The boy, the one who took Intensity, slowly stopped his thrashing. The tears were fresh, and his cancer ridden body twitched from the sudden invasion. Like all the others he was in pain, but he wouldn't feel it. It would drive him insane, otherwise.
With practiced hands, the quiet sound of a bullet slid into the chamber of a waiting glock.
If it was any conciliation, the feeling would not last long.
Wait. Prepare.
Contessa took the two steps required to get over to the bed. With a single hand she gently moved his head back onto the pillow, ensuring his head was protected form what comes next..
Then, she pressed the glock against his forehead. His power would attempt to save him, blocking the sound, but accomplishing nothing else.
Wait.
Contessa became a statue as the seconds clicked on. Her finger rested on the trigger, and the barrel held down his head.
She had read his file just like all others who the path demanded received the vials. This boy... he had weeks, not months. His daily walks to enjoy the company of his partner in damnation left his muscles overworked and susceptible to his illness. Within two weeks, he would have lost the ability to walk. Within three, he wouldn't be able to do much as move his hand. Within four, he would be nothing more than a name on a list.
Kindness would kill him, which made him the perfect subject. Even if he does fail, at least a potter couldn't have asked for better clay.
Secure.
Still keeping her finger firmly on the trigger, Contessa held onto the frame of the bed with her free hand while she snaked her foot around the bed post.
The second she was secure, all hell broke loose.
His eyes shot open, golden light seeping out. His back arched in an unnatural angle, his mouth moving to scream but no sound came out. The room shook as the golden light enveloped everything that wasn't held down. The monitor, the visitor chairs, even him and Contessa. The golden glow spread across his body, enveloping his feet, his hands, his chest and stomach. Soon, every vital area in his body was glowing with power.
His feet slowly moved up, ignoring the lack of muscle and the forces of gravity that should have kept them down. But despite what logic dictated should have happened, his feet were followed closely by the rest of his legs. The rest of his body would have followed suit, but Contessa forced the muzzle of her glock on his forehead. But one hand wasn't enough.
Force.
Abandoning her first restraint, Contessa put her entire weight into the glock as the bed shuddered. She felt the entire thing lift into the air, despite anything that she did.
Then, the light went out, and everything came crashing down. The edges of the bed dug into the hospital floor, and the boy innocently bounced on the mattress as if nothing was wrong. Contessa felt her heart race for a second, then it snapped back into reality. Silence reigned, and for the longest time, nothing appeared.
Notice.
A second later, the heart monitor beeped.
Contessa blinked, actual surprise making it's way through for the first time in years. She checked the tools. Heart rate normal, breathing normal, no anomalies.
Contessa holstered her glock and stared down at the boy. The light was gone, but as she watched, the color began to return to his skin.
For the barest moments, she and the path smiled.
A success.
Prepare Warden.
May 6th, 1983
Cauldron
It's honestly disappointing, looking at them all. Every single one of them sitting in their vials.
All those agents.
So many paths, all leading to salvation.
All of them to stop the cycle that would ravage the world. The visions that would haunt her dreams, if she could have those anymore.
It took an entire year, an entire year of working, studying, and following the path to the letter. But finally, they were completed.
Wait.
There was no clock, but Fortuna counted the seconds. Everything was still as they ticked by. As the fourteen second mark drew near, the handle of the door started to open. Fifteen seconds, the hinges started to creek. Sixteen, begin to enter the room. Sixteen point five, finish action.
"Are they finished?" Doctor Mother asked.
Answer.
"The first set, yes, but the remainder will require more time." Fortuna answered.
She took a vial, holding it against the light for Doctor Mother to see. The light passes through, sending sparkles showing across the laboratory floor. "But this, and others, are ready."
A flick of her hand, and the vial was waiting in the palm of Fortuna's hand. The good doctor didn't take it, only looking over it and the girl holding it.
"Can they fail?" Doctor Mother asked.
Answer.
Fortuna nodded.
"There is a possibility that the agents will manifest."
Doctor Mother considered this for the briefest of moments. "Then find recipients, willing or unwilling."
Fortuna nodded, and the paths opened up.
Secure.
She placed the vial back into it's station, closing the case and clicking the locks into place.
Step back.
Leave.
June 2nd, 1984
Denver Colorado
As far as hospitals went, it wasn't the worst. The nurses were kind, their paths free of harm to themselves or their patients. That could be changed, but that wasn't why Fortuna was there. The first path, all of the steps lead to this hospital, at this time, and this room. Special care unit 108, the furthest from the welcoming lobby, but the closest to the emergency surgery rooms.
The door creaks open, and Fortuna stepped inside to find the sorry state of the first agent. His eyes were burned forever shut, his skin little more than bruised parchment paper. His hospital gown barely was hanging on as his chest slowly rose and fell. The sight of him made Fortuna grip the edge of the doorframe.
But that made her stay there for another two seconds, putting her behind the projected path. Despite that delay, the path simply reacted as it always did.
Move.
Fortuna's shoes clicked against the floor as she approached. The boy in the bed did nothing as she did, and he wouldn't, not until the next step.
Tap once.
Slowly, she raised a gloved hand and touched the base of his forearm. The effect was instant. The appendage twitched, before furiously tapping against the edge of his arm rest. The pattern goes on for several seconds before repeating.
Understand.
-. ..- .-. ... . --..-- / .. ... / - .... .- - / -.-- --- ..- ..--..
Nurse, is that you?
Respond
Fortuna raised a finger, and slowly tapped out the rhythm on his hand as lightly as she could.
-. ---
No.
The boy shivered in his bed, his heart monitor beeping ever faster as he tapped on her finger.
- .... . -. / .-- .... --- / .- .-. . / -.-- --- ..- ..--..
Then, who are you?
Respond.
... --- -- . --- -. . / .-- .... --- / .-- .- -. - ... / - --- / .... . .-.. .--. / -.-- --- ..- .-.-.-
Someone who wants to help you.
May 28th, 1985
Confluence Park, Denver.
Walk.
The park was busy this time of day, students rushing to their classes and families wanting to get a single moment of togetherness.
Stop.
Fortuna stopped, narrowly avoiding a bike speeding past her. At least, when he passed, the target finally showed himself. For a given value of showing of course.
Dozens of people passed by him every second, but he was alone on the bridge. His wheelchair was locked in place, by his own volition as he watched the river below. His blonde hair was trying and failing to grow out. His arms were little more than sticks with pale skin covering them.
A pile of rocks sat in his lap. Lazily, he took one and weakly threw it over the edge. It skipped once across the water's surface, then it landed with a thump, disappearing under the river's surface. It was barely ten feet, but the boy smiled at the small accomplishment.
Attract.
Fortuna glanced down, and picked up the smallest stone within reach. She tossed it once, testing the weight, all the while keeping the boy in sight. He took hold of another stone, and readied his arm.
Throw.
With a flick of her wrist, Fortuna sent the stone spiraling to the waters down below. The boy freezes, his motion stopping dead as he watches the stone skips once, twice, thrice, then a fourth time before going into the water. He turned as quickly as his body would allow. The second his eyes landed on Fortuna, a comical whistle sprung out.
Smile.
The smile felt fake, every inch of it the product of the path. But, Fortuna couldn't say no. Even if she wanted to.
Step forward, explain.
"You don't need to throw it harder," she explains "You just have to get a spin on it so it always lands on the flat side."
Approach.
She took another few steps, landing at the boys right. Fortuna leaned against the railing, getting comfortable on the metal as well as she could. As she moved, the boy didn't even blink. If she were any other woman, she might have taken offence to the small amount of drool about to make it's way down his lip.
At least all those steps to give herself a makeover had a worthwhile effect.
Contact.
She raised a hand, breaking the boy out of his stupor. She kept up her smile, to the point that it started to hurt "Fortuna."
The boy blinks and flushes red as he takes hold of the offered hand "C-Charles."
Repond.
"Nice to meet you Charles, you here alone? I see the wheelchair, and I have a bad-"
Stop speaking.
Charles threw up a shaking hand, cutting Fortuna off "No no it's fi-" He coughs, a sick, cracking sound coming from his throat. His skin paled as Fortuna watched him pull back his hand, a small puddle of blood in his hand.
React.
Fortuna's eyes shot open. She put a hand on his back, supporting him as best she could.
"Oh my god are you going to be-"
Stop.
"No no I'm fine!" Charles yelled defiantly.
Respond.
"You don't look fine," Fortuna points out. "Do you need to see a doctor?"
Her comment seemed to spark a chuckle in Charles. He kept a hand close by, but he smiled effortlessly, without a care in the world.
"Yeah, I've seen all of them, and I've ended up with three. But I got to say, the medicine they put me on really isn't doing the job if it's making me screw up talking with someone like you."
Question.
"Someone like me?"
Charles smiled.
"Most nines usually give me one look and go on their merry way. Honestly I'm surprised I'm lasting this long next to you. My heart's racing. I think I'm going to have another attack."
Chide.
"I guess I should be going then, that would be better for you, right?" She asked, the sound almost innocent in a way.
Charles' smile flickered, but it didn't fade. He didn't want it to fade, so it stayed despite the reaction.
"I-I… yeah. I guess you can." Charles said, defeated.
He perked up a moment later.
"I don't suppose I could get your number after all of this right?"
Respond.
Fortuna shook her head, and the downcast look that hits Charles is almost painful to see.
Almost.
"But you can have this," she said.
She reached into her breast pocket, and pulled a single laminated card. She passed it along, and Charles took hold with shaking fingers. She watched him read the fine print, and slowly, the confusion settled in.
"I thought you said I wouldn't get your number?" He joked.
Explain.
"You didn't, this is the number of the Doctor that you haven't tried yet." Fortuna said.
Charles rolls his eyes "Yeah, ok, what does this doc specialize in?"
"Curing the impossible."
Charles leaned back in his chair. A second passed, then two, finally he broke out into laughter.
"Am I being punked?"
Redirect.
"Think what you might, but some of us nines actually take a longer look than you might think," Fortuna said.
She kicked off the railing and made steps toward the other end of the bridge "You can blow it off, but you're not the first to be cured. We want to help people, and you're someone worth helping."
Charles blinked.
"...You think so?"
Step back, respond.
"I know so," she smiled.
It felt… better than the other did.
"Give us a call, and I guarantee that you'll get the help you need."
Step back.
She takes another step, and in the corner of her eye Fortuna sees the gears spinning in his head. Charles looked at the card, then to Fortuna, then he shook his head "Will it be dangerous?"
Lie.
She shook her head.
"No."
Charles nods, and rubs his chin. He teeth grit, and he lets out a broken sigh.
"I'll…. think about it." He said.
Respond.
"I look forward to hearing from you Charles." Fortuna said.
Go forward, don't stop.
Obeying the path, she avoided several bikers, and even more onlookers. Never once did the path allow her to turn to look. To confirm, to make sure that he wasn't coughing again.
"Is it dangerous?"
That's what he asked.
She lied, she said it was going to be fine. But that wasn't the case. No matter what happened, the poor boy was going to hate her in the end.
And the path didn't stop that feeling from creeping in.
June 1st, 1985
Cauldron
For the first time since the path opened itself to her, Fortuna felt an emotion truly overwhelm her.
That emotion...
This disgust at the pitiful sight in front of her.
This was the path that was going to lead to salvation? What kind of sick joke was that? Out of the dozens of chosen, only two had been true successes.The others… were not as fortunate. Her agent was toying with her, it had to be to let something like this happen.
The boy, if you could even call it was a boy anymore, was reaching out a malformed limb towards them. His flesh was bubbling and popping, swelling in different areas before returning to a liquidy puss. She could barely make out the joints, and the only thing indicating it's face was it's eyes. Manton had the decency to visible hold back the bile building in his throat. Doctor mother had no such kindness.
"Another failure?" Doctor Mother asked.
"Obviously," came Manton's curt reply. "The subject was suspected to gain a form of combustion control. Clearly this was not the case. My mixture must have been off in some calculation. At least, the amount of agent used was minimal. The total loss is minimal, with roughly 92% of the original source still operable."
As they talked the boy clawed at his cage, drops of water streaming down what remained of his face.
She didn't need a step to understanding this. Fortuna reached behind her to where her glock was waiting.
Aim, fire.
Two snaps cracked the air in the small room, and the boy stopped clawing at his cage. Neither Manton or Doctor Mother flinched, despite being so close to the sound. Ignoring whatever facial expressions the two of them were making, Fortuna holstered her glock and stared unnervingly still at the two of them.
Explain.
"The path demanded a more convenient state for transport."
Doctor Mother seemed to refused the statement before raising a questioning brow.
"Were no beneficial paths open that insured its survival?"
Fortuna shook her head "The subject would achieve the bare minimum level of competence required. Overall, his effect would have been insignificant at best, utterly ignorable at worst. His agent was leaving him, no hope of salvage." she replied.
Maton raised a curious eyebrow, but Doctor Mother simply nodded.
"Very well, dispose of the remains." she ordered.
With that, she walked through the lone door, leaving the two remaining heads of Cauldron alone. Manton cleared his throat, shifting through papers as Fortuna opened the cage. The corpse squelched as the bars pushed it back, breaking through the fragile bones and tissue.
Call, wait.
Fortuna reached up and clicked the receiver in her ear.
"Door me."
Space flashed in front of her, the door tearing itself into existence right under the corpse. It opens, and the smell of the sea filled the room. Fortuna watches without reaction as the corpse slips into the door, sails into the air, and crashing into the sea below. The crack as he hits the water is just as powerful if he had hit concrete. What little remained of his corpse became little more than paste, quickly dissolving and falling apart in the salty waters.
"I find it hard to believe that a power that sees all and knows all has no use for a malfunctioning project." Manton wondered aloud.
Question.
Fortuna looked back to Manton.
"Is there something you wish to comment on, Doctor Manton?"
The good doctor simply shrugged.
"Nothing that your path won't simply find a justification for."
He pushed up his glasses and glances behind at the sea through the door.
"But if I were to make a comment, I would say that simply allowing the subject to live could prove whether our hypothesis was correct. That would have been the more prudent action. Additionally, out of the twenty three failed experiments, this is the only situation that you decided required immediate... 'relief'."
Elaborate.
"What makes you think it was relief for the subject?"
"Given your actions, I would say that the relief was for you, not the subject," Manton clarified.
Indifference.
Fortuna went still. A marble statue would have shown more emotion. Manton picked a file off the table, leafing through the papers as he headed out of the room.
"Despite your path, some people just can't do this line of work. No matter how the agent affects their mental state."
Fortuna felt her hand twitch, a singular emotion straying ever so slightly from the path. She saw Manton shift his gaze, and she followed it to the offending appendage.
A small, disappointed frown crossed Manton's face as he finally opened the door and steps out.
"But, strategy is not my area of expertise. Forgive me if I have overstepped my station, Deputy Director."
The door clicked shut, leaving Fortuna alone.
She lifted up a hand and the path allowed it.
Fortuna had been running off the path for years now, but… it hadn't been as perfect as it could. Deep down, the little girl from the village was still trying to change things for the better. For everyone.
It was admirable, but that wouldn't do if she wanted to complete the path. A single second of disparity would cost time. Time was something this world didn't have, not when the Warrior remained in hiding.
Efficacy beyond the path was required. Cut out the loose ends, and become perfect.
Reevaluate.
The mission was absolute. If she didn't complete the path, everyone, on every earth would suffer.
Leave one, save a hundred, that's what she was doing right?
No, that's what the path was doing. Fortuna on the other hand, she was adding to many extra steps. Steps that she wanted, but didn't need.
Discard.
Personal attachment to any of the subjects would result in additional steps.
Additional steps required time.
Time wasn't a luxury that she had.
She had to save the world… no matter what she had to lose.
Something needed to be disposed. Utter removal of the offending affliction.
Understand.
No. It wasn't simply one thing that needed to be removed, it all had to go.
The useless experience.
The attachment.
The innocence.
It all needed to go.
Only information, and experience could remain.
Anything less would insult the woman that cared for that little girl in the village. She wouldn't want her daughter to do these things. Commit these atrocities, and say that it was all for the sake of humanity. She wouldn't want her to use her name.
If anyone else could, she would let them do it, keep that name pure and good.
But there was no one else.
Only her.
A smile of farewell came to that little girl as she closed her eyes, and followed the path one last time.
Remake.
Her eye swelled, a tear making its way down as they left her.
The feeling of cold, the impatience, the dependency, the dream, the name.
The hope.
The fear.
The weakness.
It all and more left her, leaving something else behind.
Continue.
The Deputy Director of Cauldron flexed her hand. She watched the digits move, and for every muscle that moved, a million more paths appeared. They came effortlessly, ignoring all but the most essential steps.
Because anything less was no longer needed. Because while Fortuna required step by step instructions to reach the outcome she wished...
Contessa had already completed the mission.
August 15th, 1986
Cauldron
Remote.
She watched silently in the corner as the newest sucess walked through the marble halls of their base. It took over a year of preparation, even with the path setting everything up. Hundreds of possible candidates ignored, thousands of potential clients either ignored or dealt with. He, and he alone was the exception to whatever rule the path had set up.
Every path put her here, and none of them had her moving. Only observing, warning Doctor Mother if needed. But going by the wide grin on the client's gray features, everything was operating perfectly.
"So… " the client, Nicholas says, "I'm supposed to… what exactly?"
"Simply use your newfound gifts however you see fit," Doctor Mother started "but remember the consequences of your actions-."
"They affect you too? You wound me Doctor. Why would a client sully the reputation of his supplier?" Nicholas asked.
Doctor Mother simply scribbles a note on her clipboard as Nicholas' eyes darted around, finally landing on Contessa.
Still.
Every muscle in her body went rigid, she couldn't even move her eyes if she wanted to. By all appearances, she didn't have any defining features. Just a woman in a suit, a bodyguard, anyone would dismiss her as a member of the organization and continue speaking to Doctor Mother about their purchase.
That's how it went with last two clients, and it would happen with this one as well.
"Nevertheless, your newfound abilities would attract a certain kind of attention," Doctor Mother continued. "Unless you want to be removed, I would suggest a low profile if you can manage it."
Nickolas stopped in his tracks and smiles ruefully at the doctor "Removed? Oh, I like the sound of that."
"I doubt that." Doctor Mother states.
"Oh, not the removal part," Nickolas clarified "I mean everything that'll come before that."
He reached out a hand and spat onto the back of his own palm. The saliva landed on his skin, then it flickered. It was like watching a tape flashing into static. The water mark was there, it flickers for a second, then it wasn't there anymore. The only thing that remained on his hand, was a small grey blob, like a malformed birthmark. Contessa found it rather unsightly, but Nickolas stared at it like he was looking at pure gold.
"If it happens, it'll be a fun chase. But I'm sure it will never come to that. Because of course, you'll definitely stop me." Nicholas smirked.
"If that's all, you can be transported anywhere you wish," Doctor Mother stated blankly.
Nickolas' smirk flickered, turning into a shade of annoyance, but he kept it on his face.
"New York, if you can manage it."
Doctor Mother nodded and glanced at Contessa.
Follow.
She felt the soft click of the receiver in her ear as she said the order.
"Door me."
In front of the doctor and Nicholas, the door shimmered into existence. She couldn't see it, but on the other side there would be a side alleyway, and the bustling streets of the great city wouldn't be too far away. Envy ripples across Nicholas as he eyes the door. He gave Doctor Mother a half bow that was deliberately incomplete. As he walked towards the door, his eyes darted back to Contessa.
She didn't move, the path wouldn't allow her. But that didn't stop Nicholas from pointing. "You're going to be fun to play with, I just know it."
He all but skipped through and the door closed behind him. Finally, the path loosened her muscles allowing her to look at Doctor Mother. The head looked almost wary, but she hid it well as she always did.
"Keep an eye on him," She ordered "A very, very, close eye."
Contessa didn't move, but the order was given. She watched Doctor Mother leave, and let the path guide her once more.
Step away.
Locate Charles
Convince him
August 20th, 1986
Los Angeles
The door creaked open and Doctor Mother stepped out. She didn't even bat an eye as the boy behind her thrashed in his bed, as the agent forced itself through him. The head of cauldron glanced at Contessa, her waiting enforcer.
"There will be no more pure agent failures brought back. A single shot, no more."
Contessa nodded and the good doctor moved down the hallway where the second recipient waited. As soon as she was gone contessa cracked the door open and stepped inside. The boy, the one who took Intensity, slowly stopped his thrashing. The tears were fresh, and his cancer ridden body twitched from the sudden invasion. Like all the others he was in pain, but he wouldn't feel it. It would drive him insane, otherwise.
With practiced hands, the quiet sound of a bullet slid into the chamber of a waiting glock.
If it was any conciliation, the feeling would not last long.
Wait. Prepare.
Contessa took the two steps required to get over to the bed. With a single hand she gently moved his head back onto the pillow, ensuring his head was protected form what comes next..
Then, she pressed the glock against his forehead. His power would attempt to save him, blocking the sound, but accomplishing nothing else.
Wait.
Contessa became a statue as the seconds clicked on. Her finger rested on the trigger, and the barrel held down his head.
She had read his file just like all others who the path demanded received the vials. This boy... he had weeks, not months. His daily walks to enjoy the company of his partner in damnation left his muscles overworked and susceptible to his illness. Within two weeks, he would have lost the ability to walk. Within three, he wouldn't be able to do much as move his hand. Within four, he would be nothing more than a name on a list.
Kindness would kill him, which made him the perfect subject. Even if he does fail, at least a potter couldn't have asked for better clay.
Secure.
Still keeping her finger firmly on the trigger, Contessa held onto the frame of the bed with her free hand while she snaked her foot around the bed post.
The second she was secure, all hell broke loose.
His eyes shot open, golden light seeping out. His back arched in an unnatural angle, his mouth moving to scream but no sound came out. The room shook as the golden light enveloped everything that wasn't held down. The monitor, the visitor chairs, even him and Contessa. The golden glow spread across his body, enveloping his feet, his hands, his chest and stomach. Soon, every vital area in his body was glowing with power.
His feet slowly moved up, ignoring the lack of muscle and the forces of gravity that should have kept them down. But despite what logic dictated should have happened, his feet were followed closely by the rest of his legs. The rest of his body would have followed suit, but Contessa forced the muzzle of her glock on his forehead. But one hand wasn't enough.
Force.
Abandoning her first restraint, Contessa put her entire weight into the glock as the bed shuddered. She felt the entire thing lift into the air, despite anything that she did.
Then, the light went out, and everything came crashing down. The edges of the bed dug into the hospital floor, and the boy innocently bounced on the mattress as if nothing was wrong. Contessa felt her heart race for a second, then it snapped back into reality. Silence reigned, and for the longest time, nothing appeared.
Notice.
A second later, the heart monitor beeped.
Contessa blinked, actual surprise making it's way through for the first time in years. She checked the tools. Heart rate normal, breathing normal, no anomalies.
Contessa holstered her glock and stared down at the boy. The light was gone, but as she watched, the color began to return to his skin.
For the barest moments, she and the path smiled.
A success.
Prepare Warden.
A/N: This was probably one of the hardest things I've had to write. Getting into Fortuna's head was just... ugh.
The Singularity
IKnowNothing
....What?
- Location
- I got lost so.....Where are we?
Date: December 13th, 1986
Time: 16:53
Location: Singularity
⛉ Builder_0_Future Program 1.24
Seed 3.0.7.4-3 9801_DG5
Login:HEAD; Origin_Unit: 4.82
User: M_SandStorm
Password: ******************
Logging in…
Inputting, Serenity Directive
Reconfiguring Personal Details:
FILE: Schedule. Personal.
◈ DAY_PLANNER: MEETING
◈ TASKS: PROJECTS 73-81
FILE: Singularity Employees. Security access level E
◈ STAFF
◈ CEO: Longshot
◈ Administrator: Controller
◈ Deputy: Alchemy
FILE: PROJECTS: Security access level B
◈ OMEGA PROJECT_STARLIGHT
◈ PROJECT_HORIZON
◈ PROJECT_DIVINE
◈ PROJECT_DELIVERY
◈ PROJECT_ABSOLUTION
◈ PROJECT_ SINGULARITY
FILE: RESOURCES: Security access level A
◈ DISCRETIONARY_BUDGET
◈ PURCHASES
FILE: REQUIRED ACQUISITIONS: Security access level A
◈ METALS (General)
◈ CHEMICALS (General)
FILE: CLIENTS: Security access level S
◈ GOVERNMENT'S (General)
◈ Symphony
◈ Bishop
◈ Sovereign
◈ Cauldron
FILE: HOSTILES Security access level A
◈ HOSTILES (General)
◈ SLAUGHTERHOUSE
◈ PROJECT ASCENSION
◈ INDEPENDENT (General)
FILE: UNKNOWN VARIABLES: Security access level S
◈ FOUNDATION
◈ CAULDRON
RUNNING VIRUS CLEANER 51.2…
ALL FILES CLEAN
BEGIN STARTUP SEQUENCE
Smell.
For some reason, that was always the first sensation to return to me. Not the auditory, or visual sensory nerves, the oratory. It should be visual, but no, I have to take in the smell of oil and smoldering metal. Yet another program that I have to remake. The other senses return, one by one until I could feel the steam on the biometal that made up my skin and the sound of my charging chamber opening.
Slowly, I lift a hand, and force my thumb and forefinger against one another. The digits snap together, resulting in a swift crack that only lasts an instant.
"0.000023 second delay from previous start up test. Most likely the backup programs are still in their download phases." I grumble.
Lifting myself up from the chamber, I send a single signal to the machines around him. The air swirls, and soon I stand in the most professional suit that I could put into the programming.
Loosening the collar, I took a step out of his charging station. The second I do, the sounds of the workshop instantly register. Below me, machines and workers go about their business as normal. Each one of them inventing a product that only they could make. Most of them never stopped to eat, or even sleep until I or one of the administrators reminded them of the failures of the human body. Then again, I had abandoned those failures at the earliest opportunity. A single snap, and the cameras set up around the facility send me their information on everything that had transpired as he was recharging.
DOWNLOADING FILES
DOWNLOADING…
DOWNLOADING…
DOWNLOAD SUCCESSFUL
UPLOADING DATA.
Interesting, ahead of schedule.
"Operation," a computer in the back of my vision snaps into place, "Increase the salary of Alchemy for his work on HORIZON by 5 percent. Inform him that an additional 5 percent can be acquired should his timetable continue."
REMINDER: PRIORITY MEETING IN 5 MINUTES
Ah yes, the new client.
I gripped the base of his suit as slowly, every inch of me began to dissolve. At first, the relocation program resulted in various states. Sometimes parts of me would go off target, other times I would take minutes to reform. Now, the feeling of your entire body peeling itself apart and forming back together felt as good as a cool breeze. I order my swarm to ride the winds of the workshop towards the head office. I don't bother circling the edges to find the door, I let myself go through the air vents. But before I enter, a quick scan.
SCANNING...
SCANNING..
SCAN COMPLETE.
Perimitaty senses indicate only one other occupant.
First hypothesis: Longshot.
The prerecorded landing zone flashes in my collective vision. The particles of sand descended and joined together. As I reformed, the smell of tea wafted into the air to greet me. I opened my eyes, and as expected, sitting before me was a rather unassuming looking man, plain in almost every fashion, save the slight grin on his face. The Leader of the Singularity, the genius Longshot. He was probably the only welcoming element in the room. In hindsight, using an old interrogation chamber wasn't the best place to use as a meeting room. Then again, there wasn't anywhere else to go left in the building before the more secure renovations could be completed.
"Apologies, the download took longer than expected." I say.
"One can only be so precise, I suppose," Longshot remarks.
"Precisely why I removed most of what caused the discord leading to imprecise results," I comment, with a slight grimace, "However it appears the process was… not what I wished it to be."
The materials weren't the best, but I was desperate after the break in. The second the money comes in, I'll request more.
"Just more room for improvement. Perfection is the goal, right?" Longshots comments with a smirk.
I raise a thoughtful eyebrow "Weren't you the one who said perfection was unattainable by human hands? Or was that Alchemy? Or am I having another memory glitch?"
"You can just check, you know," the man comments. I shrugs his shoulders before leaning back in my chair. My eyes flash as I the files open themselves.
FILE: MEMORY
INTERACTIONS: VARIOUS
OPENING
SEARCHING….
SEARCHING….
DATA NOT FOUND.
That's concerning, another glitch? "Hmm, another filter needs to be installed apparently." I say, "But, in other news, what was the name of our new client?"
Longshot doesn't even look up from his papers as he takes a sip of tea.
"Oracle." He looked ready to throw up just from saying it. "Pretty pretentious name, honestly."
"Allow me to remind you that Alchemy's first name was Creator," I remind him.
Very slowly, Longshot raises an eyebrow."Yes, and? I never said he wasn't pretentious too."
"Yet we pay him."
Longshot shrugs, a slight amount of brown hair falling from its neatly combed place with the action.
"Sometimes people need other people to be around just so they look better by comparison."
"And here I thought you kept me around for my looks," I joke.
There's a light laugh.
"No. Never that."
"You wound me," I say, my voice resonating with the sarcasm protocol.
"Funny," Longshot retorts, glancing down at a very plain wristwatch, held together with an elastic band, "and here I thought that was your imperfect internal systems."
A loose chuckle escapes me.
"Excuse you, I thought I was the machine here."
Longshot waves a hand imperiously. "I have been known to be called an inventing machine from time to time."
"You're chief executive officer, not chief inventor. That's my job."
"The modern company has to keep their positions fluid in order to survive in this competitive market. Cross-training, my man."
"Does your cross-training include dealmaking?" I ask as I make a show of looking at my watch, "Because our new client is going to arrive in four seconds."
As per my practically-not-human estimation, the lone door to the room opens in exactly four seconds. Standing there, eyebrow slightly raised, is a man with dim violet eyes. He looks like the kind of guy who was picked on for his stature, but smart enough to get around it. But honestly, I felt overdressed. He probably had the money, but he also probably had a speech too.
God I hate speeches.
"Am I interrupting something, or…?" The visitor, Oracle asked.
Longshot swatted the question away with the wave of his hand "Nah, nah. Nothing important, really. Please do come in. Or continue to stand in the hallway that doubles as a hyper dimensional travel device, because that works too."
Holding back a chuckle, I rose from my seat and straightens his suit. I held out a hand to the newcomer. The hand shifts, the skin warping over itself before my suit begins to shift as well. Then, the arm extends beyond human proportions, stopping right in front of Oracle for the offered handshake.
"Welcome to the Singularity Mr. Oracle. My name is Sandstorm, chief inventor." I say before casting a quick glance at the other occupant. "And this fine gentlemen here is our CEO, Longshot."
Surprisingly unperturbed by the gesture, Oracle takes the proffered hand in his and gives it a slight shake before making his way through the doorway. The second he does, the ligament retracts to normal proportions and I sit back down.
"Giving handshakes across the room? Could it be that your eyes are scopes, as well?"
Longshot just shakes his head in silent amusement. "Now that's just silly. What kind of person would experiment on something as delicate as the eyes?"
94% of the staff including yourself. I think.
"Who indeed?" Oracle replies smoothly, slipping his hand casually into his waist pocket as he moves across to an unoccupied chair. I watched him just like Longshot. Neither of us did anything to provoke action, keeping our faces neutral and bodies still. It was easy for me, one order and my entire form freezes in place. Longshot has the harder time, but he's done this enough times to know when to move. The only thing he does is flip a single, blue pen in one hand, end over end, over and over.
"I hear you're here to do business." Longshot states.
"If not, it was a shame to waste a trip through the hallway." I add.
Longshot gives a light laugh, not dissimilar to the laugh he'd given earlier. "Trips through our hallways are never wastes. You never know where you'll end up."
"12.486% chance to arrive somewhere habitable. 63.51% of landing somewhere within, on top of, or under some form of liquid. 24% of landing somewhere in between the two," I clarify.
"And," Longshot chimes in, ".004% chance of arriving at the center of the planet. Risk makes it all that much more exciting, don't you think?"
While the byplay goes on, we keep watching Oracle as he takes the opportunity to actually take his seat, and only properly gives a quiet smile when it wraps right back around to him.
"I'm all for calculated risks, of course, but for people in our… Professions? I suppose that would be it. For people in our professions, aren't taking risks essentially cheating?" Oracle asks.
Longshot merely shrugs again, some of that neatly combed hair falling again across his forehead, to the man's apparent disinterest. "If you're playing fair, you're playing to lose."
"And the Singularity was created to never lose," I say.
Across the table from them, Oracle nods almost approvingly before pulling his hand free, bringing up a small notebook with it. He discards it out on the table, and then leans forward just a little.
"Which is exactly why I've decided to come. I'm not very fond of losing."
"Most aren't," I says, my eyes never leaving the notebook.
Wordlessly, the CEO picks up the notebook, and begins to leaf through it, the neutral expression still in place. He leafs through it, all the way to the end, and by the end, the only change is a slight rise in eyebrow.
"Is that all? It's not a very big order," Longshot finally comments, looking back up with a smile.
He slides the notebook over to me, and I in turn picks it up and flashes through the pages. A list of request for projects. A personal defence device, bulletproofing, carbon nanotube surgery, eye color changing contacts? Weird, most people notice the pocket sized nukes and leave after taking a few of those.
"He's not wrong." I say.
Oracle drums his fingers on the table for a moment, slight smile still very much in place.
"That's true, although I should admit, some of the more interesting things I'd have wanted to request put my life too much at risk."
"Most tend not to take kindly to someone with a hand held bunker buster." Longshot quips.
Oracle's violet eyes flash a little as he leans back, hand still resting on the table. Reminder, build a program to have flashing eyes, intimidation and business proceedings might improve. I order.
"More than that, though, this is also a bit of an investment on my part into your venture here. I've already set aside eight hundred million for this, but I'm sure you already noticed that." Oracle states.
Eight hundred million? Well isn't that generous. Longshot glances over to me and I nod slightly.
FILE: LOCAL NEWS
TYPE: FINANCIAL
ORDER: SCAN AND RELOCATE
RELOCATING…
RELOCATING…
FILES RELOCATED.
PROCESSING COMPLETE.
"And several government's treasuries happen to be approaching the red zone. But that has nothing to do with this venture, correct?" I ask innocently.
The smug precog just smiles.
"Unlike some of your clients, I've made sure that all of this is entirely above board. You were interested in a few investments yourselves, correct?"
I just shrugged "A business is always open to investments. Eight hundred million is quite the investment. But before I start working, might I ask what you're going to be using these for?"
For the second time in as many minutes, Oracle's eyes flash. That's got to be part of his power, damn it's getting annoying.
"A healthy mixture of personal protection, intimidation factor, and just to show off the fact that I've entered the Singularity to the people that are smart enough to realize." He says before leaning back, smile shifting into a half-smirk.
So you'll only be impressing the people that don't even need us to level cities. Fair enough. I think.
"I may as well add that I'm willing to offer a secondary payment to money. You're both familiar with the rumors surrounding me, I presume?" Oracle asks.
"Rumours are rumours," Longshot states from his seat, flipping the pen again, "Give some substantiation, and we'll talk."
Oracle clicks his tongue.
"Substantiation? For most people, that would just involve stating something only that person would know, and they believe me. But… That could just as easily be attributed to reading minds, or very powerful perceptive abilities."
Oh god the speech is coming isn't it? MEMORY: STORE FOLLOWING SECONDS FOR LATER BUT REMOVE AUDITORY NERVES UNLESS IMPORTANT INFORMA-
"How about this… That inter-dimensional missile idea of yours?" Oracle asks.
MEMORY: BELAY PREVIOUS ACTION!
In an instant, he's got my full attention.
Oracle drums a few fingers on the table "Entirely possible, but only with the help of someone that hasn't…. awakened yet, given how you had to remove your previous lender. Though, with the right prodding, I could force it to happen earlier and introduce you, if you like."
Out of the corner of my eyes, Longshot freezes for a very short moment. I watch as his eyes glaze over, and a small smile traces over his features, before returning to the completely average, normal expression.
"Interesting." He flips the pen again, and catches it one final time, before setting it down on the table.
"I think we can work together, then. Assuming you're willing to provide that… Prodding, every once in awhile." Longshot states.
Oracle keeps smiling, leaning back into his chair. "Every once in awhile would be fine with me."
I clap his hands together, grabbing the notebook. "Then, I assume I best begin development?" I ask.
"If you would be so kind," Oracle replies, before taking a brief moment to think, "Though there's no need to consider this a rush order. My life won't be in any immediate danger for at least… Two months and eight days."
I smirk at that, but keep my gaze remained firmly on Longshot, who merely smiles a bit wider.
Confirmation. I bow respectfully to both of the rooms occupants. "Then, I shall begin. A pleasure Mr. Oracle. My report will be on your desk by day's end, Longshot."
I take a step back, and his skin shimmers once again. The grains peal away, sending my entire form into the air and through the vents that I entered in. I did however leave a few ears.
"You can see yourself to the door, mister Oracle." Longshot said, right before flicking something through the air. His pen most likely "Compliments of the Singularity. You know corporations these days. They all need complementary pens."
"Well, I can't quite say this will never come in handy…"
"What, were you expecting it to be a gun or a bomb or something? That's silly. Pens are for writing," Longshot comments, expression utterly neutral.
"I happen to agree, but…" There's a pause, he's probably smiling again.
"Never mind. It was a pleasure meeting you."
"It wasn't a pleasure meeting you, but for the sake of diplomacy we'll call it even. Now take my interdimensional hallway out of here, okay? I have stuff to do and you're all up in my headspace," the head of Singularity retorts.
I cut off the audio stream there. Not much else to listen to, but I'm not going to lie, I always like it when Longshot doesn't bother with the pleasantries.
I reform on the factory floor, but as I do, I go into something a little more comfortable. A simple shirt and lab coat, yes, remember the better times and all that.
The smell of gunpowder and sound of machinery rushes in. Gears churn, and crack against one another.
At least everything down here is working well. Now, who help with this project? Alchemy has talent, but he's busy working on HORIZON for Symphony. Some gas project, last I checked. A small smile graced my features, maybe it's time to give poor little Haywire another shot. Even if he did lose us the KGB with that little stunt of his. At least if he messed this project up, there was plenty of income to fix what happened.
Time: 16:53
Location: Singularity
⛉ Builder_0_Future Program 1.24
Seed 3.0.7.4-3 9801_DG5
Login:HEAD; Origin_Unit: 4.82
User: M_SandStorm
Password: ******************
Logging in…
Inputting, Serenity Directive
Reconfiguring Personal Details:
FILE: Schedule. Personal.
◈ DAY_PLANNER: MEETING
◈ TASKS: PROJECTS 73-81
FILE: Singularity Employees. Security access level E
◈ STAFF
◈ CEO: Longshot
◈ Administrator: Controller
◈ Deputy: Alchemy
FILE: PROJECTS: Security access level B
◈ OMEGA PROJECT_STARLIGHT
◈ PROJECT_HORIZON
◈ PROJECT_DIVINE
◈ PROJECT_DELIVERY
◈ PROJECT_ABSOLUTION
◈ PROJECT_ SINGULARITY
FILE: RESOURCES: Security access level A
◈ DISCRETIONARY_BUDGET
◈ PURCHASES
FILE: REQUIRED ACQUISITIONS: Security access level A
◈ METALS (General)
◈ CHEMICALS (General)
FILE: CLIENTS: Security access level S
◈ GOVERNMENT'S (General)
◈ Symphony
◈ Bishop
◈ Sovereign
◈ Cauldron
FILE: HOSTILES Security access level A
◈ HOSTILES (General)
◈ SLAUGHTERHOUSE
◈ PROJECT ASCENSION
◈ INDEPENDENT (General)
FILE: UNKNOWN VARIABLES: Security access level S
◈ FOUNDATION
◈ CAULDRON
RUNNING VIRUS CLEANER 51.2…
ALL FILES CLEAN
BEGIN STARTUP SEQUENCE
Smell.
For some reason, that was always the first sensation to return to me. Not the auditory, or visual sensory nerves, the oratory. It should be visual, but no, I have to take in the smell of oil and smoldering metal. Yet another program that I have to remake. The other senses return, one by one until I could feel the steam on the biometal that made up my skin and the sound of my charging chamber opening.
Slowly, I lift a hand, and force my thumb and forefinger against one another. The digits snap together, resulting in a swift crack that only lasts an instant.
"0.000023 second delay from previous start up test. Most likely the backup programs are still in their download phases." I grumble.
Lifting myself up from the chamber, I send a single signal to the machines around him. The air swirls, and soon I stand in the most professional suit that I could put into the programming.
Loosening the collar, I took a step out of his charging station. The second I do, the sounds of the workshop instantly register. Below me, machines and workers go about their business as normal. Each one of them inventing a product that only they could make. Most of them never stopped to eat, or even sleep until I or one of the administrators reminded them of the failures of the human body. Then again, I had abandoned those failures at the earliest opportunity. A single snap, and the cameras set up around the facility send me their information on everything that had transpired as he was recharging.
DOWNLOADING FILES
DOWNLOADING…
DOWNLOADING…
DOWNLOAD SUCCESSFUL
UPLOADING DATA.
Interesting, ahead of schedule.
"Operation," a computer in the back of my vision snaps into place, "Increase the salary of Alchemy for his work on HORIZON by 5 percent. Inform him that an additional 5 percent can be acquired should his timetable continue."
REMINDER: PRIORITY MEETING IN 5 MINUTES
Ah yes, the new client.
I gripped the base of his suit as slowly, every inch of me began to dissolve. At first, the relocation program resulted in various states. Sometimes parts of me would go off target, other times I would take minutes to reform. Now, the feeling of your entire body peeling itself apart and forming back together felt as good as a cool breeze. I order my swarm to ride the winds of the workshop towards the head office. I don't bother circling the edges to find the door, I let myself go through the air vents. But before I enter, a quick scan.
SCANNING...
SCANNING..
SCAN COMPLETE.
Perimitaty senses indicate only one other occupant.
First hypothesis: Longshot.
The prerecorded landing zone flashes in my collective vision. The particles of sand descended and joined together. As I reformed, the smell of tea wafted into the air to greet me. I opened my eyes, and as expected, sitting before me was a rather unassuming looking man, plain in almost every fashion, save the slight grin on his face. The Leader of the Singularity, the genius Longshot. He was probably the only welcoming element in the room. In hindsight, using an old interrogation chamber wasn't the best place to use as a meeting room. Then again, there wasn't anywhere else to go left in the building before the more secure renovations could be completed.
"Apologies, the download took longer than expected." I say.
"One can only be so precise, I suppose," Longshot remarks.
"Precisely why I removed most of what caused the discord leading to imprecise results," I comment, with a slight grimace, "However it appears the process was… not what I wished it to be."
The materials weren't the best, but I was desperate after the break in. The second the money comes in, I'll request more.
"Just more room for improvement. Perfection is the goal, right?" Longshots comments with a smirk.
I raise a thoughtful eyebrow "Weren't you the one who said perfection was unattainable by human hands? Or was that Alchemy? Or am I having another memory glitch?"
"You can just check, you know," the man comments. I shrugs his shoulders before leaning back in my chair. My eyes flash as I the files open themselves.
FILE: MEMORY
INTERACTIONS: VARIOUS
OPENING
SEARCHING….
SEARCHING….
DATA NOT FOUND.
That's concerning, another glitch? "Hmm, another filter needs to be installed apparently." I say, "But, in other news, what was the name of our new client?"
Longshot doesn't even look up from his papers as he takes a sip of tea.
"Oracle." He looked ready to throw up just from saying it. "Pretty pretentious name, honestly."
"Allow me to remind you that Alchemy's first name was Creator," I remind him.
Very slowly, Longshot raises an eyebrow."Yes, and? I never said he wasn't pretentious too."
"Yet we pay him."
Longshot shrugs, a slight amount of brown hair falling from its neatly combed place with the action.
"Sometimes people need other people to be around just so they look better by comparison."
"And here I thought you kept me around for my looks," I joke.
There's a light laugh.
"No. Never that."
"You wound me," I say, my voice resonating with the sarcasm protocol.
"Funny," Longshot retorts, glancing down at a very plain wristwatch, held together with an elastic band, "and here I thought that was your imperfect internal systems."
A loose chuckle escapes me.
"Excuse you, I thought I was the machine here."
Longshot waves a hand imperiously. "I have been known to be called an inventing machine from time to time."
"You're chief executive officer, not chief inventor. That's my job."
"The modern company has to keep their positions fluid in order to survive in this competitive market. Cross-training, my man."
"Does your cross-training include dealmaking?" I ask as I make a show of looking at my watch, "Because our new client is going to arrive in four seconds."
As per my practically-not-human estimation, the lone door to the room opens in exactly four seconds. Standing there, eyebrow slightly raised, is a man with dim violet eyes. He looks like the kind of guy who was picked on for his stature, but smart enough to get around it. But honestly, I felt overdressed. He probably had the money, but he also probably had a speech too.
God I hate speeches.
"Am I interrupting something, or…?" The visitor, Oracle asked.
Longshot swatted the question away with the wave of his hand "Nah, nah. Nothing important, really. Please do come in. Or continue to stand in the hallway that doubles as a hyper dimensional travel device, because that works too."
Holding back a chuckle, I rose from my seat and straightens his suit. I held out a hand to the newcomer. The hand shifts, the skin warping over itself before my suit begins to shift as well. Then, the arm extends beyond human proportions, stopping right in front of Oracle for the offered handshake.
"Welcome to the Singularity Mr. Oracle. My name is Sandstorm, chief inventor." I say before casting a quick glance at the other occupant. "And this fine gentlemen here is our CEO, Longshot."
Surprisingly unperturbed by the gesture, Oracle takes the proffered hand in his and gives it a slight shake before making his way through the doorway. The second he does, the ligament retracts to normal proportions and I sit back down.
"Giving handshakes across the room? Could it be that your eyes are scopes, as well?"
Longshot just shakes his head in silent amusement. "Now that's just silly. What kind of person would experiment on something as delicate as the eyes?"
94% of the staff including yourself. I think.
"Who indeed?" Oracle replies smoothly, slipping his hand casually into his waist pocket as he moves across to an unoccupied chair. I watched him just like Longshot. Neither of us did anything to provoke action, keeping our faces neutral and bodies still. It was easy for me, one order and my entire form freezes in place. Longshot has the harder time, but he's done this enough times to know when to move. The only thing he does is flip a single, blue pen in one hand, end over end, over and over.
"I hear you're here to do business." Longshot states.
"If not, it was a shame to waste a trip through the hallway." I add.
Longshot gives a light laugh, not dissimilar to the laugh he'd given earlier. "Trips through our hallways are never wastes. You never know where you'll end up."
"12.486% chance to arrive somewhere habitable. 63.51% of landing somewhere within, on top of, or under some form of liquid. 24% of landing somewhere in between the two," I clarify.
"And," Longshot chimes in, ".004% chance of arriving at the center of the planet. Risk makes it all that much more exciting, don't you think?"
While the byplay goes on, we keep watching Oracle as he takes the opportunity to actually take his seat, and only properly gives a quiet smile when it wraps right back around to him.
"I'm all for calculated risks, of course, but for people in our… Professions? I suppose that would be it. For people in our professions, aren't taking risks essentially cheating?" Oracle asks.
Longshot merely shrugs again, some of that neatly combed hair falling again across his forehead, to the man's apparent disinterest. "If you're playing fair, you're playing to lose."
"And the Singularity was created to never lose," I say.
Across the table from them, Oracle nods almost approvingly before pulling his hand free, bringing up a small notebook with it. He discards it out on the table, and then leans forward just a little.
"Which is exactly why I've decided to come. I'm not very fond of losing."
"Most aren't," I says, my eyes never leaving the notebook.
Wordlessly, the CEO picks up the notebook, and begins to leaf through it, the neutral expression still in place. He leafs through it, all the way to the end, and by the end, the only change is a slight rise in eyebrow.
"Is that all? It's not a very big order," Longshot finally comments, looking back up with a smile.
He slides the notebook over to me, and I in turn picks it up and flashes through the pages. A list of request for projects. A personal defence device, bulletproofing, carbon nanotube surgery, eye color changing contacts? Weird, most people notice the pocket sized nukes and leave after taking a few of those.
"He's not wrong." I say.
Oracle drums his fingers on the table for a moment, slight smile still very much in place.
"That's true, although I should admit, some of the more interesting things I'd have wanted to request put my life too much at risk."
"Most tend not to take kindly to someone with a hand held bunker buster." Longshot quips.
Oracle's violet eyes flash a little as he leans back, hand still resting on the table. Reminder, build a program to have flashing eyes, intimidation and business proceedings might improve. I order.
"More than that, though, this is also a bit of an investment on my part into your venture here. I've already set aside eight hundred million for this, but I'm sure you already noticed that." Oracle states.
Eight hundred million? Well isn't that generous. Longshot glances over to me and I nod slightly.
FILE: LOCAL NEWS
TYPE: FINANCIAL
ORDER: SCAN AND RELOCATE
RELOCATING…
RELOCATING…
FILES RELOCATED.
PROCESSING COMPLETE.
"And several government's treasuries happen to be approaching the red zone. But that has nothing to do with this venture, correct?" I ask innocently.
The smug precog just smiles.
"Unlike some of your clients, I've made sure that all of this is entirely above board. You were interested in a few investments yourselves, correct?"
I just shrugged "A business is always open to investments. Eight hundred million is quite the investment. But before I start working, might I ask what you're going to be using these for?"
For the second time in as many minutes, Oracle's eyes flash. That's got to be part of his power, damn it's getting annoying.
"A healthy mixture of personal protection, intimidation factor, and just to show off the fact that I've entered the Singularity to the people that are smart enough to realize." He says before leaning back, smile shifting into a half-smirk.
So you'll only be impressing the people that don't even need us to level cities. Fair enough. I think.
"I may as well add that I'm willing to offer a secondary payment to money. You're both familiar with the rumors surrounding me, I presume?" Oracle asks.
"Rumours are rumours," Longshot states from his seat, flipping the pen again, "Give some substantiation, and we'll talk."
Oracle clicks his tongue.
"Substantiation? For most people, that would just involve stating something only that person would know, and they believe me. But… That could just as easily be attributed to reading minds, or very powerful perceptive abilities."
Oh god the speech is coming isn't it? MEMORY: STORE FOLLOWING SECONDS FOR LATER BUT REMOVE AUDITORY NERVES UNLESS IMPORTANT INFORMA-
"How about this… That inter-dimensional missile idea of yours?" Oracle asks.
MEMORY: BELAY PREVIOUS ACTION!
In an instant, he's got my full attention.
Oracle drums a few fingers on the table "Entirely possible, but only with the help of someone that hasn't…. awakened yet, given how you had to remove your previous lender. Though, with the right prodding, I could force it to happen earlier and introduce you, if you like."
Out of the corner of my eyes, Longshot freezes for a very short moment. I watch as his eyes glaze over, and a small smile traces over his features, before returning to the completely average, normal expression.
"Interesting." He flips the pen again, and catches it one final time, before setting it down on the table.
"I think we can work together, then. Assuming you're willing to provide that… Prodding, every once in awhile." Longshot states.
Oracle keeps smiling, leaning back into his chair. "Every once in awhile would be fine with me."
I clap his hands together, grabbing the notebook. "Then, I assume I best begin development?" I ask.
"If you would be so kind," Oracle replies, before taking a brief moment to think, "Though there's no need to consider this a rush order. My life won't be in any immediate danger for at least… Two months and eight days."
I smirk at that, but keep my gaze remained firmly on Longshot, who merely smiles a bit wider.
Confirmation. I bow respectfully to both of the rooms occupants. "Then, I shall begin. A pleasure Mr. Oracle. My report will be on your desk by day's end, Longshot."
I take a step back, and his skin shimmers once again. The grains peal away, sending my entire form into the air and through the vents that I entered in. I did however leave a few ears.
"You can see yourself to the door, mister Oracle." Longshot said, right before flicking something through the air. His pen most likely "Compliments of the Singularity. You know corporations these days. They all need complementary pens."
"Well, I can't quite say this will never come in handy…"
"What, were you expecting it to be a gun or a bomb or something? That's silly. Pens are for writing," Longshot comments, expression utterly neutral.
"I happen to agree, but…" There's a pause, he's probably smiling again.
"Never mind. It was a pleasure meeting you."
"It wasn't a pleasure meeting you, but for the sake of diplomacy we'll call it even. Now take my interdimensional hallway out of here, okay? I have stuff to do and you're all up in my headspace," the head of Singularity retorts.
I cut off the audio stream there. Not much else to listen to, but I'm not going to lie, I always like it when Longshot doesn't bother with the pleasantries.
I reform on the factory floor, but as I do, I go into something a little more comfortable. A simple shirt and lab coat, yes, remember the better times and all that.
The smell of gunpowder and sound of machinery rushes in. Gears churn, and crack against one another.
At least everything down here is working well. Now, who help with this project? Alchemy has talent, but he's busy working on HORIZON for Symphony. Some gas project, last I checked. A small smile graced my features, maybe it's time to give poor little Haywire another shot. Even if he did lose us the KGB with that little stunt of his. At least if he messed this project up, there was plenty of income to fix what happened.
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Visions of Green and Gold
Rhomeo
The Succubus (Male)
- Location
- Australia
Visions of Green & Gold
January 15th, 1987, Early Morning
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Violet eyes stare down at an empty page of a solitary notebook, as if willing words to appear. To any that were familiar with the young man, they'd be more than a little shocked at his attire. Fairly loose slacks, an unbuttoned shirt and a pair of askew glasses, along with a messy bedhead. No real light comes from the giant window a few feet behind him, the streetlights far below not enough to mean anything. What little light there is comes from a desk lamp, pointed away from the desk itself and towards an empty corner, as if its purpose was scorned in some way.
Tap. Tap.
The look on his face in the dim light is one of frustration, maybe even anger. Alone in the dark room, he broods. How could things have gone so wrong so quickly? There hadn't been any miscalculation, he knew that things would go this way, and yet… It wasn't right. It was chaos. The answer refused to stay rooted down despite all his preparations, the death count kept going higher, and that name was at the centre of it all.
Tap-
All of his thoughts cease as a single hand presses itself over his eyes, shrouding him in total darkness. It pulls him back, and his neck arches up against the back of the chair. The panic that should be setting in isn't there. Instead, there's only a feeling of total acceptance.
Acceptance that's well placed as a familiar pair of lips press up against his.
It's a short thing. A rushed thing. Just as he starts to fall into it, she pulls back, but the hand stays in place. Quiet footsteps sound off, and when his eyesight is finally given back, it's to a woman, sitting on the desk in front of him, legs hanging lazily off the side.
"I thought you said you weren't going to be working?"
Roland King sits in surprise for all of a moment before dropping his pen and turning entirely towards her.
"This isn't quite work."
"Another of your habits, huh?" she immediately quips, before crossing one leg over the other, "And here I thought the contact lense thing was weird."
His lips curl up into a surprisingly genuine smile as he leans back.
"Do you really have room to talk with hair like that?"
A few terse moments pass before she gives him a cheshire grin, leaning forward precariously, green hair spilling over and covering most of her front from view. She leans forward just far enough that her face is but a few scant inches away, hair trailing over his chest.
"You've never complained about it before."
"And you've never felt the need to complain about my eyes, either."
Those two golden orbs of hers glint in the darkness, her grin dropping into a quaint smile as she finally leans back. A single hand reaches up to pull some hair back behind her ear as she does, smile somewhat lopsided.
"That's just because I don't want to say anything that might make you stop dating me. I'd miss learning all these little weird things about you."
An eyebrow arches up on Roland's face as he leans forward a bit himself.
"Really? I seem to recall you saying that you were only lowering yourself to date me for the money."
Where there had been a bit of genuineness in her smile before, now there was only mischievousness.
"That's a nice bonus, I guess…"
She leans forward again, this time however, she brings her hands up off the desk to brace up against him. It's… a very close thing, and almost awkward, even. Neither seem to care, though, more caught up in their own moment than how it might look to anyone else.
"But I think I might be dating you for a different reason now."
Golden orbs stare into sparkling purple eyes for a moment, and then a few moments, before her eyes harden over.
"Which is why you're going to tell me what's wrong."
Almost immediately, Roland's expression curls into something half-pained. There's a sort of resignation to it, as if he'd been expecting this from the very beginning.
"Catherine…"
"Don't you 'Catherine' me," she counters, pushing back off of him and to the desk once more, "Things were fine a few hours ago. What changed?"
His eyes trail off of her form for the first time since she'd arrived, settling instead on the lone lamp.
"... Something that I was preparing for is going to be happening earlier than I'd anticipated."
Silence reigns over the pair for what ends up being an uncomfortable period of time. As high up as they are, the sounds of the nightlife in the city are dull. Not enough to make the waiting any easier.
"So you're leaving? You're going to get involved?" she asks pointedly, her own features neutral.
All he does is nod slightly.
"Of course you are."
Catherine sighs before sliding forward and off of the desk. Roland doesn't turn to watch, which turns out to be a mistake as he feels a very familiar presence embrace him. When he does turn, all he can see is her face.
"Then I'm going to make this last bit of time something worth coming back to."
And then all there was, was her.
January 15th, 1987, Early Morning
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Violet eyes stare down at an empty page of a solitary notebook, as if willing words to appear. To any that were familiar with the young man, they'd be more than a little shocked at his attire. Fairly loose slacks, an unbuttoned shirt and a pair of askew glasses, along with a messy bedhead. No real light comes from the giant window a few feet behind him, the streetlights far below not enough to mean anything. What little light there is comes from a desk lamp, pointed away from the desk itself and towards an empty corner, as if its purpose was scorned in some way.
Tap. Tap.
The look on his face in the dim light is one of frustration, maybe even anger. Alone in the dark room, he broods. How could things have gone so wrong so quickly? There hadn't been any miscalculation, he knew that things would go this way, and yet… It wasn't right. It was chaos. The answer refused to stay rooted down despite all his preparations, the death count kept going higher, and that name was at the centre of it all.
Tap-
All of his thoughts cease as a single hand presses itself over his eyes, shrouding him in total darkness. It pulls him back, and his neck arches up against the back of the chair. The panic that should be setting in isn't there. Instead, there's only a feeling of total acceptance.
Acceptance that's well placed as a familiar pair of lips press up against his.
It's a short thing. A rushed thing. Just as he starts to fall into it, she pulls back, but the hand stays in place. Quiet footsteps sound off, and when his eyesight is finally given back, it's to a woman, sitting on the desk in front of him, legs hanging lazily off the side.
"I thought you said you weren't going to be working?"
Roland King sits in surprise for all of a moment before dropping his pen and turning entirely towards her.
"This isn't quite work."
"Another of your habits, huh?" she immediately quips, before crossing one leg over the other, "And here I thought the contact lense thing was weird."
His lips curl up into a surprisingly genuine smile as he leans back.
"Do you really have room to talk with hair like that?"
A few terse moments pass before she gives him a cheshire grin, leaning forward precariously, green hair spilling over and covering most of her front from view. She leans forward just far enough that her face is but a few scant inches away, hair trailing over his chest.
"You've never complained about it before."
"And you've never felt the need to complain about my eyes, either."
Those two golden orbs of hers glint in the darkness, her grin dropping into a quaint smile as she finally leans back. A single hand reaches up to pull some hair back behind her ear as she does, smile somewhat lopsided.
"That's just because I don't want to say anything that might make you stop dating me. I'd miss learning all these little weird things about you."
An eyebrow arches up on Roland's face as he leans forward a bit himself.
"Really? I seem to recall you saying that you were only lowering yourself to date me for the money."
Where there had been a bit of genuineness in her smile before, now there was only mischievousness.
"That's a nice bonus, I guess…"
She leans forward again, this time however, she brings her hands up off the desk to brace up against him. It's… a very close thing, and almost awkward, even. Neither seem to care, though, more caught up in their own moment than how it might look to anyone else.
"But I think I might be dating you for a different reason now."
Golden orbs stare into sparkling purple eyes for a moment, and then a few moments, before her eyes harden over.
"Which is why you're going to tell me what's wrong."
Almost immediately, Roland's expression curls into something half-pained. There's a sort of resignation to it, as if he'd been expecting this from the very beginning.
"Catherine…"
"Don't you 'Catherine' me," she counters, pushing back off of him and to the desk once more, "Things were fine a few hours ago. What changed?"
His eyes trail off of her form for the first time since she'd arrived, settling instead on the lone lamp.
"... Something that I was preparing for is going to be happening earlier than I'd anticipated."
Silence reigns over the pair for what ends up being an uncomfortable period of time. As high up as they are, the sounds of the nightlife in the city are dull. Not enough to make the waiting any easier.
"So you're leaving? You're going to get involved?" she asks pointedly, her own features neutral.
All he does is nod slightly.
"Of course you are."
Catherine sighs before sliding forward and off of the desk. Roland doesn't turn to watch, which turns out to be a mistake as he feels a very familiar presence embrace him. When he does turn, all he can see is her face.
"Then I'm going to make this last bit of time something worth coming back to."
And then all there was, was her.
The Man They Will Call Hero
IKnowNothing
....What?
- Location
- I got lost so.....Where are we?
October 12, 1986
Charles slowly twisted the wiring, and with a spark, he felt the metal pieces click into place, causing Cauldron's resident tinker to grin. He held up his creation, a small earbud barely bigger than a bb pellet.
Slowly, he pressed the bud up against his ear and felt everything fall silent. No wind, no creaking or clunking of metal. The entire world might as well have gone silent.
He pulled it back and felt himself grin from ear to ear.
"Son of a bitch, they work."
The feeling of joy is cut short.
His eyes narrow, and his vision goes hazy. His hand flies out, instinctively trying to catch him. Something gets knocked to the floor, and felt his fingers go slack.
Stability came eventually, a lot slower than it normally did, anyway. Charles rubbed the last of the haze out of his eye and managed to catch sight of the prototype.
Okay, maybe they were working a little too well.
Sure, they weren't finished yet, but he could go without a headache. Even if these things were the coolest tech he had managed to tinker with, migraines weren't something that he needed right now.
Output exceeding desired parameters.
Integrate dampeners by rerouting motor.
Create dampeners, integrate.
...Oh, was that it?
Sweet!
Barely another weeks work. Just a few days to make changes to the code, an hour or two for the wiring, and the power levels should balance out to a more sustainable level.
Hopefully.
Charles pushed the thought aside, everything he made always worked. Hopefully, it worked well enough that it didn't need batteries.
The last thing they needed was another David, this time with a constant headache if his tech couldn't keep up with the output.
Poor guy would probably break the building if he wasn't careful.
He reached down and grabbed the pellet. Before he threw it into the charging port as quickly as he could. Subtlety and care could jump off a cliff.
Charles didn't care if it took another hour or another day, one migraine was enough for one lifetime. He raised a hand and did a quick tap on his ear. The cold feeling of metal shot through his ear as his brain finally remembered there was something there.They were old models, one of the first things he built. But all his models did was lower the sound a bit. The new ones? Those guys were supposed to block out any frequency that could remotely exist outside the human body. Puts everything to near zero, but not completely. Unless you could cheat your way through listening, you'd send your inner ear into a tumble that would drop you faster than a flashbang.
Charles tilted his head.
Hey, that's not a bad idea. Flashbang frequency?
...
Sound bang?
...
No, Frequency grenades.
…He could make that.
Charles reached back and once he found the armrest he let himself drop into his chair. A quick push and the wheels carried him in front of a small computer. The poor thing was in desperate need of a tune-up, but one project at a time. He dropped his hands in front of the keyboard and his fingers flew across the keys. He never actually thought about what he typed, the screen just filled itself with what was necessary after a while.
Best part of his power, hands down.
Now if he could only manage that whole 'sleep is for the weak' thing that Fortuna does.
The computer rings and the screen flashes a compiling icon. Charles quickly glanced at the clock.
Barely past seven, he was early.
He cast a quick glance at the pellet, sitting in its port as the first batch of coding made its way in.
Charles ran a hand over his face, leaning back as far as his chair would let him. He could keep going with the coding, better late than never. But then again, the actual design wasn't finished, and he still needed to make a second one.
Charles looked at his computer, still flashing the icon.
He reached absentmindedly across his desk, grabbing the first piece of metal his fingers could take a hold of. He grabbed something, and he pulled back a circuit board.
Perfect.
A little tinkering and there, and he could get the base out of this.
Hopefully, it doesn't blow up, not like the last three.
Charles felt his fingers stop along the board as a thought crashed into him.
He really shouldn't tell the new guy his track record when he got these things.
His inner musings were interrupted when the screen on his computer flashed green, replacing the icon with a warning.
Visitor incoming.
Charles looked up from his work just in time to see the doors of the elevator slide open. The lovely Ms Costa-Brown took a step out, clad in the suit she had gotten from Contessa. The rip on her shoulder was enough to make Charles' smile falter a bit though. She must have just gotten back from a mission.
Letting the smile come back, the tinker waved.
"Hey Rebecca," Charles called, "Sorry about the mess, I started working and well," he gestures around the tables and rusted scrap, "you get the idea."
Rebecca laughed good-naturedly, so score one for the Tinker.
"If something was actually clean, then I'd be surprised," she said, forcing a frown out of Charles, "I don't think this place has ever been clean anyway."
Charles frowned and glanced around. As much as he didn't want to admit it, this place always was, is, and always will be, a mess. He called it his workshop, but if he was being honest, a better title would've been Organized Junkyard.
Since day one, it had been a dumping ground for everything that Charles might need or had requested. He had the equivalent of a superstore's worth of electronics and metal around him all the time. Piles would appear and disappear faster than you'd expect, but it never really evened out.
Hell, even after he made the entire game room and the elevator system he barely saw a difference. In the rare case that something did get low, Contessa always dropped by to open a portal and deliver a few new pieces.
Really, the only time this place had been clean was the day that Charles moved in.
Not that he was going to admit that.
"I swear this place has been clean. I saw the floor a month ago!"
He paused.
"It's white, by the way."
Rebecca gave him an incredibly flat look.
"It's white everywhere."
"You don't know that," Charles argued, "Have you checked every floor?"
"...why?"
"Then you don't know for sure."
Rebecca rolled her eyes and after taking a few steps took a seat on Charles' desk. He didn't mind, he only had one chair in this place anyway and it wasn't like anyone was going to dent a steel table.
Unintentionally, of course, everyone here could probably dent steel if they tried hard enough.
"So, what brings you to my little workshop?" he asked as he ripped another compressor free from a circuit board.
Rebecca reached up and pulled out her earbud.
"Just a tune-up," she said, offering him the small piece of tech.
Charles took the bud without looking up from his work. He set the board down and grabbed the nearest screwdriver and spare part. This time, he came back with an old radio.
Not exactly what he wanted, but it would work.
Ripping off the base, Charles set to work salvaging the parts he would need. Rebecca barely paid him any mind, not that he minded if she did. Another set of eyes watching you for mistakes was never a bad thing.
What was a bad thing, is when those extra pairs of eyes start being distracting. Charles tried, he really tried, but he couldn't stop glancing at Rebecca.
For reasons beyond the obvious.
She shifted in her seat, her fingers drummed against her arm, even her foot started tapping. Charles set his tools down and tore himself away from the project.
"You alright there, Rebecca?" he asked as offhandedly as he could.
The brute nodded, but her eyes never leave the floor.
"Yeah… just thinking."
"Thinking?" Charles asked, "Better stop yourself before you get an idea, then we're all fucked."
Rebecca rolled her eyes and forced a small smile.
"Very funny."
Charles waited for her to continue, and when she didn't, he put down his tools and leaned back in his chair.
"You wanna talk about it?" he offered.
Rebecca shook her head, forcing Charles to lean his head back and make a show out of groaning for all he was worth.
"Rebecca, I can't work when someone's moping on my desk. What's on your mind?"
Rebecca didn't say a thing, her arm reaching up to steady her shoulder as best it could.
"It's… it's been two months."
Charles' eyes softened.
He should have known that was the problem.
"Rebecca, his vitals are stable." He said far more reassured than he actually felt, "If anything, he's just sleeping, nothing's killing him."
"I know!" Rebecca insisted, only for the spirit to die just as quickly as it came.
"I'm just… still not used to him being gone," she whispered.
Charles stared at the strongest woman he ever had the pleasure of meeting. The woman who could bench press a mountain couldn't even look him in the eye.
"Rebecca, he's fine," Charles repeated.
"But he's been under for so long."
Charles did his best to keep his smile up, but it did little to stop the concern from snaking its way in.
"I did the best I could with his monitoring equipment," he said, "If something was wrong, we'd know."
"Even your tech can miss things, Charles," she pointed out, "And just because he's fine physically doesn't mean something else hasn't happened. And if something has, for some reason I don't get to know about it! All I get to know is that this isn't normal!" she rants, letting her fingers dig a little into the steel.
It groaned in agony, but Rebecca didn't seem to notice.
"I mean, there's demi-god a few doors down and a perfect precog, but just because agents work in ways we don't understand, no one can give me a straight answer?! For all we know his agent just decided to shut him down, and if that happens..."
Charles held up a hand, cutting the brute off before she could go any further.
Honestly he was surprised that it worked.
"Rebecca, calm down," Charles said, "People have been in comas for a lot longer than him."
"Normal comas," Rebecca stressed.
Charles shrugs his shoulders in defeat.
"... ok yeah."
The second he admitted it, Rebecca's mood sours again. He watched as she crossed her arms, and her eyes lost all the focus they had. For a second, some part of Charles told him to let her sulk, finish his work and leave it be.
But he never listened to that part of him before, no point in starting now.
He slid his chair over and reached a hand for her shoulder. She twitched at the contact, focus returning to her eyes as Charles kept the contact for as long as she needed it.
"Hey," he whispered, "he'll still be your friend."
He brought his hand back and risked everything by sliding back to his station. Slowly, Rebecca seemed to soften. She let her hands fall to her side, and she let out a long sigh.
"Sorry," she whispered.
"Don't worry about it,"
He picked up the tools and got back to work, this time, without distractions. Fifteen minutes passed faster than Charles could blink, but at least the earbud was back at full capacity. All it took was a few new wires to replace the ones that shorted out, and a little buffer to put the shell back into shape.
"It had a little damage from air friction, but I made a few adjustments to the outer coating, should fix everything right up," he said throwing the bud back.
Rebecca caught it with one hand, putting it back in her ear a second later.
"Thanks,"
"Anytime," he said with a smile, "If you need anything else, just ask."
"I'll keep that in mind," she says, returning the smile with her own.
She did a quick hop off his desk and heads towards the elevator. Charles watched her walk for the first few steps, then his eyes wandered back to his desk.
Alright, back to work.
He took the pellet and turned it in his fingers. Setting it to the side, he clicked a few keys on his computer, bringing up the blueprints.
So, he needed another line of copper wiring for the processors. He glanced around the desk and saw a whole lot of metal, but a distinct lack of copper. Where the hell did he place that ball of extra copper? If Manton took it without telling him again, he swore to god he would make the walls of his lab continuously blare Africa.
"Actually," Rebecca called, making Charles jump in his seat.
She looks back to him, her eyes cloudy as she mulls the words over in her head.
"There is one thing that you could help with."
Charles drummed his fingers on his desk as Rebecca stood by him. He took a deep breath and put his hands together.
"Let me get this straight," he started, "You want me to ignore what Doctor Mother, Manton, and Contessa, told me I should never do?"
Rebecca fidgetted at the question, but slowly, she lets herself nod. If Charles was alone, he might have slammed his head against his desk. Manton might have a stick shoved up his ass and Doctor Mother had a mile long list wrong with her, ignoring them out of teenage spite was a necessity at this point.
But Fortuna… she'd done more than enough already.
But then, so had Rebecca.
He offered help, and right now, she couldn't look more desperate even if she tried.
Guess he's going to ignore that voice again.
"Give me an hour," he said.
He turned to his computer and out of the corner of his eye, he saw her smile.
Cracking his knuckles, Charles let himself lean back in his chair. A quick check of the clock told him that it was almost 8, almost an hour after his talk with Rebecca.
Stretching his arms, he let his ear dig into his shoulder, forcing a beep out of the hidden earbud.
"Everything's almost set up, but I can only risk a half hour," he said.
"It's more than enough," came Rebecca's voice, "Thanks."
"Just give me a ring whenever you want to head in again,"
The line goes dead in a burst of static and from his computer, Charles typed in a few quick commands. The screen flashed white, and two windows popped up. They were feeds of the exact same room. Letting his fingers fly, the feed shifted as the camera forced itself out of its stationary position to look away from a clock.
The feed jumped a bit as the feed tried to keep up with the camera. It jumped once, then twice, then it finally rested on a view of the resident golden boy asleep in his bed.
Something started to ring in the back of his head, but he pushed it aside as a prompt appeared on the feed.
Loop footage?
Yes.
He clicked enter, and the right-hand feed shut itself off, its purpose complete. A few seconds later, the left the audio managed to pick up the squeak of a door opening. Rebecca came into frame a few moments later, all but tip-toeing so she didn't make any sound. She circled the bed and took a seat on the covers taking great care not to touch anything.
He watched as she tucked a bit of hair behind her ear and smiled softly down at her friend.
"Hey Alex, I guess it's my turn to come to you, isn't it?"
Charles felt something twist a little in his stomach. A smile came to him, but it felt sour. Closing out of the program, he pulled the blueprints back to the center screen.
Where was he on that project?
Oh right, copper wiring.
Charles slowly twisted the wiring, and with a spark, he felt the metal pieces click into place, causing Cauldron's resident tinker to grin. He held up his creation, a small earbud barely bigger than a bb pellet.
Slowly, he pressed the bud up against his ear and felt everything fall silent. No wind, no creaking or clunking of metal. The entire world might as well have gone silent.
He pulled it back and felt himself grin from ear to ear.
"Son of a bitch, they work."
The feeling of joy is cut short.
His eyes narrow, and his vision goes hazy. His hand flies out, instinctively trying to catch him. Something gets knocked to the floor, and felt his fingers go slack.
Stability came eventually, a lot slower than it normally did, anyway. Charles rubbed the last of the haze out of his eye and managed to catch sight of the prototype.
Okay, maybe they were working a little too well.
Sure, they weren't finished yet, but he could go without a headache. Even if these things were the coolest tech he had managed to tinker with, migraines weren't something that he needed right now.
Output exceeding desired parameters.
Integrate dampeners by rerouting motor.
Create dampeners, integrate.
...Oh, was that it?
Sweet!
Barely another weeks work. Just a few days to make changes to the code, an hour or two for the wiring, and the power levels should balance out to a more sustainable level.
Hopefully.
Charles pushed the thought aside, everything he made always worked. Hopefully, it worked well enough that it didn't need batteries.
The last thing they needed was another David, this time with a constant headache if his tech couldn't keep up with the output.
Poor guy would probably break the building if he wasn't careful.
He reached down and grabbed the pellet. Before he threw it into the charging port as quickly as he could. Subtlety and care could jump off a cliff.
Charles didn't care if it took another hour or another day, one migraine was enough for one lifetime. He raised a hand and did a quick tap on his ear. The cold feeling of metal shot through his ear as his brain finally remembered there was something there.They were old models, one of the first things he built. But all his models did was lower the sound a bit. The new ones? Those guys were supposed to block out any frequency that could remotely exist outside the human body. Puts everything to near zero, but not completely. Unless you could cheat your way through listening, you'd send your inner ear into a tumble that would drop you faster than a flashbang.
Charles tilted his head.
Hey, that's not a bad idea. Flashbang frequency?
...
Sound bang?
...
No, Frequency grenades.
…He could make that.
Charles reached back and once he found the armrest he let himself drop into his chair. A quick push and the wheels carried him in front of a small computer. The poor thing was in desperate need of a tune-up, but one project at a time. He dropped his hands in front of the keyboard and his fingers flew across the keys. He never actually thought about what he typed, the screen just filled itself with what was necessary after a while.
Best part of his power, hands down.
Now if he could only manage that whole 'sleep is for the weak' thing that Fortuna does.
The computer rings and the screen flashes a compiling icon. Charles quickly glanced at the clock.
Barely past seven, he was early.
He cast a quick glance at the pellet, sitting in its port as the first batch of coding made its way in.
Charles ran a hand over his face, leaning back as far as his chair would let him. He could keep going with the coding, better late than never. But then again, the actual design wasn't finished, and he still needed to make a second one.
Charles looked at his computer, still flashing the icon.
He reached absentmindedly across his desk, grabbing the first piece of metal his fingers could take a hold of. He grabbed something, and he pulled back a circuit board.
Perfect.
A little tinkering and there, and he could get the base out of this.
Hopefully, it doesn't blow up, not like the last three.
Charles felt his fingers stop along the board as a thought crashed into him.
He really shouldn't tell the new guy his track record when he got these things.
His inner musings were interrupted when the screen on his computer flashed green, replacing the icon with a warning.
Visitor incoming.
Charles looked up from his work just in time to see the doors of the elevator slide open. The lovely Ms Costa-Brown took a step out, clad in the suit she had gotten from Contessa. The rip on her shoulder was enough to make Charles' smile falter a bit though. She must have just gotten back from a mission.
Letting the smile come back, the tinker waved.
"Hey Rebecca," Charles called, "Sorry about the mess, I started working and well," he gestures around the tables and rusted scrap, "you get the idea."
Rebecca laughed good-naturedly, so score one for the Tinker.
"If something was actually clean, then I'd be surprised," she said, forcing a frown out of Charles, "I don't think this place has ever been clean anyway."
Charles frowned and glanced around. As much as he didn't want to admit it, this place always was, is, and always will be, a mess. He called it his workshop, but if he was being honest, a better title would've been Organized Junkyard.
Since day one, it had been a dumping ground for everything that Charles might need or had requested. He had the equivalent of a superstore's worth of electronics and metal around him all the time. Piles would appear and disappear faster than you'd expect, but it never really evened out.
Hell, even after he made the entire game room and the elevator system he barely saw a difference. In the rare case that something did get low, Contessa always dropped by to open a portal and deliver a few new pieces.
Really, the only time this place had been clean was the day that Charles moved in.
Not that he was going to admit that.
"I swear this place has been clean. I saw the floor a month ago!"
He paused.
"It's white, by the way."
Rebecca gave him an incredibly flat look.
"It's white everywhere."
"You don't know that," Charles argued, "Have you checked every floor?"
"...why?"
"Then you don't know for sure."
Rebecca rolled her eyes and after taking a few steps took a seat on Charles' desk. He didn't mind, he only had one chair in this place anyway and it wasn't like anyone was going to dent a steel table.
Unintentionally, of course, everyone here could probably dent steel if they tried hard enough.
"So, what brings you to my little workshop?" he asked as he ripped another compressor free from a circuit board.
Rebecca reached up and pulled out her earbud.
"Just a tune-up," she said, offering him the small piece of tech.
Charles took the bud without looking up from his work. He set the board down and grabbed the nearest screwdriver and spare part. This time, he came back with an old radio.
Not exactly what he wanted, but it would work.
Ripping off the base, Charles set to work salvaging the parts he would need. Rebecca barely paid him any mind, not that he minded if she did. Another set of eyes watching you for mistakes was never a bad thing.
What was a bad thing, is when those extra pairs of eyes start being distracting. Charles tried, he really tried, but he couldn't stop glancing at Rebecca.
For reasons beyond the obvious.
She shifted in her seat, her fingers drummed against her arm, even her foot started tapping. Charles set his tools down and tore himself away from the project.
"You alright there, Rebecca?" he asked as offhandedly as he could.
The brute nodded, but her eyes never leave the floor.
"Yeah… just thinking."
"Thinking?" Charles asked, "Better stop yourself before you get an idea, then we're all fucked."
Rebecca rolled her eyes and forced a small smile.
"Very funny."
Charles waited for her to continue, and when she didn't, he put down his tools and leaned back in his chair.
"You wanna talk about it?" he offered.
Rebecca shook her head, forcing Charles to lean his head back and make a show out of groaning for all he was worth.
"Rebecca, I can't work when someone's moping on my desk. What's on your mind?"
Rebecca didn't say a thing, her arm reaching up to steady her shoulder as best it could.
"It's… it's been two months."
Charles' eyes softened.
He should have known that was the problem.
"Rebecca, his vitals are stable." He said far more reassured than he actually felt, "If anything, he's just sleeping, nothing's killing him."
"I know!" Rebecca insisted, only for the spirit to die just as quickly as it came.
"I'm just… still not used to him being gone," she whispered.
Charles stared at the strongest woman he ever had the pleasure of meeting. The woman who could bench press a mountain couldn't even look him in the eye.
"Rebecca, he's fine," Charles repeated.
"But he's been under for so long."
Charles did his best to keep his smile up, but it did little to stop the concern from snaking its way in.
"I did the best I could with his monitoring equipment," he said, "If something was wrong, we'd know."
"Even your tech can miss things, Charles," she pointed out, "And just because he's fine physically doesn't mean something else hasn't happened. And if something has, for some reason I don't get to know about it! All I get to know is that this isn't normal!" she rants, letting her fingers dig a little into the steel.
It groaned in agony, but Rebecca didn't seem to notice.
"I mean, there's demi-god a few doors down and a perfect precog, but just because agents work in ways we don't understand, no one can give me a straight answer?! For all we know his agent just decided to shut him down, and if that happens..."
Charles held up a hand, cutting the brute off before she could go any further.
Honestly he was surprised that it worked.
"Rebecca, calm down," Charles said, "People have been in comas for a lot longer than him."
"Normal comas," Rebecca stressed.
Charles shrugs his shoulders in defeat.
"... ok yeah."
The second he admitted it, Rebecca's mood sours again. He watched as she crossed her arms, and her eyes lost all the focus they had. For a second, some part of Charles told him to let her sulk, finish his work and leave it be.
But he never listened to that part of him before, no point in starting now.
He slid his chair over and reached a hand for her shoulder. She twitched at the contact, focus returning to her eyes as Charles kept the contact for as long as she needed it.
"Hey," he whispered, "he'll still be your friend."
He brought his hand back and risked everything by sliding back to his station. Slowly, Rebecca seemed to soften. She let her hands fall to her side, and she let out a long sigh.
"Sorry," she whispered.
"Don't worry about it,"
He picked up the tools and got back to work, this time, without distractions. Fifteen minutes passed faster than Charles could blink, but at least the earbud was back at full capacity. All it took was a few new wires to replace the ones that shorted out, and a little buffer to put the shell back into shape.
"It had a little damage from air friction, but I made a few adjustments to the outer coating, should fix everything right up," he said throwing the bud back.
Rebecca caught it with one hand, putting it back in her ear a second later.
"Thanks,"
"Anytime," he said with a smile, "If you need anything else, just ask."
"I'll keep that in mind," she says, returning the smile with her own.
She did a quick hop off his desk and heads towards the elevator. Charles watched her walk for the first few steps, then his eyes wandered back to his desk.
Alright, back to work.
He took the pellet and turned it in his fingers. Setting it to the side, he clicked a few keys on his computer, bringing up the blueprints.
So, he needed another line of copper wiring for the processors. He glanced around the desk and saw a whole lot of metal, but a distinct lack of copper. Where the hell did he place that ball of extra copper? If Manton took it without telling him again, he swore to god he would make the walls of his lab continuously blare Africa.
"Actually," Rebecca called, making Charles jump in his seat.
She looks back to him, her eyes cloudy as she mulls the words over in her head.
"There is one thing that you could help with."
Charles drummed his fingers on his desk as Rebecca stood by him. He took a deep breath and put his hands together.
"Let me get this straight," he started, "You want me to ignore what Doctor Mother, Manton, and Contessa, told me I should never do?"
Rebecca fidgetted at the question, but slowly, she lets herself nod. If Charles was alone, he might have slammed his head against his desk. Manton might have a stick shoved up his ass and Doctor Mother had a mile long list wrong with her, ignoring them out of teenage spite was a necessity at this point.
But Fortuna… she'd done more than enough already.
But then, so had Rebecca.
He offered help, and right now, she couldn't look more desperate even if she tried.
Guess he's going to ignore that voice again.
"Give me an hour," he said.
He turned to his computer and out of the corner of his eye, he saw her smile.
Cracking his knuckles, Charles let himself lean back in his chair. A quick check of the clock told him that it was almost 8, almost an hour after his talk with Rebecca.
Stretching his arms, he let his ear dig into his shoulder, forcing a beep out of the hidden earbud.
"Everything's almost set up, but I can only risk a half hour," he said.
"It's more than enough," came Rebecca's voice, "Thanks."
"Just give me a ring whenever you want to head in again,"
The line goes dead in a burst of static and from his computer, Charles typed in a few quick commands. The screen flashed white, and two windows popped up. They were feeds of the exact same room. Letting his fingers fly, the feed shifted as the camera forced itself out of its stationary position to look away from a clock.
The feed jumped a bit as the feed tried to keep up with the camera. It jumped once, then twice, then it finally rested on a view of the resident golden boy asleep in his bed.
Something started to ring in the back of his head, but he pushed it aside as a prompt appeared on the feed.
Loop footage?
Yes.
He clicked enter, and the right-hand feed shut itself off, its purpose complete. A few seconds later, the left the audio managed to pick up the squeak of a door opening. Rebecca came into frame a few moments later, all but tip-toeing so she didn't make any sound. She circled the bed and took a seat on the covers taking great care not to touch anything.
He watched as she tucked a bit of hair behind her ear and smiled softly down at her friend.
"Hey Alex, I guess it's my turn to come to you, isn't it?"
Charles felt something twist a little in his stomach. A smile came to him, but it felt sour. Closing out of the program, he pulled the blueprints back to the center screen.
Where was he on that project?
Oh right, copper wiring.
Last edited:
One More Normal Christmas
IKnowNothing
....What?
- Location
- I got lost so.....Where are we?
Christmas 1986, London England
It was quiet, all things considered.
The city of London felt almost asleep as the last hours of Christmas day came to a close. Yes, the day was filled with singing and partying and all that reputation destroying shit, but the night was turning out to be rather tame. Then again, Michael had taken a room in the part of town that was a good walk away from the closest bar.
A blessing and a curse, considering the thoughts plaguing him.
The apartment wasn't huge, but it wasn't small either. A single door leading into a small kitchen with an adjoining living room where Michael sat on one of two couches, putting his feet up on the coffee table. There's a small tv was propped up, always on and tuned into the local news stations. A set of stairs in the corner lead to the bedrooms. It wasn't what he was used to, but it had been his home for a while now.
The thought sent a shiver down his spine.
How long had he been here?
Two months, maybe a little more?
If he was still in his old profession, his peers would laugh at him. He always had complained about not seeing enough of the world when he was busy researching. Yet, here he was, in the city that held so much history that he couldn't even begin to study it all.
All that he'd done with his time here was memorize rotation patterns, buy the occasional snack, and pick his place to stay when everything happens.
Now, that's not to say as it was impossible for him to learn while he was here, it's just that his field lay elsewhere. In the numbers that most didn't like working with.
Yes, new technology can sweep through, and generations can raise and fall, but money would always retain its value. A long, complicated list of rules that shifted and changed almost as quickly as money moved between hands.
He didn't need to look far to see the first part of his contract. Stacks of paper stamped with dozens of different federal seals, organized into a dozen equal piles on the end of the coffee table. More was in one of the two other rooms the small apartment offered, totalling almost half a billion in US currency.
Enough money to buy a country.
Or start a war.
Michael let his head lean back against the cushion of his seat, but he still couldn't feel it. He hadn't been able to feel much, not for the last two years. He still could feel, he just needed to put more effort into making himself feel it.
And that effort would probably bring down the building and half the street.
That would have the triple effect of one; giving him a headache as the cops came in and started to blare their annoying sirens. Second; Richard would kill him for getting the money dirty while he was out working.Third and possibly worst of all, he'd wake Oliva.
Michael risks a small glance over his shoulder to the main bedroom. The door was open just enough for him to see black locks of hair hanging off the edge of a bed.
Still asleep, and without a single thing getting set on fire.
Thank the Lord for the small miracles.
And then curse him when you remember that those miracles didn't need to happen if things had played out just a little differently. If he hadn't walked out of that crash, and she hadn't been left on the street, neither of them would be here.
But that's how the world worked now.
Those that didn't deserve to keep going were given a reason without asking for it. Those that did ask for it got more than they bargained for.
It would continue, more and more until the world exploded.
Something needed to happen, some semblance of control had to be established. If not… then Michael would rather not think about the outcome.
The door to the apartment swung open, and Michael saw Richard. He gave him a wide grin, almost blinding Michael from the reflection off his teeth. He swaggered into the apartment, a bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other.
"Who's today's company?" Michael asks.
Richard set the two glasses down, popped the cap off the bottle and poured.
"Someone with a Strongbow," Richard jokes, "Hammond found it while he was buying supplies."
"So we're going even cheaper," Michael drawls, picking up his glass.
If it was possible, Richard's smile doubled in size.
"We have to prepare my friend, we can't afford any extra expenses."
Michael slowly looks over the pile of money not three feet from him.
"Sure," he says facetiously.
Richard keeps grinning like normal, passing a drink over to Michael, letting a few drops of alcohol drip onto the small coffee table. Michael gingerly picks up the glass, lazily raising it into the air. Richard raises his as well, only to down it in one gulp a second later.
Michael held himself back, looking out the window to the snowy streets below. A young couple was walking down the street. He couldn't tell, but they were probably smiling as they held one another close, keeping themselves warm through the snow.
"Not having second thoughts, are you Michael?"
Michael shakes his head.
"No, but certain details still aren't sitting too well with me."
Despite the heavy tone, Richard shrugs off his worry.
"We're doing what's necessary Michael, don't forget that."
"Hiroshima and Nagasaki were labelled as necessary back then," Michael reminds him, "but we're still wasting time arguing if it really was."
"I don't think anyone's going to argue whether or not this is necessary," Richard says, his voice going low.
Michael found himself shaking his head.
"History isn't black and white."
"And the Nazis did nothing wrong?"
Michael actually winced, in surprise, not pain. Richard set his glass down, gets off his seat and takes a few small steps towards the window. He presses his hand against the glass, watching his breath collect on the sheen. He let his eyes wonder eventually landing on the couple that Michael had seen earlier.
Michael indulged him, watching the two as they waited for the double-decker bus. The woman nearly trips on the wet staircase, but she's caught by her partner. The close call draws gasps from everyone on the first floor of the bus. Someone claps, the bus driver extends a helping hand, but everyone gets on the ride. The doors close and the metal machine makes its way to the next stop to pick up the next freezing passenger.
As they leave, Richard barks out a laugh.
"Look at them," he says, awe and disgust mixing their way into his voice, "Something as simple as falling to the ground is worth the commotion and comment of everyone within earshot. It's rather pathetic, isn't it?"
Michael shrugs.
"Normal people can have normal problems. It's the world we live in."
"But we don't live in a normal world anymore, do we?"
Michael gently let his gaze shimmy up towards Richard. The man leans against the window, letting his arms cross over one another. His smile is gone, a knowing sneer taking over.
"People can't just walk to their place of work these days, they can fly. And what's the point of having the newest car or tv when some kid can make the Manhattan Project look like something out of a second-grade science fair? Soon, people are going to accept that. It's kind of exciting, isn't it?"
"Even if it is, we can still wait like everyone else."
Richard doesn't hold back his laugh, making Michael sink back into his chair and take a drink. He watches as Richard reaches into his jacket, and pulls out the Book.
You'll seldom hear anyone within their little group talk about the journal under any kind of name. No one had seen the contents except for Richard himself. Every day, without fail, the man was looking through, reading and memorizing the contents. He must have read through the entire book a dozen times, and that was just for how long Michael had known him.
Apparently, he got the book after a grateful donation from a friend of his. Michael had never met this friend, nor had he gotten anything out of Richard about him other than that he could be trusted with what he gave.
Whatever it is that he wrote down in that journal, it was what managed to keep everything going smoothly for these last few months. Finding Michael, Olivia, Hammond, Elizabeth, Jason, acquiring funds, moving to London without a fuss.
Everything was done because of that little Book.
Michael takes another sip of his drink as Richard skims through the pages. He gets to the back and snaps the book closed.
"Well, what's the fun in waiting?"
He puts the Book back in his jacket and after a few quick steps set himself back down on the couch. He pours himself another glass and smiles.
"So I'm going to be moving our little party forward a few days."
Michael grips his glass to the point that it nearly shatters.
"You're joking," he breathes.
Richard shakes his head, his expression serious for once.
"Not this time."
Michael slowly nods as he lets himself look towards the small pocket in Richards jacket. He puts a hand protectively over the spot and winks.
"Don't worry, this wasn't written down," he says.
He takes his glass, and downs the liquid faster than a shot, only to pour himself another drink seconds afterwards.
"Isn't that a bad thing?" Michael stresses.
Richard stops pouring, his drink only half full.
"Probably," he admits, "But waiting around isn't going to help anyone."
Michael shakes his head solemnly.
"They won't like you going off script."
Richard lets out another laugh.
"Tell me something I don't know," he chuckles.
He takes in the half glass of liquid, blinking away the buzz and letting his head fall back on the couch cushion.
"They'll complain, worry, then they'll go along with it like they always were going to."
Then, he reaches into his jackets other pocket and pulls out a conductor's baton. Richard lazily swings it in the air, bringing it down to tap out a four beat rhythm.
The tapping stops, and Richard raises one finger off the baton.
"But then there's you… and you're not going to just sit back and roll over like the rest of them, are you?"
The tip of his finger hums and the light in the back of the room begins to flicker. A second later, the edge of his finger starts to glow gold. Michael let his free hand grip his seat a little tighter, his knuckles going red and white as the glow gets brighter.
And brighter.
And Michael's armrest snaps under the pressure of his grip.
Then, the colour of Richard's finger just blinks out, and Michael let out a breath he didn't remember holding in.
The hand and baton fall to the cushion with the rest of Richard's arm. He leans forward, sighs, and forces out another laugh.
"So what's it going to take to get you to play along?"
Michael grips his glass a little tighter. If Richard notices, he didn't react. Not that he would, there wasn't much that Michael could do to the man. Not when his other hand is still hidden by his jacket, and the light behind him still hadn't stopped flickering.
Michael let his eyes wander, and eventually, they settle on an open door and a few strands of black hair.
It didn't take long for a price to worm its way into him.
"If things go south, we're out," Michael says, "Both of us, no questions."
Richard gave the open doorway a side glance. His baton tapping against the seat cushion as he hums to himself.
For a brief moment, the lights go out entirely.
Then they come back and stay on.
"Done," Richard promises.
Michael lets out another breath as Richard moves the bottle a little closer to him.
"I didn't know you hated the idea that much."
"It's not that," Michael says quickly.
Richard waits and Michael shrugs.
"It's not that I don't think it should happen, it should. I'd just rather have a life afterwards."
Richard purses his lips and shrugs for the millionth time tonight.
"Fair enough," Richard admits.
He pours one last glass, lifting the small container for a toast. Leaning as far as he dared, Michael accepts the toast.
For the first time tonight, Richard smiles a grateful smile.
"Merry Christmas Michael," Richard says, tipping an imaginary hat to him.
Michael raises his glass and throws it down with a single gulp.
"And happy new year," Michael whispers.
It was quiet, all things considered.
The city of London felt almost asleep as the last hours of Christmas day came to a close. Yes, the day was filled with singing and partying and all that reputation destroying shit, but the night was turning out to be rather tame. Then again, Michael had taken a room in the part of town that was a good walk away from the closest bar.
A blessing and a curse, considering the thoughts plaguing him.
The apartment wasn't huge, but it wasn't small either. A single door leading into a small kitchen with an adjoining living room where Michael sat on one of two couches, putting his feet up on the coffee table. There's a small tv was propped up, always on and tuned into the local news stations. A set of stairs in the corner lead to the bedrooms. It wasn't what he was used to, but it had been his home for a while now.
The thought sent a shiver down his spine.
How long had he been here?
Two months, maybe a little more?
If he was still in his old profession, his peers would laugh at him. He always had complained about not seeing enough of the world when he was busy researching. Yet, here he was, in the city that held so much history that he couldn't even begin to study it all.
All that he'd done with his time here was memorize rotation patterns, buy the occasional snack, and pick his place to stay when everything happens.
Now, that's not to say as it was impossible for him to learn while he was here, it's just that his field lay elsewhere. In the numbers that most didn't like working with.
Yes, new technology can sweep through, and generations can raise and fall, but money would always retain its value. A long, complicated list of rules that shifted and changed almost as quickly as money moved between hands.
He didn't need to look far to see the first part of his contract. Stacks of paper stamped with dozens of different federal seals, organized into a dozen equal piles on the end of the coffee table. More was in one of the two other rooms the small apartment offered, totalling almost half a billion in US currency.
Enough money to buy a country.
Or start a war.
Michael let his head lean back against the cushion of his seat, but he still couldn't feel it. He hadn't been able to feel much, not for the last two years. He still could feel, he just needed to put more effort into making himself feel it.
And that effort would probably bring down the building and half the street.
That would have the triple effect of one; giving him a headache as the cops came in and started to blare their annoying sirens. Second; Richard would kill him for getting the money dirty while he was out working.Third and possibly worst of all, he'd wake Oliva.
Michael risks a small glance over his shoulder to the main bedroom. The door was open just enough for him to see black locks of hair hanging off the edge of a bed.
Still asleep, and without a single thing getting set on fire.
Thank the Lord for the small miracles.
And then curse him when you remember that those miracles didn't need to happen if things had played out just a little differently. If he hadn't walked out of that crash, and she hadn't been left on the street, neither of them would be here.
But that's how the world worked now.
Those that didn't deserve to keep going were given a reason without asking for it. Those that did ask for it got more than they bargained for.
It would continue, more and more until the world exploded.
Something needed to happen, some semblance of control had to be established. If not… then Michael would rather not think about the outcome.
The door to the apartment swung open, and Michael saw Richard. He gave him a wide grin, almost blinding Michael from the reflection off his teeth. He swaggered into the apartment, a bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other.
"Who's today's company?" Michael asks.
Richard set the two glasses down, popped the cap off the bottle and poured.
"Someone with a Strongbow," Richard jokes, "Hammond found it while he was buying supplies."
"So we're going even cheaper," Michael drawls, picking up his glass.
If it was possible, Richard's smile doubled in size.
"We have to prepare my friend, we can't afford any extra expenses."
Michael slowly looks over the pile of money not three feet from him.
"Sure," he says facetiously.
Richard keeps grinning like normal, passing a drink over to Michael, letting a few drops of alcohol drip onto the small coffee table. Michael gingerly picks up the glass, lazily raising it into the air. Richard raises his as well, only to down it in one gulp a second later.
Michael held himself back, looking out the window to the snowy streets below. A young couple was walking down the street. He couldn't tell, but they were probably smiling as they held one another close, keeping themselves warm through the snow.
"Not having second thoughts, are you Michael?"
Michael shakes his head.
"No, but certain details still aren't sitting too well with me."
Despite the heavy tone, Richard shrugs off his worry.
"We're doing what's necessary Michael, don't forget that."
"Hiroshima and Nagasaki were labelled as necessary back then," Michael reminds him, "but we're still wasting time arguing if it really was."
"I don't think anyone's going to argue whether or not this is necessary," Richard says, his voice going low.
Michael found himself shaking his head.
"History isn't black and white."
"And the Nazis did nothing wrong?"
Michael actually winced, in surprise, not pain. Richard set his glass down, gets off his seat and takes a few small steps towards the window. He presses his hand against the glass, watching his breath collect on the sheen. He let his eyes wonder eventually landing on the couple that Michael had seen earlier.
Michael indulged him, watching the two as they waited for the double-decker bus. The woman nearly trips on the wet staircase, but she's caught by her partner. The close call draws gasps from everyone on the first floor of the bus. Someone claps, the bus driver extends a helping hand, but everyone gets on the ride. The doors close and the metal machine makes its way to the next stop to pick up the next freezing passenger.
As they leave, Richard barks out a laugh.
"Look at them," he says, awe and disgust mixing their way into his voice, "Something as simple as falling to the ground is worth the commotion and comment of everyone within earshot. It's rather pathetic, isn't it?"
Michael shrugs.
"Normal people can have normal problems. It's the world we live in."
"But we don't live in a normal world anymore, do we?"
Michael gently let his gaze shimmy up towards Richard. The man leans against the window, letting his arms cross over one another. His smile is gone, a knowing sneer taking over.
"People can't just walk to their place of work these days, they can fly. And what's the point of having the newest car or tv when some kid can make the Manhattan Project look like something out of a second-grade science fair? Soon, people are going to accept that. It's kind of exciting, isn't it?"
"Even if it is, we can still wait like everyone else."
Richard doesn't hold back his laugh, making Michael sink back into his chair and take a drink. He watches as Richard reaches into his jacket, and pulls out the Book.
You'll seldom hear anyone within their little group talk about the journal under any kind of name. No one had seen the contents except for Richard himself. Every day, without fail, the man was looking through, reading and memorizing the contents. He must have read through the entire book a dozen times, and that was just for how long Michael had known him.
Apparently, he got the book after a grateful donation from a friend of his. Michael had never met this friend, nor had he gotten anything out of Richard about him other than that he could be trusted with what he gave.
Whatever it is that he wrote down in that journal, it was what managed to keep everything going smoothly for these last few months. Finding Michael, Olivia, Hammond, Elizabeth, Jason, acquiring funds, moving to London without a fuss.
Everything was done because of that little Book.
Michael takes another sip of his drink as Richard skims through the pages. He gets to the back and snaps the book closed.
"Well, what's the fun in waiting?"
He puts the Book back in his jacket and after a few quick steps set himself back down on the couch. He pours himself another glass and smiles.
"So I'm going to be moving our little party forward a few days."
Michael grips his glass to the point that it nearly shatters.
"You're joking," he breathes.
Richard shakes his head, his expression serious for once.
"Not this time."
Michael slowly nods as he lets himself look towards the small pocket in Richards jacket. He puts a hand protectively over the spot and winks.
"Don't worry, this wasn't written down," he says.
He takes his glass, and downs the liquid faster than a shot, only to pour himself another drink seconds afterwards.
"Isn't that a bad thing?" Michael stresses.
Richard stops pouring, his drink only half full.
"Probably," he admits, "But waiting around isn't going to help anyone."
Michael shakes his head solemnly.
"They won't like you going off script."
Richard lets out another laugh.
"Tell me something I don't know," he chuckles.
He takes in the half glass of liquid, blinking away the buzz and letting his head fall back on the couch cushion.
"They'll complain, worry, then they'll go along with it like they always were going to."
Then, he reaches into his jackets other pocket and pulls out a conductor's baton. Richard lazily swings it in the air, bringing it down to tap out a four beat rhythm.
The tapping stops, and Richard raises one finger off the baton.
"But then there's you… and you're not going to just sit back and roll over like the rest of them, are you?"
The tip of his finger hums and the light in the back of the room begins to flicker. A second later, the edge of his finger starts to glow gold. Michael let his free hand grip his seat a little tighter, his knuckles going red and white as the glow gets brighter.
And brighter.
And Michael's armrest snaps under the pressure of his grip.
Then, the colour of Richard's finger just blinks out, and Michael let out a breath he didn't remember holding in.
The hand and baton fall to the cushion with the rest of Richard's arm. He leans forward, sighs, and forces out another laugh.
"So what's it going to take to get you to play along?"
Michael grips his glass a little tighter. If Richard notices, he didn't react. Not that he would, there wasn't much that Michael could do to the man. Not when his other hand is still hidden by his jacket, and the light behind him still hadn't stopped flickering.
Michael let his eyes wander, and eventually, they settle on an open door and a few strands of black hair.
It didn't take long for a price to worm its way into him.
"If things go south, we're out," Michael says, "Both of us, no questions."
Richard gave the open doorway a side glance. His baton tapping against the seat cushion as he hums to himself.
For a brief moment, the lights go out entirely.
Then they come back and stay on.
"Done," Richard promises.
Michael lets out another breath as Richard moves the bottle a little closer to him.
"I didn't know you hated the idea that much."
"It's not that," Michael says quickly.
Richard waits and Michael shrugs.
"It's not that I don't think it should happen, it should. I'd just rather have a life afterwards."
Richard purses his lips and shrugs for the millionth time tonight.
"Fair enough," Richard admits.
He pours one last glass, lifting the small container for a toast. Leaning as far as he dared, Michael accepts the toast.
For the first time tonight, Richard smiles a grateful smile.
"Merry Christmas Michael," Richard says, tipping an imaginary hat to him.
Michael raises his glass and throws it down with a single gulp.
"And happy new year," Michael whispers.
A Man With A Match
IKnowNothing
....What?
- Location
- I got lost so.....Where are we?
London, England
Two hours From Now...
"As we head into the week, I'm sorry to say that all Londoners had better keep their coats on and fires burning as heavy snows continue to fall across the region, Cambridge suffering the worst of it. The snow has left no less than a dozen small towns within the region blocked off. Relief services have been called in, doing all they can to get all those stranded within their homes. Thankfully, hopeful reports have the entire effort finished within the week. Luckily the snow has stayed away from the Westminster district, leaving most Londoners very thankfu-"
The tv flickers as the channel changes to yet another news station.
"-elford, the new town created in Shropshire some twenty years ago, is reported to have the highest unemployment rate in the West Midlands region. The rate is higher than the unemployment of all it's neighbouring towns including the likes of Wolverhampton, Brierley Hill, Wednesbury and Bilston just to name a fe-"
A click and the channel changes again.
"After just three Months, Prince Edmond has officially left the Royal marine-"
"Former Prime Minister Harry Macmillan is finally laid to rest in the village of Horsted Keynes. The late prime minister died this last year at the ripe old age of 92-"
"The economy is not getting better. We were told that the unemployment rate would fall below 3,000,000 by the end of the last year, but no recent report has come out in support of-"
"As the heavy snow comes down around England, the House of Parliament is slowly filling back up. The members of the 49th Parliament meets for this month as they prepare for their final terms. The victors of the 1983 General Election will convene for a final time, conducting the rigorous process of dissolving in time for the General election taking place this June."
The television flicked off, forcing the screen to black and saving the poor listener from any more of the grating voice of the anchor. Richard Bailey grunted as he stretched his legs. The feeling of sitting down for hours on end had gotten to him. He could barely feel his arm anymore, and the feeling boredom had long since overtaken his every thought.
Waiting for the show to start, it's always the worst part. The phone next to him rings, and all feeling of fatigue is gone. He snatched the receiver before the first ring was finished.
"Yes?"
"Everything's been wired, and the underground's all set up."
Richard smiled.
"Any complications?"
"None that I could see. I've got Sharah-"
"Crystal," Richard corrected, tapping an aggravated finger against the armrest, "Her name is Crystal, remember?"
There's a nervous chuckle on the other end of the line.
"Right, I've got Crystal and Tempest here. Tempest's been doing her little dance for the last few hours. According to her, we can start the second you hang up."
Richard hummed, stroking his chin. His smile slowly widened as the perfect thought came to him.
"No, don't start until I give the signal. The second you see it, meet me at the rendezvous point."
"Got it… what's the signal again?"
Richard chuckled, "You'll know what it is."
He clicked the receiver, cutting off the call. He dropped the phone and grabbing his jacket, he threw it on and stomped out of the apartment. Only a single flight of stairs separated him from the rest of the capital city. He skipped down the steps, tapping his fingers on the guide rail.
Bump-bada-bump-bump-bump!
His feet hit the ground floor with a bang, finishing the little tune with a magnum opus. He always liked those kinds of symphonies. There was an absolute beauty to them that he found mesmerising to witness.
The small beginnings, where you could be forgiven for falling asleep from the lack of noise. The lack of change, of any real excitement. Just a slog of events that somehow define every note of every day.
But then, there's a change, a little click that turns your head. Not many normals notice it, but the few that do see it are the intended audience. They latch onto the sound, follow it everywhere it goes. As the song goes on, more start to notice. Some ignore it; others think it's just a coincidence. Then the pace increases, more notice, but there are still the ignorant few who couldn't turn their ears and face the music.
The composer knows this, and he prepares for it.
So when the audience least expects it, the symphony explodes into life. Sound erupts from everything that can make it, drowning every sense until everything is consumed. The crash of a drum draws the eyes, the smash of the tambourine takes it away. The violins stretch and roar to the high heavens. No matter where you are if you're in the audience, there's something that forces you to notice it.
Young, old. Ignorant or genius, the music draws them all in.
And eventually, the sound builds till the ceiling threatens to burst.
Then the ending comes, the most crucial moment.
The last taste the audience is allowed to savour. The last thing they remember, allowing them to frame the entire work in a positive or negative light. And out of all the moments, the ending has the most variations. Some symphonies slow to a stop, letting the audience slow with it. They're allowed to rest, appreciate and fall back into the dull lull of normality. The best endings though are the ones that just stop. All the sound simply cuts off, leaving the audience with a question that no one wants to answer.
What happens now?
All that noise, all that commotion, all that build up, yet this is how it ends? It couldn't be how it ends, or is it? Will something happen next? No one knows, not even the conductor.
Pushing the door open, Richard smiled at the winter snow falling down. Stepping into the street, the wind blew across the street, making those brave enough to brave the roads bury themselves further into their coats. The cold didn't bother him; he didn't even feel the wind. His jacket didn't sway in the wind like everyone else's, and the snow didn't gather on his head. There was only a small prick of cold only to be snuffed away.
He didn't need to worry, so he just walked down the street without a care in the world. A few stopped to stare, bewilderment as he effortlessly made his way through the weather. Others though, they just kept on walking towards the apartments. All that mattered to them was that they could escape what they couldn't control.
Cowards.
The day wasn't going to get any better by running from the issue. Everyone had what they brought with them for the day, and if they'd prepared, that's all that they needed.
A changed man like Richard didn't need to run. He hadn't felt the need to run from anything in almost five years. Not since he survived that sinking ship. Since that thing descended from the sky.
The image had long since burned itself into his head. A man with gleaming golden skin, and flowing brown hair. Built like Hercules and with an aura to match, the man had appeared out of nowhere. It merely floated on air, the impossibility almost trivial with what Richard knew now.
He remembered that it looked at him. Orbs of gold burying themselves into him without his consent. Then, in a flash, it was gone, never to be seen again even after all these years. No one talked about it, out of everyone that made it out of that godforsaken ocean, not a word was said. Well, all except that idiot who couldn't shut his mouth when the reporters started asking questions. They didn't believe him, why would they? Flying golden men, what the hell was he talking about? Richard could remember one of the reporters trying not to laugh at the story as he wrote it down.
The poor man would be eating every word of disbelief he uttered that day, in just a little bit, everyone would.
Richard stopped, his eyes finally focusing on the flags lining the street. Parliament Square Garden. A lovely place when in season, but with the snow covering almost every inch of green.
A pity, he would have prefered seeing something sweet before everything started burning.
Looked up, Big Ben towered over Great George St, the houses of parliament and even the palace of Westminster. Once, this place represented the center of one of the greatest empires to stake its claim on the world. Now, nothing less than a tourist trap, stupid and annoying.
He kept walking, passing the hordes of unchanged until he stood next to Winston Churchill. Or at least, the statue of him. Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out his trusty baton. Tapping it against the copper statue, Richard started the downbeat. There was no music, except for the beat that he whispered. Some stopped, some stared, he paid them no mind.
He kept up the beat, until the crescendo.
He pointed his baton at the Tower of Big Ben, and the tip glowed gold. A beam of light exploded out of the baton, streaking through the air and smashing into the tower.
The famous bell didn't even ring as the beam effortlessly slices through the famous monument. Richard heard someone scream, but he ignored that as well. A flick of his wrist and the beam bisected the building with little effort. Another flick, and another cut.
Then another, and another.
The crumbling sound of the building drew dozens of car horns as the once great tower fell to the ground, smashing against the street, crushing a few insignificant normals.
Richard smiled, putting down his baton as the normals around him continued to run and scream. He glanced towards Westminster, and a few of those guards in the stupid hats were looking his way. He flicks his baton their way, and the golden beam fires out.
The men were dust before they knew what was happening to them.
A few cars and normals died as well, but they were in the way.
The ground shook, making Richard's smile grow ever larger. In the distance, he heard the sound of asphalt crumbling as it caved in on itself.
The London underground, final stop coming up, whether you like it or not.
Just as a chuckle escapes him, the snow stops falling. Tempest, always the woman for the job. Cars still blared their horns; the stupid, annoying, disgusting sounds had no place in this piece! A flick of his wrist, and the beam springs out. Cars are cut, people, plants, even a building. In a second, hundreds of pounds of metal and gore fall to the floor.
Not the best sight, but at least there wasn't any more noise around here.
Something screams in the back of Richard's head. His warning, always fateful. The descent was far from graceful. The mountainous man crashed with the force of a mortar, tearing up the ground, sending cracks and rocks everywhere. A few rocks dissolved against Richards skin, flashing to dust and nothingness, letting the man sigh at the man as he walked out of his creator.
"I remember telling you to be discrete," Richard commented.
The dust settles, letting Michal, cradling Olivia in his arms, step out of the crater. His choice of attire wasn't what Richard would've thought from the man. Close personal black plate armour over his chest and head, but leaving his arms bare except for a shirt of chainmail that leads to his forearms. His helmet looks almost demonic, a jet black standard knight's helm with black spikes jutting out from the end. Red paint outlined his mouth and eyes, giving Richard the impression he was glaring at him for just existing in front of him.
Truly, it fit the persona of the man who called himself Onslaught.
A small pouch hung loosely from his hip, the brown fabric clashing poorly with the rest of his armour, but Richard could make an exception in this case.
Jumping from his grip, stretching her back, Olivia glared at Michal behind her mask. Hers was a much more straightforward approach. A red bodysuit with pieces of black armour shaped like flames sprouting from her shoulder blades as well as protecting her vitals. Her mask, however, is a simple crimson red domino mask.
It wasn't much, but when your work was intended to speak for you, you didn't need to do much. A beautiful Inferno to warm this little party.
Onslaught looked around, his eyes lingering on the scene before him. His fingers tensed but did nothing more beyond ripping the pouch from his belt.
"Sure," he grumbles.
Throwing the pouch at Richard, the conductor caught it with one hand. He let his gaze sweep over the garden.
Not a pretty sight, not at all.
Inferno shivers, lighting a fire on her palm while Onslaught's fingers continued to twitch.
"Onslaught," the knight glanced Richard's way, no doubt raising an eyebrow behind his helm.
Richard pointed, across the Thames.
"Stretch your legs some more, and please clean up the trash."
Onslaught followed his finger, his eyes landing on the row of buildings just beyond the river. He didn't ask what Richard meant; there was no need. He broke out into a jog, his steps crashing against the cement as he made his way into the street. With a mighty crash, the man shot off the ground, ignoring all unchanged laws of physics. In a second, he was nothing but a black dot soaring over the river.
Whistling as the distant sounds of falling buildings and bending metal filled the air, Richard put a golden finger straight through the fabric, opening it, ignoring all those little distractions. Reaching in, Richard pulls out a familiar worn fedora. He slaps the hat on his head, a finger trailing the rim for a second. The second thing he pulls is a small earbud. A little work and it's in his ear where it belongs.
A spark, and a wince, and the familiar sound of static fills him. The last thing is a porcelain mask, entirely unremarkable, save for the single black music note design on the center. Clasping it over his face, Richard turns to the House of Parliament as the sounds of siren's wail in the distance.
Reaching to his ear, Richard waited for the static of connection to disappear.
"Drone, lockdown the building. Crystal, make sure no one gets close," He ordered.
"Done."
"Not a problem."
A smile of satisfaction spread across his lips.
Four years of planning, millions of dollars, everything was finally coming together. Richard walked forward, Inferno trailing behind him, the snow melting around her as he felt the heat rise. He was vaguely aware that more fools showed up, but Inferno barely had to flick her wrist to send streams of white-hot flame their way. There were no screams, her flames turning them to ash before their small minds could realize what was happening. Small mercies for those that didn't deserve it. As it stood her fingers lingered too long on her victims, but she would do her duty.
For a little while longer, she needed to play her part.
Richard whistled a different tune as the distant sound of destruction ringed out as Onslaught continued to prove himself worthy of his namesake. Plenty of noise to get everyone's attention.
By now news crews were already reporting the disaster. Hundreds of stories will be circling the country within ten minutes. In an hour, the world will be watching.
The perfect audience.
Richard eagerly rubbed his hands together. It was all coming along very nicely, all thanks to the Book. Tapping his chest, the leather-bound notebook sat safe and sound.
According to it, with this display, it was done. The beginning was finished, the pace was quickening, the world was watching.
Soon, Richard's true Symphony would finally begin.
And the world will be moved, whether it wanted to or not.
Two hours From Now...
"As we head into the week, I'm sorry to say that all Londoners had better keep their coats on and fires burning as heavy snows continue to fall across the region, Cambridge suffering the worst of it. The snow has left no less than a dozen small towns within the region blocked off. Relief services have been called in, doing all they can to get all those stranded within their homes. Thankfully, hopeful reports have the entire effort finished within the week. Luckily the snow has stayed away from the Westminster district, leaving most Londoners very thankfu-"
The tv flickers as the channel changes to yet another news station.
"-elford, the new town created in Shropshire some twenty years ago, is reported to have the highest unemployment rate in the West Midlands region. The rate is higher than the unemployment of all it's neighbouring towns including the likes of Wolverhampton, Brierley Hill, Wednesbury and Bilston just to name a fe-"
A click and the channel changes again.
"After just three Months, Prince Edmond has officially left the Royal marine-"
"Former Prime Minister Harry Macmillan is finally laid to rest in the village of Horsted Keynes. The late prime minister died this last year at the ripe old age of 92-"
"The economy is not getting better. We were told that the unemployment rate would fall below 3,000,000 by the end of the last year, but no recent report has come out in support of-"
"As the heavy snow comes down around England, the House of Parliament is slowly filling back up. The members of the 49th Parliament meets for this month as they prepare for their final terms. The victors of the 1983 General Election will convene for a final time, conducting the rigorous process of dissolving in time for the General election taking place this June."
The television flicked off, forcing the screen to black and saving the poor listener from any more of the grating voice of the anchor. Richard Bailey grunted as he stretched his legs. The feeling of sitting down for hours on end had gotten to him. He could barely feel his arm anymore, and the feeling boredom had long since overtaken his every thought.
Waiting for the show to start, it's always the worst part. The phone next to him rings, and all feeling of fatigue is gone. He snatched the receiver before the first ring was finished.
"Yes?"
"Everything's been wired, and the underground's all set up."
Richard smiled.
"Any complications?"
"None that I could see. I've got Sharah-"
"Crystal," Richard corrected, tapping an aggravated finger against the armrest, "Her name is Crystal, remember?"
There's a nervous chuckle on the other end of the line.
"Right, I've got Crystal and Tempest here. Tempest's been doing her little dance for the last few hours. According to her, we can start the second you hang up."
Richard hummed, stroking his chin. His smile slowly widened as the perfect thought came to him.
"No, don't start until I give the signal. The second you see it, meet me at the rendezvous point."
"Got it… what's the signal again?"
Richard chuckled, "You'll know what it is."
He clicked the receiver, cutting off the call. He dropped the phone and grabbing his jacket, he threw it on and stomped out of the apartment. Only a single flight of stairs separated him from the rest of the capital city. He skipped down the steps, tapping his fingers on the guide rail.
Bump-bada-bump-bump-bump!
His feet hit the ground floor with a bang, finishing the little tune with a magnum opus. He always liked those kinds of symphonies. There was an absolute beauty to them that he found mesmerising to witness.
The small beginnings, where you could be forgiven for falling asleep from the lack of noise. The lack of change, of any real excitement. Just a slog of events that somehow define every note of every day.
But then, there's a change, a little click that turns your head. Not many normals notice it, but the few that do see it are the intended audience. They latch onto the sound, follow it everywhere it goes. As the song goes on, more start to notice. Some ignore it; others think it's just a coincidence. Then the pace increases, more notice, but there are still the ignorant few who couldn't turn their ears and face the music.
The composer knows this, and he prepares for it.
So when the audience least expects it, the symphony explodes into life. Sound erupts from everything that can make it, drowning every sense until everything is consumed. The crash of a drum draws the eyes, the smash of the tambourine takes it away. The violins stretch and roar to the high heavens. No matter where you are if you're in the audience, there's something that forces you to notice it.
Young, old. Ignorant or genius, the music draws them all in.
And eventually, the sound builds till the ceiling threatens to burst.
Then the ending comes, the most crucial moment.
The last taste the audience is allowed to savour. The last thing they remember, allowing them to frame the entire work in a positive or negative light. And out of all the moments, the ending has the most variations. Some symphonies slow to a stop, letting the audience slow with it. They're allowed to rest, appreciate and fall back into the dull lull of normality. The best endings though are the ones that just stop. All the sound simply cuts off, leaving the audience with a question that no one wants to answer.
What happens now?
All that noise, all that commotion, all that build up, yet this is how it ends? It couldn't be how it ends, or is it? Will something happen next? No one knows, not even the conductor.
Pushing the door open, Richard smiled at the winter snow falling down. Stepping into the street, the wind blew across the street, making those brave enough to brave the roads bury themselves further into their coats. The cold didn't bother him; he didn't even feel the wind. His jacket didn't sway in the wind like everyone else's, and the snow didn't gather on his head. There was only a small prick of cold only to be snuffed away.
He didn't need to worry, so he just walked down the street without a care in the world. A few stopped to stare, bewilderment as he effortlessly made his way through the weather. Others though, they just kept on walking towards the apartments. All that mattered to them was that they could escape what they couldn't control.
Cowards.
The day wasn't going to get any better by running from the issue. Everyone had what they brought with them for the day, and if they'd prepared, that's all that they needed.
A changed man like Richard didn't need to run. He hadn't felt the need to run from anything in almost five years. Not since he survived that sinking ship. Since that thing descended from the sky.
The image had long since burned itself into his head. A man with gleaming golden skin, and flowing brown hair. Built like Hercules and with an aura to match, the man had appeared out of nowhere. It merely floated on air, the impossibility almost trivial with what Richard knew now.
He remembered that it looked at him. Orbs of gold burying themselves into him without his consent. Then, in a flash, it was gone, never to be seen again even after all these years. No one talked about it, out of everyone that made it out of that godforsaken ocean, not a word was said. Well, all except that idiot who couldn't shut his mouth when the reporters started asking questions. They didn't believe him, why would they? Flying golden men, what the hell was he talking about? Richard could remember one of the reporters trying not to laugh at the story as he wrote it down.
The poor man would be eating every word of disbelief he uttered that day, in just a little bit, everyone would.
Richard stopped, his eyes finally focusing on the flags lining the street. Parliament Square Garden. A lovely place when in season, but with the snow covering almost every inch of green.
A pity, he would have prefered seeing something sweet before everything started burning.
Looked up, Big Ben towered over Great George St, the houses of parliament and even the palace of Westminster. Once, this place represented the center of one of the greatest empires to stake its claim on the world. Now, nothing less than a tourist trap, stupid and annoying.
He kept walking, passing the hordes of unchanged until he stood next to Winston Churchill. Or at least, the statue of him. Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out his trusty baton. Tapping it against the copper statue, Richard started the downbeat. There was no music, except for the beat that he whispered. Some stopped, some stared, he paid them no mind.
He kept up the beat, until the crescendo.
He pointed his baton at the Tower of Big Ben, and the tip glowed gold. A beam of light exploded out of the baton, streaking through the air and smashing into the tower.
The famous bell didn't even ring as the beam effortlessly slices through the famous monument. Richard heard someone scream, but he ignored that as well. A flick of his wrist and the beam bisected the building with little effort. Another flick, and another cut.
Then another, and another.
The crumbling sound of the building drew dozens of car horns as the once great tower fell to the ground, smashing against the street, crushing a few insignificant normals.
Richard smiled, putting down his baton as the normals around him continued to run and scream. He glanced towards Westminster, and a few of those guards in the stupid hats were looking his way. He flicks his baton their way, and the golden beam fires out.
The men were dust before they knew what was happening to them.
A few cars and normals died as well, but they were in the way.
The ground shook, making Richard's smile grow ever larger. In the distance, he heard the sound of asphalt crumbling as it caved in on itself.
The London underground, final stop coming up, whether you like it or not.
Just as a chuckle escapes him, the snow stops falling. Tempest, always the woman for the job. Cars still blared their horns; the stupid, annoying, disgusting sounds had no place in this piece! A flick of his wrist, and the beam springs out. Cars are cut, people, plants, even a building. In a second, hundreds of pounds of metal and gore fall to the floor.
Not the best sight, but at least there wasn't any more noise around here.
Something screams in the back of Richard's head. His warning, always fateful. The descent was far from graceful. The mountainous man crashed with the force of a mortar, tearing up the ground, sending cracks and rocks everywhere. A few rocks dissolved against Richards skin, flashing to dust and nothingness, letting the man sigh at the man as he walked out of his creator.
"I remember telling you to be discrete," Richard commented.
The dust settles, letting Michal, cradling Olivia in his arms, step out of the crater. His choice of attire wasn't what Richard would've thought from the man. Close personal black plate armour over his chest and head, but leaving his arms bare except for a shirt of chainmail that leads to his forearms. His helmet looks almost demonic, a jet black standard knight's helm with black spikes jutting out from the end. Red paint outlined his mouth and eyes, giving Richard the impression he was glaring at him for just existing in front of him.
Truly, it fit the persona of the man who called himself Onslaught.
A small pouch hung loosely from his hip, the brown fabric clashing poorly with the rest of his armour, but Richard could make an exception in this case.
Jumping from his grip, stretching her back, Olivia glared at Michal behind her mask. Hers was a much more straightforward approach. A red bodysuit with pieces of black armour shaped like flames sprouting from her shoulder blades as well as protecting her vitals. Her mask, however, is a simple crimson red domino mask.
It wasn't much, but when your work was intended to speak for you, you didn't need to do much. A beautiful Inferno to warm this little party.
Onslaught looked around, his eyes lingering on the scene before him. His fingers tensed but did nothing more beyond ripping the pouch from his belt.
"Sure," he grumbles.
Throwing the pouch at Richard, the conductor caught it with one hand. He let his gaze sweep over the garden.
Not a pretty sight, not at all.
Inferno shivers, lighting a fire on her palm while Onslaught's fingers continued to twitch.
"Onslaught," the knight glanced Richard's way, no doubt raising an eyebrow behind his helm.
Richard pointed, across the Thames.
"Stretch your legs some more, and please clean up the trash."
Onslaught followed his finger, his eyes landing on the row of buildings just beyond the river. He didn't ask what Richard meant; there was no need. He broke out into a jog, his steps crashing against the cement as he made his way into the street. With a mighty crash, the man shot off the ground, ignoring all unchanged laws of physics. In a second, he was nothing but a black dot soaring over the river.
Whistling as the distant sounds of falling buildings and bending metal filled the air, Richard put a golden finger straight through the fabric, opening it, ignoring all those little distractions. Reaching in, Richard pulls out a familiar worn fedora. He slaps the hat on his head, a finger trailing the rim for a second. The second thing he pulls is a small earbud. A little work and it's in his ear where it belongs.
A spark, and a wince, and the familiar sound of static fills him. The last thing is a porcelain mask, entirely unremarkable, save for the single black music note design on the center. Clasping it over his face, Richard turns to the House of Parliament as the sounds of siren's wail in the distance.
Reaching to his ear, Richard waited for the static of connection to disappear.
"Drone, lockdown the building. Crystal, make sure no one gets close," He ordered.
"Done."
"Not a problem."
A smile of satisfaction spread across his lips.
Four years of planning, millions of dollars, everything was finally coming together. Richard walked forward, Inferno trailing behind him, the snow melting around her as he felt the heat rise. He was vaguely aware that more fools showed up, but Inferno barely had to flick her wrist to send streams of white-hot flame their way. There were no screams, her flames turning them to ash before their small minds could realize what was happening. Small mercies for those that didn't deserve it. As it stood her fingers lingered too long on her victims, but she would do her duty.
For a little while longer, she needed to play her part.
Richard whistled a different tune as the distant sound of destruction ringed out as Onslaught continued to prove himself worthy of his namesake. Plenty of noise to get everyone's attention.
By now news crews were already reporting the disaster. Hundreds of stories will be circling the country within ten minutes. In an hour, the world will be watching.
The perfect audience.
Richard eagerly rubbed his hands together. It was all coming along very nicely, all thanks to the Book. Tapping his chest, the leather-bound notebook sat safe and sound.
According to it, with this display, it was done. The beginning was finished, the pace was quickening, the world was watching.
Soon, Richard's true Symphony would finally begin.
And the world will be moved, whether it wanted to or not.
Last edited:
Changing the Board
Archshot
Scion of a Sunken City
- Location
- Amaurot
Berlin, Germany
Red eyes calmly met blue, as a well-dressed young man sized up his latest opponent without the slightest bit of fear, analyzing the older parahuman in an instant, noting the lack of wounds on the man despite the bullet holes in his clothes, and the blood dripping from his fists.
Enhanced strength and durability. Likely speed as well, given how common this particular type of power was. No other powers apparent at first glance.
All in all, easily dealt with, like the various other parahumans he'd encountered today.
The young man smiled pleasantly, not a single hint of his thoughts showing on his face.
"I don't suppose I could convince you to surrender?"
The man rushing him was answer enough. Bishop resisted the urge to sigh. The severe lack of rudimentary observational skills most people had was rather disheartening. An instant later, it was over, the man unconscious, and Bishop's clothes not even the slightest bit ruffled.
Fortunately, that should have been the last of the parahumans that needed to be dealt with here, according to the information he'd received. Time to move on to the next location, though he wasn't quite sure what that was yet. Paris, perhaps.
Before the young man could think on that any further, a sudden ringing noise broke the silence, and he paused, before smoothly withdrawing an odd device from the inside of his coat, pressing one of the various buttons on its surface and holding it to his ear.
"Report."
"Arthur Reynolds, yes?"
At the unfamiliar voice, laced with exhaustion and no discernible accent, Bishop's eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
"Yes, as I'm perfectly sure you're aware. May I help you?"
"Excellent. My name is Roland King, though I imagine you would know me by my alias; Oracle," the voice chimes back, that hint of exhaustion quashed by… Hope? "I imagine that Sovereign may have used a number of choice words to describe me to you in the past, but I hope that we can ignore that for the moment."
Oracle? That pseudonym did sound familiar. A precognitive that sold his services to those that could afford it, as memory served. More importantly, he was known as never having been incorrect. How interesting, Bishop mused, and only a trained eye would be able to notice his minute relaxation.
"If my assumptions about why you are contacting me now of all times are correct, then yes, for the moment."
There's a quiet sigh from the other end, and then a very faint tapping noise starts up. Something metal against a table of some sort, maybe?
"A few moments ago, contact with the group I was supporting against Symphony and his own faction was cut off. An oversight, on my part, but not unexpected. Without my direct help, the consequent damage to London will be unacceptable. I doubt there would be any casualties from either group, but that isn't what's important at this stage, as I'm sure you'll agree."
Bishop let out a hum of thought at that. The number of groups that were able to support an assault on someone on the level of Symphony could be counted on one hand. Although one stood out more than others. The ones that Sovereign got in contact with, the ones who somehow gave him his powers. But only on the condition that he keep an undisclosed status quo.
"I believe I know where you are going with this. I take it you are aware of my associates?"
The tapping stops, temporarily, before starting up again.
"Of course, as well as all of your powers and how well trained you all are. I have no intention of hiding that. That also means I'm aware of-"
Before he can continue, there's the sound of a cough that comes through, which devolves into a full-on fit. It continues for a few moments before he stops, and when he starts speaking again, there's an almost wetness to his voice that wasn't there before.
"My apologies. As I was saying, I know your powers, and that you're more than capable of arriving here immediately. Would you be willing?"
There was only one answer Bishop could give to that.
"Of course, though my associate may be unable to provide transportation, given the current situation. Would you happen to have any alternatives?"
"There is one alternative," Oracle responds immediately, voice still somewhat husky, "But your option would be preferable. I will see if I can't find a way to assist his situation from here."
"Then we have an accord, Mr. King, though when all is said and done, we must sit down and talk," Bishop comments politely, "I insist."
Again, the tapping from the other end stops, and this time doesn't start back up.
"If that's the price of your assistance, I'll gladly pay it. Now, if you would…?"
"Of course. I shall arrive shortly."
And without any further ado, he presses the same button, disconnecting the call before just as suddenly starting another, waiting patiently for the recipient to answer.
One ring.
Two.
Thr--
"OH son of a-What do you want?!"
Ah, good old Paladin. As charming as always.
"Hello to you too, Paladin. I seem to require transport to London, if you're free."
Silence met him on the other end of the call.
"Transport… right now?"
Bishop actually pauses at that, pulling the communicator away from his ear to give it an odd stare for a moment, as if the man on the other end could somehow see it, before putting it back to his ear.
"Of course right now. Do you even have to ask?"
"Actually, yes I do, I'm a little busy at the moment."
An explosion throws the line into static, only for what sounded like a strong gust of wind coming into the room.
"So the Nazi's are mad."
Nazi's? Just what kind of trouble had Paladin gotten himself into this time?
Said knight gave Bishop a long sigh.
"Long story short, the Third Reich is restarting in New York under the command of some asshole calling himself Allfather."
Bishop's lips pursed in distaste.
The Third Reich. Lovely. Just one more thing to deal with when time permitted.
"Fortunately, I believe help should be arriving shortly."
"We're not dead yet so it could be here already."
"In a city filled with Nazi's."
"... There is no pleasing you."
Resisting the urge to sigh himself, Bishop's tone was drier than the desert.
"As much as I am enjoying your insane banter, this is not the time. Can you get here or not?"
"Getting there won't be the problem."
"Getting back will be."
"We will deal with that when the time comes. If nothing else, you can assist me in London."
The line cracks, then goes dead. A second later, the temperature around Bishop goes arctic. Right next to him, a black mass drags itself from the floor. Textureless at first only to slowly gain arms, legs, and features. The black color fades, revealing skin and clothes. As the last of the black leaves him, Paladin gasps for air doubling over and only managing to catch himself by grabbing Bishop's suit. Far too used to this, Bishop doesn't react, instead just putting his communicator away with some difficulty and waiting for the man to recover.
He spits up… something, wiping his mouth with a grimace.
"Ugh, anyone who says long distance teleporting is a great power can kiss my ass."
Bishop smiles slightly.
"Unfortunately, it is also extremely useful," he says wryly, "On to London as soon as you are ready, please."
"Yeah, just," Paladin blanches, "Give me a second."
And without further adieu, Paladin left the rest of his lunch on the floor. It took him a second to stop, and when he did, he reached up and pulled Bishop's handkerchief from his pocket. Bishop doesn't react to the sudden invasion of his personal space, only resolving once more to never tell the other man situations like this are why he carries one around in the first place. For all his love of social situations, that was one conversation he would prefer to never have.
"Right," Paladin says, trying to stuff the used handkerchief back into Bishop's pocket, only for it to fly off in a random direction, "Here's hoping we don't get shot."
He holds out a hand to Bishop, which the younger man takes without any hesitation. From under Paladin, the black mass returns. It covers his body in an instant, and with his direct touch to Bishop, it envelopes him as well.
Bishop was used to a great many things, but Paladin's method of transportation was not something one could get used to. Or at least, he didn't allow you to get used to it. It was like jumping into ice cold water. Everything goes into shock and for a second, your mind doesn't know what to do in the new environment.
Paladin's travel was that moment sustained.
You can't breathe, your vision swims and no matter how hard you try you don't know how long you have been under. All you know is that when you return, you need to breathe. And the moment they resurface, Bishop does just that, taking in as much air as he can while still taking in their new surroundings, his face just the slightest bit pale. Paladin is on the floor, his face matted with sweat like he just finished running a marathon.
"Oh… great… everything's on fire… fantastic."
Picking up his associate with care, Bishop moves him over to a nearby wall and props him up against it, taking in his surroundings once more now that he's recovered, his eyes eventually finding an innocuous pile of ash, and he stares at it for a few moments in silence, his expression unreadable.
"...That idiot," he finally says, tone just the slightest bit melancholic, "I told him he would die if he came."
Tearing his eyes away from the remains, such as they were, he stares out at the burning cityscape, pulling out the communicator as he does so, calling the one who requested his aid in the first place and connecting instantly.
"We've arrived. Is there anywhere in particular we should head first?"
"Small problem," an unfamiliar voice replies, accent heavy and obviously German, "Hold- Wait, which one are you?"
As if there weren't enough problems already.
"You may call me Bishop-"
"Like chess? What, you pretending to sound smart? You have no power like the boss', so why bother?"
While the man on the other end talks, there's the faint sound of something - or someone - thrashing against a hard surface in the background. Bishop's lips purse at both the derision in the question and the thrashing. He had better things to do with his time than speak with this fool.
"As lovely as a philosophical discussion would be, this is not the time. Are you Oracle's second-in-command?"
There's a throaty laugh, but there's no real humor behind it.
"No, no, I'm just the one stopping him from biting his own tongue. Hard work."
And just like that, the background noises cut out.
"... That's a problem."
Bishop would never have guessed.
"We seem to acquire more and more of those by the second. If only I knew where to begin solving them."
"We can start with the nam-"
The man on the other end cuts out abruptly, and silence reigns over the comms for a whole two seconds before crackling back into existence.
"Bishop?"
Ah, Oracle had regained control of himself. Excellent. Maybe now things could get done, despite the precog's current poor state of health.
"Oracle. We're here. Where to first?"
"Hold for a moment, if you would."
Worryingly, Oracle's voice seems somewhat slurred, and in the intervening 'moment,' the heavy breathing over the line completely nullifies any chance of silence.
"... You would do the most for the people by heading in the direction of Dagenham. Deal with any undesirables on the way and those on the path should be fine. I will have more for you on arrival."
The suburb near the airport, Bishop recalled. Simple enough. Taking another moment to get his bearings, he turned to face a particular direction and started walking at a brisk pace, leaving Paladin behind to recover. He would be fine and Bishop couldn't afford to wait any longer.
"I'm on my way. Is there anyone in particular I should watch out for?"
More breathing, though a little less labored now.
"Not quite yet, though you will likely encounter some resistance after arriving. I trust your instincts will carry you while I regain my composure, if it's all the same to you."
"Understood. If there's nothing else?"
Cloth scraping against something sounds out from the other end of the line, likely someone picking themselves up.
"No. Godspeed, Bishop."
And the line cuts.
Red eyes calmly met blue, as a well-dressed young man sized up his latest opponent without the slightest bit of fear, analyzing the older parahuman in an instant, noting the lack of wounds on the man despite the bullet holes in his clothes, and the blood dripping from his fists.
Enhanced strength and durability. Likely speed as well, given how common this particular type of power was. No other powers apparent at first glance.
All in all, easily dealt with, like the various other parahumans he'd encountered today.
The young man smiled pleasantly, not a single hint of his thoughts showing on his face.
"I don't suppose I could convince you to surrender?"
The man rushing him was answer enough. Bishop resisted the urge to sigh. The severe lack of rudimentary observational skills most people had was rather disheartening. An instant later, it was over, the man unconscious, and Bishop's clothes not even the slightest bit ruffled.
Fortunately, that should have been the last of the parahumans that needed to be dealt with here, according to the information he'd received. Time to move on to the next location, though he wasn't quite sure what that was yet. Paris, perhaps.
Before the young man could think on that any further, a sudden ringing noise broke the silence, and he paused, before smoothly withdrawing an odd device from the inside of his coat, pressing one of the various buttons on its surface and holding it to his ear.
"Report."
"Arthur Reynolds, yes?"
At the unfamiliar voice, laced with exhaustion and no discernible accent, Bishop's eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
"Yes, as I'm perfectly sure you're aware. May I help you?"
"Excellent. My name is Roland King, though I imagine you would know me by my alias; Oracle," the voice chimes back, that hint of exhaustion quashed by… Hope? "I imagine that Sovereign may have used a number of choice words to describe me to you in the past, but I hope that we can ignore that for the moment."
Oracle? That pseudonym did sound familiar. A precognitive that sold his services to those that could afford it, as memory served. More importantly, he was known as never having been incorrect. How interesting, Bishop mused, and only a trained eye would be able to notice his minute relaxation.
"If my assumptions about why you are contacting me now of all times are correct, then yes, for the moment."
There's a quiet sigh from the other end, and then a very faint tapping noise starts up. Something metal against a table of some sort, maybe?
"A few moments ago, contact with the group I was supporting against Symphony and his own faction was cut off. An oversight, on my part, but not unexpected. Without my direct help, the consequent damage to London will be unacceptable. I doubt there would be any casualties from either group, but that isn't what's important at this stage, as I'm sure you'll agree."
Bishop let out a hum of thought at that. The number of groups that were able to support an assault on someone on the level of Symphony could be counted on one hand. Although one stood out more than others. The ones that Sovereign got in contact with, the ones who somehow gave him his powers. But only on the condition that he keep an undisclosed status quo.
"I believe I know where you are going with this. I take it you are aware of my associates?"
The tapping stops, temporarily, before starting up again.
"Of course, as well as all of your powers and how well trained you all are. I have no intention of hiding that. That also means I'm aware of-"
Before he can continue, there's the sound of a cough that comes through, which devolves into a full-on fit. It continues for a few moments before he stops, and when he starts speaking again, there's an almost wetness to his voice that wasn't there before.
"My apologies. As I was saying, I know your powers, and that you're more than capable of arriving here immediately. Would you be willing?"
There was only one answer Bishop could give to that.
"Of course, though my associate may be unable to provide transportation, given the current situation. Would you happen to have any alternatives?"
"There is one alternative," Oracle responds immediately, voice still somewhat husky, "But your option would be preferable. I will see if I can't find a way to assist his situation from here."
"Then we have an accord, Mr. King, though when all is said and done, we must sit down and talk," Bishop comments politely, "I insist."
Again, the tapping from the other end stops, and this time doesn't start back up.
"If that's the price of your assistance, I'll gladly pay it. Now, if you would…?"
"Of course. I shall arrive shortly."
And without any further ado, he presses the same button, disconnecting the call before just as suddenly starting another, waiting patiently for the recipient to answer.
One ring.
Two.
Thr--
"OH son of a-What do you want?!"
Ah, good old Paladin. As charming as always.
"Hello to you too, Paladin. I seem to require transport to London, if you're free."
Silence met him on the other end of the call.
"Transport… right now?"
Bishop actually pauses at that, pulling the communicator away from his ear to give it an odd stare for a moment, as if the man on the other end could somehow see it, before putting it back to his ear.
"Of course right now. Do you even have to ask?"
"Actually, yes I do, I'm a little busy at the moment."
An explosion throws the line into static, only for what sounded like a strong gust of wind coming into the room.
"So the Nazi's are mad."
Nazi's? Just what kind of trouble had Paladin gotten himself into this time?
Said knight gave Bishop a long sigh.
"Long story short, the Third Reich is restarting in New York under the command of some asshole calling himself Allfather."
Bishop's lips pursed in distaste.
The Third Reich. Lovely. Just one more thing to deal with when time permitted.
"Fortunately, I believe help should be arriving shortly."
"We're not dead yet so it could be here already."
"In a city filled with Nazi's."
"... There is no pleasing you."
Resisting the urge to sigh himself, Bishop's tone was drier than the desert.
"As much as I am enjoying your insane banter, this is not the time. Can you get here or not?"
"Getting there won't be the problem."
"Getting back will be."
"We will deal with that when the time comes. If nothing else, you can assist me in London."
The line cracks, then goes dead. A second later, the temperature around Bishop goes arctic. Right next to him, a black mass drags itself from the floor. Textureless at first only to slowly gain arms, legs, and features. The black color fades, revealing skin and clothes. As the last of the black leaves him, Paladin gasps for air doubling over and only managing to catch himself by grabbing Bishop's suit. Far too used to this, Bishop doesn't react, instead just putting his communicator away with some difficulty and waiting for the man to recover.
He spits up… something, wiping his mouth with a grimace.
"Ugh, anyone who says long distance teleporting is a great power can kiss my ass."
Bishop smiles slightly.
"Unfortunately, it is also extremely useful," he says wryly, "On to London as soon as you are ready, please."
"Yeah, just," Paladin blanches, "Give me a second."
And without further adieu, Paladin left the rest of his lunch on the floor. It took him a second to stop, and when he did, he reached up and pulled Bishop's handkerchief from his pocket. Bishop doesn't react to the sudden invasion of his personal space, only resolving once more to never tell the other man situations like this are why he carries one around in the first place. For all his love of social situations, that was one conversation he would prefer to never have.
"Right," Paladin says, trying to stuff the used handkerchief back into Bishop's pocket, only for it to fly off in a random direction, "Here's hoping we don't get shot."
He holds out a hand to Bishop, which the younger man takes without any hesitation. From under Paladin, the black mass returns. It covers his body in an instant, and with his direct touch to Bishop, it envelopes him as well.
Bishop was used to a great many things, but Paladin's method of transportation was not something one could get used to. Or at least, he didn't allow you to get used to it. It was like jumping into ice cold water. Everything goes into shock and for a second, your mind doesn't know what to do in the new environment.
Paladin's travel was that moment sustained.
You can't breathe, your vision swims and no matter how hard you try you don't know how long you have been under. All you know is that when you return, you need to breathe. And the moment they resurface, Bishop does just that, taking in as much air as he can while still taking in their new surroundings, his face just the slightest bit pale. Paladin is on the floor, his face matted with sweat like he just finished running a marathon.
"Oh… great… everything's on fire… fantastic."
Picking up his associate with care, Bishop moves him over to a nearby wall and props him up against it, taking in his surroundings once more now that he's recovered, his eyes eventually finding an innocuous pile of ash, and he stares at it for a few moments in silence, his expression unreadable.
"...That idiot," he finally says, tone just the slightest bit melancholic, "I told him he would die if he came."
Tearing his eyes away from the remains, such as they were, he stares out at the burning cityscape, pulling out the communicator as he does so, calling the one who requested his aid in the first place and connecting instantly.
"We've arrived. Is there anywhere in particular we should head first?"
"Small problem," an unfamiliar voice replies, accent heavy and obviously German, "Hold- Wait, which one are you?"
As if there weren't enough problems already.
"You may call me Bishop-"
"Like chess? What, you pretending to sound smart? You have no power like the boss', so why bother?"
While the man on the other end talks, there's the faint sound of something - or someone - thrashing against a hard surface in the background. Bishop's lips purse at both the derision in the question and the thrashing. He had better things to do with his time than speak with this fool.
"As lovely as a philosophical discussion would be, this is not the time. Are you Oracle's second-in-command?"
There's a throaty laugh, but there's no real humor behind it.
"No, no, I'm just the one stopping him from biting his own tongue. Hard work."
And just like that, the background noises cut out.
"... That's a problem."
Bishop would never have guessed.
"We seem to acquire more and more of those by the second. If only I knew where to begin solving them."
"We can start with the nam-"
The man on the other end cuts out abruptly, and silence reigns over the comms for a whole two seconds before crackling back into existence.
"Bishop?"
Ah, Oracle had regained control of himself. Excellent. Maybe now things could get done, despite the precog's current poor state of health.
"Oracle. We're here. Where to first?"
"Hold for a moment, if you would."
Worryingly, Oracle's voice seems somewhat slurred, and in the intervening 'moment,' the heavy breathing over the line completely nullifies any chance of silence.
"... You would do the most for the people by heading in the direction of Dagenham. Deal with any undesirables on the way and those on the path should be fine. I will have more for you on arrival."
The suburb near the airport, Bishop recalled. Simple enough. Taking another moment to get his bearings, he turned to face a particular direction and started walking at a brisk pace, leaving Paladin behind to recover. He would be fine and Bishop couldn't afford to wait any longer.
"I'm on my way. Is there anyone in particular I should watch out for?"
More breathing, though a little less labored now.
"Not quite yet, though you will likely encounter some resistance after arriving. I trust your instincts will carry you while I regain my composure, if it's all the same to you."
"Understood. If there's nothing else?"
Cloth scraping against something sounds out from the other end of the line, likely someone picking themselves up.
"No. Godspeed, Bishop."
And the line cuts.
An Open Market
IKnowNothing
....What?
- Location
- I got lost so.....Where are we?
Cauldron, Five Minutes before Landfall.
There were few things worse than a perfectly laid plan going awry. She wouldn't say that it stung, momentary emotions would bring future judgements into question. Nor would she call it an insult. All logic and data pointed to a single clear validation.
A simple combination of personal virtues, altruism and admittedly, a magnetic charisma. And spite, that factor could not be ignored either. But while it could be ignored, it could be understood. From the beginning, their relationship would only ever stagnate at unwilling colleges in the best of situations, and adversaries at the worst. An unfavourable thought given the difference in ability. Titian would only work once Manton came to conclusive evidence of its success. Failing that, Contessa was always available.
It could've been better, under different circumstances, more lenient circumstances. The chances were minimal, even with the assistance of the Path. Originally it simply called him into the fold as a stabilizing agent for Mrs Costa-Brown. Something for her to latch onto emotionally, give her convictions when guilt and obligation weren't enough.
Starting out that had been it. The subject's Reconfiguration took longer than expected but that worked in her favour. Mrs Brown took up her operations with an almost zealous conviction simply to alleviate the worst of the guilt that the situation had plagued her.
Only when he awoke did the problems begin to surface.
She didn't notice them at first. The scope of his abilities and their effect on Mr Mahoney continued the trend of positive reinforcement towards the end goal. Results of his duel with Mr Everett spoke for themselves. But with seemingly every hour that passed, the fallout that his choices made grew at an alarming rate. Mrs Brown was the easiest to understand. Their shared situation resulted in a relationship beyond normal parameters. Expected as it was, the path failed to mention the level of commitment that it would bring. Mrs Brown's physiological reliance on Mr Everett's mere presence has been nothing short of astonishing.
To say nothing of the lengths she's proved to go to ensure his safety.
The minor personal remark on said reliance is possibly the single most disappointing result of all of the subjects. Had Mr Everett parished, Mrs Brown's indoctrination would have proceeded without issue.
Mr Bryant also needed no real explanation, Mr Fahey even less so. The accuracy of Manton's report on both of them has been perfect from the outset. He described them as having similarly impressive magnetic personalities and charisma. The path slats both of them to be leaders, an outcome that she endorsed completely. The only flaw that could be seen would be Mr Fahey's confidence. His fundamental belief that he can't be the man making the choices hinders his growth. But this, along with seemingly most things, is slowly being augmented by Mr Everett's very presence.
She took a pen and wrote a single note. Possible subconscious Personality Manipulation. Post Note: Possible Mental Amendment.
The chances of it being needed were slim, but any option available to the Path is an option that could save humanity. Her's and Mr Mahoney's ultimate goal.
One that now has a rival, at least in the physical sense.
"Doctor."
Contessa, she hadn't heard the door open. Silent and efficient. Doctor Mother breath easy, of all the plans, that Everett's involvement has compromised, at least one subject remained pure.
She closed the file.
"They've left."
Not a question, such time didn't need to be wasted.
"They will be arriving within five minutes."
She nodded.
"And the Door?"
"Prepared and waiting."
Rising from her chair, she set off at a brisk pace, Contessa flanking behind her. Twenty seconds to reach the elevator, another five for it to open. A glance inside revealed Manton standing by the controls. Stepping inside, the senior researcher pressed the button.
The one at the very bottom.
The one that most didn't see.
Manton's foot tapped against the metal, a nervous tick that she didn't remember him having. A personal altercation. It would distract him, lower his efficiency. Not good. She needed Manton at top form, anything less would result in the death of the subjects or worse, the collapse of the Path entirely. Harbinger could replace him in time, but for now, he was still an unknown. If Manton had done his job, then he should be calculating the numbers needed for the expansion. No matter the enterprise, money was needed. Who better to handle the funds than a living calculator? It would be his trial run, as it were. Manton, on the other hand, had no need of one. What he needed, was focus. The Doctor needed only to look at Contessa, and the Path knew what was required.
"They're going to be fine," Contessa said.
Manton jerked, nodded quickly, and continued to tap at the ground.
"Yes… you've taken precautions?"
Contessa nodded a worthless action. Manton didn't even begin his work before he had a Path confirm the safety of his family. He remembered he was too smart to forget such an important detail. Yet he still asked anyway.
Doctor Mother never doubted the end result of the Path, but there was a part that did question it. Why would it, the greatest utilization of the very concept of clairvoyance would waste such precious time before getting to the matter of things? She could see the logic. Human's were, after all, emotional creatures at base. Manton's characteristics painted him as a man devoted to logic, but even he had his flaws. His family, while a great source of motivation and control, were his greatest distraction. Even now she remembered asking the Path if Manton's production would be increased if his family were dealt with.
The answer was yes, for the short term.
Seeing him, sweat, Doctor Mother felt an unfamiliar emotion. Disappointment.
She should've given the order.
"Forgive me," Manton rambled, "It's just that…did you know Sam's turning eleven next month?"
She did, she read her file after all.
"I promised Ellen that I would be home. A small little place in New York-"
"That has enough blasting metal in the walls to hold back an artillery shell," Contessa interrupted.
Manton's foot stopped tapping. He took a breath, only for it to hitch as the door opened to the most important room in all of Cauldron.
Vials covered from wall to wall, dozens upon dozens ready to be used. Doctor Mother took particular attention to a set of ten, separated from the rest of them by a thick screen of glass. At the base of the tank, a keypad.
9-8-0-1-7-4-1-3
Pressurized air escaped the top. The lid came free relatively easily. Contessa approached, the case in hand. Carefully, Doctor Mother placed the ten into the case, but Contessa did not close it.
"What others would you suggest?"
It took Manton a second too long to figure out the question was directed it at him. He cast a glance at Contessa.
"Additional appealing vials chosen from acceptable categories will only increase profits."
Manton nodded, even an idiot would realize the advantage. With a purposeful stride, he matched to the far end of the room. He picked one, seemingly at random. Doctor Mother quirked a brow. He'd been visiting.
Returning with the vial, he placed it within the final slot in the case. It clicked shut, and the three of us return to the elevator. Manton does the honours and pushed in the Lab button.
"Can you do it?" she asked.
Manton glanced at her, his eyebrow twitching ever so slightly.
"It's been a while since I've spoken with them, but military men never change. I'll get it done."
"You'll have seven minutes," Contessa said.
He didn't nod, simply straightened his coat as the door opened up once more. Behind her, Contessa moved her hand to her com line.
"Door Me."
The elevator door slide shut only for a different door to open before them. Contessa took a step, opening the door and letting her step through unabated. The other end was a business hall. A single oval table that stretches out for a needlessly long amount of time given it only had one occupant. On the other end floor to ceiling windows looking out over the cityscape of New York stretched out.
The sight left a lot to be desired.
Even being at least twenty stories up, she could see the fires on the ground, the pitiful remains of police barricades thrown to the side of the street. Surprising, she expected more buildings to be destroyed.
The sole occupant turned. Any other day there might have been a surprise in them. Now, little else remained beyond shallow acceptance. She glanced behind her, Contessa was gone, the case all that was left.
Off to prevent any witnesses.
For now, to business.
He reached forward, the concoction in the glass rippling as shaking fingers brought it to his lips. All of it went down a problem for him, and a boon for her. Inebriated men were easy to deal with.
"Are you… one of them?" he asked, managing to keep the slur out of his voice.
"No," she said.
His bottom lip trembled slightly, his fingers wrapping around the only weapon in the room. The glass, as it were.
"Are you here to kill me?"
"No."
His eyes hardened.
"Then why are you here?"
"Business."
A mixture of shock and relief most likely triggered the laugh.
"Business, the cities burning to the ground! What could you possibly offer at a time like this?"
"The same thing that's burning it down."
The man sobered up remarkably fast at that comment. She took a seat, placing the case atop the table. With a quick click, she opened it, letting him see the files and the edges of the black rubber corks.
"Who are you?"
"Some call me Mother, but that is little more than an alias. If you're willing to be professional, you'll know me as Doctor."
The man scoffed, "I'm-"
"No names," she said quickly, "We've already investigated you, we know all that we need to know. However, both of us can find the value of maintaining some anonymity. Pick a name, and I will use it for this meeting, and any we might have in the future."
No scoff this time, just study beneath a convincing frown.
"Fine then, Adam."
"Adam it is."
"Yes, now that we've gotten introductions out of the way," Adam said through near gritted teeth, "What organization are you a part of? And how the hell did you get up here? There are guards on every exit for ten floors."
He sounded more interested than concerned. Apparently, he thought that just because she hadn't done anything to him yet meant that he was fine to speak so brazenly. Interesting but not an unexpected reaction. More unexpected were the numbers. Ten floors worth of guards? Amusing.
She allowed him the barest of glances, "To answer the first, Cauldron."
Confusion set in immediately, "Never heard of it."
"And if you're a smart man, no one else ever will."
His eyebrow raised a few notches.
"Are you threatening me?"
Ah, there was the concern, even if it was hiding behind such a pathetic bluff.
"No, I'm giving information. To answer the second question, by demonstrating the product that could be yours, if you so wish."
She took out a file and slid the contents over. Adam eyed it like it might explode at any moment. Gingerly, he took the file and began reading through it. Every second that passed made his eyes grow ever wider. A few times he looked up, his expression one of dumbfounded curiosity. She remained impartial the entire time, she didn't need to hinder the procedure with needless remarks.
After turning the final page, Adam slides the packet back.
"You can give me powers?"
"Yes."
Adam stared her down, his gaze didn't even hold half of the scrutinization that burned in Mr Everett's. He back down, ignoring the middleman and drinking his concoction straight from the bottle.
"And turn into one of those freaks? Heh, not likely."
"The percentages are clearly outlined if you wish to learn more."
"I've got numbers running through my office almost every day, one more doesn't mean a thing, I'm not buying whatever lie you're selling."
He leaned back in his chair and turned away. He expected her to leave, but she didn't. He was doing what she expected after all.
"Public perception can be mitigated."
"And how's that?"
"A mask seems appropriate."
Adam spun in his chair, slamming a hand down on the table. She didn't even flinch.
"There is nothing that I can gain by being a freak!"
"You can't see the value of being able to see the future? Being able to think what others cannot?" she answered, her tone purposefully condescending.
"Not the issue,' Adam seethed, "You claim to be a smart woman, Doctor. Even a blind man can see that anyone even remotely associated with…" he paused, his eyes darting to the screen of Symphony, "Whatever that thing is."
"Yes, it is rather bleak."
Adam visibly restrained himself from rolling his eyes.
"If you can understand that, then get out of my office."
She nodded, she had stayed to long as it was. Rising from her seat, she slides her files back into the case.
"The world is Changing Adam if you want to be ahead of the curve you're going to need the best that you can get."
"Changing? That's an interesting way to say ending."
The good Doctor stared at the screen above them. Even now, the newsroom was in a panic. Interns and professionals alike running behind the stationlike fools. Mrs Allen, the anchor, trained to blink the surprise away as her teleprompter no doubt began to tell her of new developments.
"Keep watching the news. And when you've reconsidered our offer, don't worry, we'll find you."
Light exploded next to her, the door opened and she had stepped through. He saw, just at the edges, but he saw, purposefully of course.
It was the final step for that stage of the Path.
Doctor Mother checked her watch. Perfectly on time. Now, one down, ten to go.
There were few things worse than a perfectly laid plan going awry. She wouldn't say that it stung, momentary emotions would bring future judgements into question. Nor would she call it an insult. All logic and data pointed to a single clear validation.
A simple combination of personal virtues, altruism and admittedly, a magnetic charisma. And spite, that factor could not be ignored either. But while it could be ignored, it could be understood. From the beginning, their relationship would only ever stagnate at unwilling colleges in the best of situations, and adversaries at the worst. An unfavourable thought given the difference in ability. Titian would only work once Manton came to conclusive evidence of its success. Failing that, Contessa was always available.
It could've been better, under different circumstances, more lenient circumstances. The chances were minimal, even with the assistance of the Path. Originally it simply called him into the fold as a stabilizing agent for Mrs Costa-Brown. Something for her to latch onto emotionally, give her convictions when guilt and obligation weren't enough.
Starting out that had been it. The subject's Reconfiguration took longer than expected but that worked in her favour. Mrs Brown took up her operations with an almost zealous conviction simply to alleviate the worst of the guilt that the situation had plagued her.
Only when he awoke did the problems begin to surface.
She didn't notice them at first. The scope of his abilities and their effect on Mr Mahoney continued the trend of positive reinforcement towards the end goal. Results of his duel with Mr Everett spoke for themselves. But with seemingly every hour that passed, the fallout that his choices made grew at an alarming rate. Mrs Brown was the easiest to understand. Their shared situation resulted in a relationship beyond normal parameters. Expected as it was, the path failed to mention the level of commitment that it would bring. Mrs Brown's physiological reliance on Mr Everett's mere presence has been nothing short of astonishing.
To say nothing of the lengths she's proved to go to ensure his safety.
The minor personal remark on said reliance is possibly the single most disappointing result of all of the subjects. Had Mr Everett parished, Mrs Brown's indoctrination would have proceeded without issue.
Mr Bryant also needed no real explanation, Mr Fahey even less so. The accuracy of Manton's report on both of them has been perfect from the outset. He described them as having similarly impressive magnetic personalities and charisma. The path slats both of them to be leaders, an outcome that she endorsed completely. The only flaw that could be seen would be Mr Fahey's confidence. His fundamental belief that he can't be the man making the choices hinders his growth. But this, along with seemingly most things, is slowly being augmented by Mr Everett's very presence.
She took a pen and wrote a single note. Possible subconscious Personality Manipulation. Post Note: Possible Mental Amendment.
The chances of it being needed were slim, but any option available to the Path is an option that could save humanity. Her's and Mr Mahoney's ultimate goal.
One that now has a rival, at least in the physical sense.
"Doctor."
Contessa, she hadn't heard the door open. Silent and efficient. Doctor Mother breath easy, of all the plans, that Everett's involvement has compromised, at least one subject remained pure.
She closed the file.
"They've left."
Not a question, such time didn't need to be wasted.
"They will be arriving within five minutes."
She nodded.
"And the Door?"
"Prepared and waiting."
Rising from her chair, she set off at a brisk pace, Contessa flanking behind her. Twenty seconds to reach the elevator, another five for it to open. A glance inside revealed Manton standing by the controls. Stepping inside, the senior researcher pressed the button.
The one at the very bottom.
The one that most didn't see.
Manton's foot tapped against the metal, a nervous tick that she didn't remember him having. A personal altercation. It would distract him, lower his efficiency. Not good. She needed Manton at top form, anything less would result in the death of the subjects or worse, the collapse of the Path entirely. Harbinger could replace him in time, but for now, he was still an unknown. If Manton had done his job, then he should be calculating the numbers needed for the expansion. No matter the enterprise, money was needed. Who better to handle the funds than a living calculator? It would be his trial run, as it were. Manton, on the other hand, had no need of one. What he needed, was focus. The Doctor needed only to look at Contessa, and the Path knew what was required.
"They're going to be fine," Contessa said.
Manton jerked, nodded quickly, and continued to tap at the ground.
"Yes… you've taken precautions?"
Contessa nodded a worthless action. Manton didn't even begin his work before he had a Path confirm the safety of his family. He remembered he was too smart to forget such an important detail. Yet he still asked anyway.
Doctor Mother never doubted the end result of the Path, but there was a part that did question it. Why would it, the greatest utilization of the very concept of clairvoyance would waste such precious time before getting to the matter of things? She could see the logic. Human's were, after all, emotional creatures at base. Manton's characteristics painted him as a man devoted to logic, but even he had his flaws. His family, while a great source of motivation and control, were his greatest distraction. Even now she remembered asking the Path if Manton's production would be increased if his family were dealt with.
The answer was yes, for the short term.
Seeing him, sweat, Doctor Mother felt an unfamiliar emotion. Disappointment.
She should've given the order.
"Forgive me," Manton rambled, "It's just that…did you know Sam's turning eleven next month?"
She did, she read her file after all.
"I promised Ellen that I would be home. A small little place in New York-"
"That has enough blasting metal in the walls to hold back an artillery shell," Contessa interrupted.
Manton's foot stopped tapping. He took a breath, only for it to hitch as the door opened to the most important room in all of Cauldron.
Vials covered from wall to wall, dozens upon dozens ready to be used. Doctor Mother took particular attention to a set of ten, separated from the rest of them by a thick screen of glass. At the base of the tank, a keypad.
9-8-0-1-7-4-1-3
Pressurized air escaped the top. The lid came free relatively easily. Contessa approached, the case in hand. Carefully, Doctor Mother placed the ten into the case, but Contessa did not close it.
"What others would you suggest?"
It took Manton a second too long to figure out the question was directed it at him. He cast a glance at Contessa.
"Additional appealing vials chosen from acceptable categories will only increase profits."
Manton nodded, even an idiot would realize the advantage. With a purposeful stride, he matched to the far end of the room. He picked one, seemingly at random. Doctor Mother quirked a brow. He'd been visiting.
Returning with the vial, he placed it within the final slot in the case. It clicked shut, and the three of us return to the elevator. Manton does the honours and pushed in the Lab button.
"Can you do it?" she asked.
Manton glanced at her, his eyebrow twitching ever so slightly.
"It's been a while since I've spoken with them, but military men never change. I'll get it done."
"You'll have seven minutes," Contessa said.
He didn't nod, simply straightened his coat as the door opened up once more. Behind her, Contessa moved her hand to her com line.
"Door Me."
The elevator door slide shut only for a different door to open before them. Contessa took a step, opening the door and letting her step through unabated. The other end was a business hall. A single oval table that stretches out for a needlessly long amount of time given it only had one occupant. On the other end floor to ceiling windows looking out over the cityscape of New York stretched out.
The sight left a lot to be desired.
Even being at least twenty stories up, she could see the fires on the ground, the pitiful remains of police barricades thrown to the side of the street. Surprising, she expected more buildings to be destroyed.
The sole occupant turned. Any other day there might have been a surprise in them. Now, little else remained beyond shallow acceptance. She glanced behind her, Contessa was gone, the case all that was left.
Off to prevent any witnesses.
For now, to business.
He reached forward, the concoction in the glass rippling as shaking fingers brought it to his lips. All of it went down a problem for him, and a boon for her. Inebriated men were easy to deal with.
"Are you… one of them?" he asked, managing to keep the slur out of his voice.
"No," she said.
His bottom lip trembled slightly, his fingers wrapping around the only weapon in the room. The glass, as it were.
"Are you here to kill me?"
"No."
His eyes hardened.
"Then why are you here?"
"Business."
A mixture of shock and relief most likely triggered the laugh.
"Business, the cities burning to the ground! What could you possibly offer at a time like this?"
"The same thing that's burning it down."
The man sobered up remarkably fast at that comment. She took a seat, placing the case atop the table. With a quick click, she opened it, letting him see the files and the edges of the black rubber corks.
"Who are you?"
"Some call me Mother, but that is little more than an alias. If you're willing to be professional, you'll know me as Doctor."
The man scoffed, "I'm-"
"No names," she said quickly, "We've already investigated you, we know all that we need to know. However, both of us can find the value of maintaining some anonymity. Pick a name, and I will use it for this meeting, and any we might have in the future."
No scoff this time, just study beneath a convincing frown.
"Fine then, Adam."
"Adam it is."
"Yes, now that we've gotten introductions out of the way," Adam said through near gritted teeth, "What organization are you a part of? And how the hell did you get up here? There are guards on every exit for ten floors."
He sounded more interested than concerned. Apparently, he thought that just because she hadn't done anything to him yet meant that he was fine to speak so brazenly. Interesting but not an unexpected reaction. More unexpected were the numbers. Ten floors worth of guards? Amusing.
She allowed him the barest of glances, "To answer the first, Cauldron."
Confusion set in immediately, "Never heard of it."
"And if you're a smart man, no one else ever will."
His eyebrow raised a few notches.
"Are you threatening me?"
Ah, there was the concern, even if it was hiding behind such a pathetic bluff.
"No, I'm giving information. To answer the second question, by demonstrating the product that could be yours, if you so wish."
She took out a file and slid the contents over. Adam eyed it like it might explode at any moment. Gingerly, he took the file and began reading through it. Every second that passed made his eyes grow ever wider. A few times he looked up, his expression one of dumbfounded curiosity. She remained impartial the entire time, she didn't need to hinder the procedure with needless remarks.
After turning the final page, Adam slides the packet back.
"You can give me powers?"
"Yes."
Adam stared her down, his gaze didn't even hold half of the scrutinization that burned in Mr Everett's. He back down, ignoring the middleman and drinking his concoction straight from the bottle.
"And turn into one of those freaks? Heh, not likely."
"The percentages are clearly outlined if you wish to learn more."
"I've got numbers running through my office almost every day, one more doesn't mean a thing, I'm not buying whatever lie you're selling."
He leaned back in his chair and turned away. He expected her to leave, but she didn't. He was doing what she expected after all.
"Public perception can be mitigated."
"And how's that?"
"A mask seems appropriate."
Adam spun in his chair, slamming a hand down on the table. She didn't even flinch.
"There is nothing that I can gain by being a freak!"
"You can't see the value of being able to see the future? Being able to think what others cannot?" she answered, her tone purposefully condescending.
"Not the issue,' Adam seethed, "You claim to be a smart woman, Doctor. Even a blind man can see that anyone even remotely associated with…" he paused, his eyes darting to the screen of Symphony, "Whatever that thing is."
"Yes, it is rather bleak."
Adam visibly restrained himself from rolling his eyes.
"If you can understand that, then get out of my office."
She nodded, she had stayed to long as it was. Rising from her seat, she slides her files back into the case.
"The world is Changing Adam if you want to be ahead of the curve you're going to need the best that you can get."
"Changing? That's an interesting way to say ending."
The good Doctor stared at the screen above them. Even now, the newsroom was in a panic. Interns and professionals alike running behind the stationlike fools. Mrs Allen, the anchor, trained to blink the surprise away as her teleprompter no doubt began to tell her of new developments.
"Keep watching the news. And when you've reconsidered our offer, don't worry, we'll find you."
Light exploded next to her, the door opened and she had stepped through. He saw, just at the edges, but he saw, purposefully of course.
It was the final step for that stage of the Path.
Doctor Mother checked her watch. Perfectly on time. Now, one down, ten to go.