owlmessenger
Parts Guy Extraordinaire
- Location
- New York
This option gets my vote too!doesn't matter the chapter lenghts just give us more Happy Taylor please!
The World is my Layout [Worm AU/Alt Power]
- Thread starter GeneralPatt1000
- Start date
- Location
- Oregon, USA
doesn't matter the chapter lenghts just give us more Happy Taylor please!
Us too
We're ready to go either way, but the healing theme is baked in. Patt is keeping my wont to go dark on a very, very short leash.
Personally, I enjoy larger chapter lengths, but honestly, do what feels comfortable as an author.
Some chapter is better than no chapter, and those who whine about the length of your new postings aren't worth listening to in the first place.
So, whilst it's not a real poll option, my real vote is flexible at the discretion of the Author and Beta team.
Some chapter is better than no chapter, and those who whine about the length of your new postings aren't worth listening to in the first place.
So, whilst it's not a real poll option, my real vote is flexible at the discretion of the Author and Beta team.
- Location
- leiden (NL)
I voted for two small chapters a week, but it should be whatever the author feels comfortable with, rtaher than try to shoehorn himself into readers expectations. SIncerely, we are happy with what you can do and grateful for your efforts.
- Location
- Seattle area
Since there are quite a few comments that it should be up to me, I've added a third option, Author's choice. I hope this helps folks vote for an option they are more comfortable with. Vote-changing is enabled. Thank you all for the support you have shown to me and DrYuriMom thus far! We really appreciate it a lot!
Honorguard Ra
(Verified Lizard Dude)
Hugs for both of you.
This story is basically hot chocolate for the soul. The world needs more happy Taylor, and you're delivering. Not to derail the train here, but does anyone have links to any other happy Taylor stories they can PM me? I already know of and adore Taylor Varga.
- Location
- Oregon, USA
I wouldn't mind links to other happy Taylor stories being posted here. I'd like to immerse myself more in the zeitgiest. Patt brought me in because I can write, certainly not for my Worm knowledge. I need to address that and I'd rather it not be by reading canon or my dark muse will ride her broom totally off the rails.
Honorguard Ra
(Verified Lizard Dude)
I'll go through my list and see what I have for happy taylor fics. I'm going to edit this post as I find more stories.
Edit: got some links for you. Refusing the call hasn't updated in a while, but it's a good one. Destiny/Fate keeps trying to use macguffins to make Taylor become a hero and she's not interested. Sort of winds up a Taylor/Armsmaster friendship. Distance Learning is good, and has some very nice side story/omakes. Keep in mind, I'll take down this post if I need to and just pm people recommendations.
Distance Learning for fun and profit...
Taylor has skillz. And is smarter than the average girl... Strange things result.
forums.sufficientvelocity.com
Taylor Varga (Worm/Luna Varga) Crossover
Taylor's time in the locker ends very differently. The world will never be the same... And people will become confused. Very confused. Now with extra Lizards!
forums.sufficientvelocity.com
Refusing the Call (Worm)
When Destiny comes a-knocking, Taylor tells it 'keep on walking'.
forums.spacebattles.com
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- Location
- Somewhere
I'll go through mine too.
But as an appetizer. The Triumph of Lothario.
Danny and Annette liked involving others in their behind bedroom doors business. Taylor has a half-sister. And that's just the opening premise. It gets crazy.
Now for a short list, keeping them somewhat close to canon, at least until the Bank Job
It Gets Worse
But not for Taylor.
It Gets Worse [Worm AU Fanfic] Complete
This fic was inspired by suggestions from CinnabarSage . 1) This story is set in the Wormverse...
forums.spacebattles.com
Security!
There's a new security guard at Winslow, but can he make a difference?
Security! (a Worm SI story)
Scraped from here. Waking up and finding oneself within the Worm narrative can be quite the...
forums.sufficientvelocity.com
And as an extra, Taylor doing some what mundane stuff. Here's the wholesome one where she runs a pizza parlor. Dealing with the orders of heroes and villains alike. The original does get a bit dark and depressing after Chapter 24, but the sequel Second Servings ignores everything after Chapter 24.
Taylor Hebert, Pizzeria Tycoon (Worm AU) [Officially Complete]
What if, instead of getting powers, Taylor opened a pizzeria? Formerly a side-story to the newly...
forums.spacebattles.com
Taylor Hebert: Pizzeria Tycoon - Second Servings (Worm AU) [DISCONTINUED]
What if, instead of getting powers, Taylor opened a pizzeria? An attempt at reworking Taylor Hebert, Pizzeria Tycoon so that it doesn't devolve into a depressing mess; starts after Chapter 24. As with everything I write, I cannot guarantee quality, a solid update schedule, or any of the other...
forums.spacebattles.com
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- Location
- Oregon, USA
Thank you for the Taylor Varga idea. I haven't read that yet, but I am a HUGE Bolo fan since I first read Laumer's book back in the late 70s. (Yes, I'm that old. Get over it.
) The same author wrote a Bolo crossover and I just finished it. My reaction: 🥰
owlmessenger
Parts Guy Extraordinaire
- Location
- New York
Buckle up, it is the longest currently active worm crossover fic out there, clocking in at over 30 pages of just main story (and they ain't small posts either).Thank you for the Taylor Varga idea. I haven't read that yet, but I am a HUGE Bolo fan since I first read Laumer's book back in the late 70s. (Yes, I'm that old. Get over it.
Honorguard Ra
(Verified Lizard Dude)
It's not for everyone. Some people hate it. It's probably my favorite story ever because it's got more than just happy Taylor. The author spreads the love to a lot of characters who need to be loved.
Edit: added links to my previous post.
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- Location
- The Midlands.
It's also the only story I've ever encountered that causes AO3's download function to freeze up.
A list of happy Taylor stories would be incomplete without UnwlecomeStorm's story about a girl and her dog. Probably abandoned alas but hope still lingers.
forums.sufficientvelocity.com
There's also the fanfic of that fanfic where a reader decided to finish the story after it went on hiatus for a long time.
https://m.fanfiction.net/s/12744693/1/Star-gazing
(Disclaimer, literally just found Stargazing while looking for the link to Constellations so no idea if it's any good)
Constellations (Worm/Okami)
Constellations 1 The first year that Taylor went to summer camp, she was only eight years...
forums.sufficientvelocity.com
There's also the fanfic of that fanfic where a reader decided to finish the story after it went on hiatus for a long time.
https://m.fanfiction.net/s/12744693/1/Star-gazing
(Disclaimer, literally just found Stargazing while looking for the link to Constellations so no idea if it's any good)
Yes, that is one of my favorite Worm fanfics to read. It is sad that Second Servings is inactive as of now.And as an extra, Taylor doing some what mundane stuff. Here's the wholesome one where she runs a pizza parlor. Dealing with the orders of heroes and villains alike. The original does get a bit dark and depressing after Chapter 24, but the sequel Second Servings ignores everything after Chapter 24.
Taylor Hebert, Pizzeria Tycoon (Worm AU) [Officially Complete]
What if, instead of getting powers, Taylor opened a pizzeria? Formerly a side-story to the newly...Taylor Hebert: Pizzeria Tycoon - Second Servings (Worm AU) [DISCONTINUED]
What if, instead of getting powers, Taylor opened a pizzeria? An attempt at reworking Taylor Hebert, Pizzeria Tycoon so that it doesn't devolve into a depressing mess; starts after Chapter 24. As with everything I write, I cannot guarantee quality, a solid update schedule, or any of the other...
I am also very fond of The Little Ship that Could. Lady Ruler, Luck of the Draw, and Pale Queen is also good. Sadly, all of these are also inactive.
- Location
- Oregon, USA
Well fortunately ours is very much active. We're currently writing chapter 3.5 and all the portions of chapter 3 are 7500-8500 words long. We're still watching the poll to determine if we need half sized A and B sides of each, but we're writing them as 8000 word segments and they are flowing nicely.
- Location
- Somewhere
You know what could be a good model for Taylor?
One of Ferdinand Magellan, a Pullman observation car that used to be used to haul around 4 of the US Presidents.
Four bedrooms, a dining room, an observation lounge, a fully equipped bathroom, armor plating (0.625 inches thick), and much more.
It's an armored VIP Suite on rails.
One of Ferdinand Magellan, a Pullman observation car that used to be used to haul around 4 of the US Presidents.
Four bedrooms, a dining room, an observation lounge, a fully equipped bathroom, armor plating (0.625 inches thick), and much more.
It's an armored VIP Suite on rails.
Honorguard Ra
(Verified Lizard Dude)
I've got the image in my head now of Taylor running a line from the Docks to her house so Danny can take an armored train to work.
Chapter 3.2
- Location
- Seattle area
Chapter 3.2
Wildbow owns Worm
Thanks to @DrYuriMom for being the best co-author
Photos are courtesy of railarchive.net
Sunday, August 31st, 12:00 pm
Brockton Bay, NH
Boat Graveyard
In the depths of the Boat Graveyard amongst all the abandoned buildings, grown over train tracks and grounded ships, the former Merchant Tinker known as Squealer propped herself against a building to rest in its shade. The noonday sun was beginning to get to her. The rolling suitcase into which she had stuffed her supplies and the primary Merchant money stash served as an armrest. Through the agony and fatigue of her withdrawal symptoms and general lack of sleep, the woman wondered once again how she had gotten to this point.
Trying to think hard between her confused mind and her Tinker itch, Squealer made a list. First, she had been swooned by Skidmark's charms and then swept into his team of drug dealers, bums, and petty crooks. Kept on a steady regimen of meth, she could not make many decisions on her own, except those driven by her tinkering.
She was unsure how many months she had spent in this fashion, putting together various scratch-built invisible get-away cars, transport vehicles, and heavy tanks for Skidmark's operations. Then came the accident a week ago. On her latest high, she had gone out to make a run between Merchant outposts across town and proceeded to ignore a traffic signal and smash her invisible car into the vehicle containing a mother and daughter pair.
Because she usually heavily reinforced her cars, she had gotten away with only a slightly damaged arm from the sudden deceleration. She was sure the poor civilians hadn't fared so well. But she hadn't been able to stop. She hadn't been in her right mind, and Skidmark would've been angry if she had gotten caught. Skidmark ended up angry anyway because he had been forced to send her to a doctor who had commanded to keep her off the meth while she healed.
With the week she had spent in withdrawal and not being on a constant high, Squealer had been able to think for herself for once. It was all Skidmark's fault that she had gotten caught up in this life. All she had wanted to do with her powers was build cars and work with other vehicles as the opportunity arose. Skidmark had taken advantage of her desires with a bit of help from meth and who knows what else.
And so, given the opportunity of last night, she had booked it. She had unlocked his safe, grabbed all the cash inside, which was a considerable amount, and thrown it in the suitcase along with some food, water, and minor tools. Now, she was lost in the abandoned, unclaimed scrapyard that was the Boat Graveyard with no help and a craving for both meth and tinkering. Squealer focused on that second part. She didn't want to relapse. She wanted to get control of her life again. "I gotta find something to tinker with, focus on that, get lost in that, instead of the drugs," she mumbled, her desperation beginning to seep out in her speech.
Taking a few moments to get some strength back, Squealer considered what to do next. She had been following several of the abandoned rail tracks in the area over the day and hadn't yet found what she was looking for. Apparently, there was a dockside shed containing at least one large steam engine somewhere here. She had one more spur to check, and it curved around this building she was leaning on. If it wasn't there, she didn't know what she would do.
Clambering up to her feet again, Squealer, no, Sherrel Bailey, stood and stretched her arms wide. She would go by her own name until she could find a new one. How she allowed Skidmark to saddle her with that moniker was beyond her. She cast aside the name her former boyfriend had given her. She was trying to turn over a new leaf. She didn't want to be associated with that man ever again. Sherrel grabbed the suitcase and turned the corner of the building, following the rails.
The rails split into three spurs and as her eyes followed them, she saw that they led into a large shed structure of solid brick and steel. Many of the windows were broken however and one of the doors closing off the building had fallen off its hinges at some point. Sherrel recognized the building as a copy of the shops up at the Locomotive terminal.
She trudged as quickly as her protesting body would allow her. The craving for meth would have been overwhelming were it not for the pull of her power. She needed a place to sleep and get out of the sun. Moreover, she needed something to Tinker!
As she was passing through the open door which had barred the central position, the light through the many windows was cut off due to two hulking shapes on either side. Squinting through the light and shadow, she found what she was looking for. "Jackpot."
On either side of her, a massive shape rose toward the ceiling and stretched toward the closed-in back of the shed. On her right was a steam locomotive with 2 pilot wheels, 10 drive wheels, and two trailing wheels while on her left sat another steam engine. Each engine was streaked with rust and grime but she could still see their Boston and Maine markings and numbers. This one was numbered 3023.
The second locomotive held more interest to her for some reason. It had four pilot wheels, eight drive wheels, and two trailing wheels. It had both a number, 4108, and a nameplate. "Lily Pons, huh? That's a pretty name. I think I'll see what I can do with you first if you don't mind, girly."
Sherrel put it down to her fatigue, delirium, and confusion but as she began to fall into a sudden Tinker fugue, she could have sworn she had seen a ghost-like woman appear out of the corner of her eye. The hours went by with her in and out of the fugue, sleep, and general unpleasantness. Throughout it all, that woman dressed as an opera singer of all things appeared to encourage Sherrel throughout her day. Later Sherrel would credit that woman for keeping her sane.
A 2-10-2 Santa Fe-type locomotive belonging to the Boston and Maine.
A 4-8-2 Mountain-type locomotive owned by the Boston and Maine. This is Black Arrow, the last of the class.
-------------
Sunday, August 31st, 4:45 pm
Brockton Bay Trainyard
Passenger Terminal
"Okay, crew. Let's start at the passenger terminal. We'll begin the piece showing the empty tracks where the southbound weekly Downeaster should be dropping off and picking up right now."
Stan Vickery led a small team of seven cameramen and assistants onto the dusty trainyard property with the stride of someone who owned the place. He'd dedicated his professional life to covering warzones and capes despite the risks. This opportunity appeared to have a low threat level, but could still be high reward given the interest Dispatcher had already collected in Brockton Bay and the surrounding areas.
Having seen the apparently young cape being interviewed on softball mode this morning, he inwardly winced that he had been vacationing north of Portland and had missed the chance to ask some of the really important questions that came immediately to his mind. He knew some of the personalities at the press conference that morning. He was surprised at the lack of insightful questions from some of them. It almost struck Stan as creepy.
"Jeff, set up the camera to face over there," Stan pointed across the tracks where the late August afternoon lighting wouldn't be too harsh on his stage makeup enhanced features. Lighting is a bitch, they say, and if Stan knew anything it was pandering to the camera.
"We'll just do our thing until someone decides to pay us attention." The reporter looked around to see if he'd caught any attention thus far, but the trainyard seemed eerily peaceful, more so then normal for the mostly abandoned property. The reporter had to admit that the previous tenants, the Merchants, hadn't exactly been good neighbors. That didn't remove his obligation to investigate the new management.
"Okay Sandra, go back to the van and bring over Mrs Livermore and her granddaughter. We'll start this as a human interest story for the five o'clock news. Then we'll get some good investigation going. The public has a right to know what exactly is going bump in the night out here on city property and not far from neighborhoods where families live."
A young woman, no more than twenty, with long brown curls and a slim skirt suit pattered in her flats back to the parking lot. A few minutes later she returned with a kindly-looking elderly woman and a bored-looking teenager.
Stan had been busy making sure everything was perfect for the shot, but he turned with a bright, welcoming smile as the two civilians arrived where he stood. "It's wonderful to see you again, Patty," he encouraged the older woman. "And Sarah, thank you for coming! You look fabulous, you know. Ready to be on TV tonight?"
The teen shrugged. "I got nothing better to do seeing as I'm going to miss my bestie's birthday tomorrow because of this canceled train. It's bullshit, you know. Some brat decides to blow up some shit this morning and I may not even get back for my first day of high school."
"Okay, just remember not to fucking swear while the cameras are rolling, alright?" Stan challenged the girl in her native tongue.
"Yeah, yeah," the girl said absently, although Stan could make out a tiny hint of a smile he suspected was a show of respect. "So when do we get started? If I can't go home I'd like to take in a movie at least with my cousins."
Stan Vickery and Patty Livermore shared a suffering glance when Sarah wasn't looking. "We're ready right now, Sarah. Let's just get you and your grandmother standing over here and I'll start asking some questions. Answer honestly and however you like, without the Seven Words please."
Sarah allowed herself to be directed by an assistant, followed shortly by her adorable grandmother. Stan flowed swiftly into position with his microphone and gave a nod to Jeff. The crew did their final checks and the cameraman started a countdown from five on one hand.
The scene was perfect and Stan smiled inwardly. "This is Stan Vickery reporting from the Amtrak terminal in the Brockton Bay trainyards. Behind me would normally be a bustling scene as passengers disembarked or boarded the Amtrak Downeaster as it returned to Boston for the weekend. Instead, only the sound of crickets and the bustle of dragonflies breaks the otherwise quiet scene. As WQIE News reported during our noon broadcast, due to an abundance of caution Amtrak has halted all traffic through Brockton Bay until the threat is evaluated and addressed. The Downeaster that passed to the north yesterday morning remains idle in Portland. This is in response to the explosive events of early this morning where blasts and fires rocked this trainyard area, waking many area residents to the sounds of a war zone."
Stan turned to Mrs Livermore. "With me tonight is Mrs Patricia Livermore and her granddaughter Sarah. The two of them had tickets to board the train for Boston and then points south, but those plans are now on indefinite hold. Mrs Livermore, what are your thoughts on the matter?"
The silver-haired woman in a striped light sweater and slacks seemingly straight from the 70's looked like she had been caught baking cookies. The scene couldn't be more wholesome and Stan was loving it. "Well, we don't live far from the trainyards but my hearing isn't the best. Sarah heard the explosions and woke me up because it sounded like a war outside. This area may have the occasional miscreant, but it's generally quiet. I don't know why the commotion was necessary, but I don't really like it so close to home let me tell you. It seems things just keep getting more unsafe every year. You can't tell the good guys from the bad guys. This Dispatcher girl seems sweet enough, but I think she threw a rock into a hornet's nest. Sometimes hornets' nests should just be left alone, you know? Or handled by the experts?"
Stan nodded to Patty's words, maintaining the neutral 'poker' face that was his trademark. When she had finished, he turned to the girl who still managed to look bored while on camera, a rare trait in Stan's experience. "Sarah, I understand you're going to miss your best friend's birthday tomorrow. What are your thoughts about all this?"
"Meh. I watched the news this morning and all I saw was some stuck-up brat blowing...things...up to make some guys who also blew things up leave her new turf. Just one gang against another with no mind for the rest of us who just have to live our lives. I have school starting on Tuesday in New Jersey and I'm likely gonna miss my first day of high school. My debut day, you get me? Personally I think they should take the lot of 'em and stuff them into the Birdcage. I hear it's not that bad. They get the run of the place and regular shipments of whatever they ask for. Let God sort 'em out while allowing God-fearing people like us to do His works in peace."
Stan nodded again , his expression impassive. "Well, there are certainly those who share your sentiment. Perhaps we might get a response to your concerns from Dispatcher herself before the day is done. I'm sure all of Brockton Bay would like clear assurances regarding her intentions."
"Cut," Stan called and the cameraman relaxed. "Okay, I think that does it for this segment. Patty, Sarah, thank you for your time. Sandra will go ahead and drive you wherever you'd like to be dropped off," he assured warmly. "And Sarah, keep the receipts for your movie trip tonight and the station will reimburse you as thank you for your time." For the first time today, Stan actually got a true smile through the tough-girl facade.
"Sandra, when you're done with the Livermores, head back to the station and check in. Also, call the number I gave you and give them a report, too. You will be our point of contact back to base. Anything the station hears should also get forwarded to that number. The rest of us are going on a little hike."
The parking lot became a scene of ordered chaos as Jeff and the crew took the main camera and related equipment back to the truck and replaced the gear with more mobile versions. Jeff uploaded the initial segment to the station for the 5:30pm news while Stan carefully wiped off his stage make-up and changed into shoes more appropriate for climbing over train tracks and around potholes.
With Jeff holding a mobile shoulder-mount camera instead of a studio mini, Stan needed a more earthy appearance for best effect. Especially when he intended to place himself under threat, even if in a manner carefully mitigated by the law being on his side. To a layman, he'd describe it as the "Blair Witch Effect".
"Okay, crew," the veteran reporter announced, "the lawyers have confirmed this all belongs to the city of Brockton Bay given the previous owners defaulted and stopped paying their bills. Whatever Dispatcher may claim, she and her projections have no more or less right to be here than we do. We don't recognize the 9/10ths rule unless shots get fired. In the event that happens, safety over sensation. Get to cover, and then get away. I don't hire heroes, remember? That's my job."
Stan appreciated the casual laughter of his crew. They were good people and Stan was dedicated to doing right by them and hopefully helping them all advance their careers. He'd had some pivotal mentors early on and he was passionate about paying it forward.
Stand stared into the distance toward the west, looking over the facilities that were his goal. "Let's go find out what is really happening here. Something just doesn't smell right about all this. There's too much softball being played and it's about time someone threw some tougher pitches. If no one else will do it, well I guess that leaves us."
Stan and his team trudged back to and then past the passenger terminal before turning west, parallel to the fueling tracks leading to the turntable and roundhouse. From the morning reports, that and the three buildings behind it seemed to be the center of activity for Dispatcher's operation. If he was to get his scoop, the center of the nest seemed the best place to go.
Taking advantage of his lapel microphone and trusting Jeff and the crew to keep the camera rolling, Stan started a running commentary that would be edited later to show the exciting parts.
"So, in the distance you can see the turntable up ahead that allows engines or other rail equipment to be spun to enter one of the bays in the roundhouse which is the biggest building you're seeing. We'll be passing equipment along the rails used to load fuel, water, and other materials necessary to make the various engines run. Well, engines that are real I should add. Part of what no one can answer yet is whether the equipment Dispatcher is projecting or commanding is any more real than her guards or crew."
The news crew, and later their viewers, noticed that the 10-stall roundhouse appeared to be half full with engines. In the first stall was a freshly painted steam engine, its new black paint job with white striping and lettering brilliantly shining in the afternoon sunlight. In the next few stalls was a GP-40-2, a GP-9, an RS-3, an F7A, and an E7A.
Each of the diesel locomotives was also freshly painted, but in the classic Boston and Maine maroon base color with gold stripes and featured the Minuteman Herald on their noses. Each locomotive was quiet but there were perhaps 10 of the projected armed railroad police patrolling around or standing in the shade keeping a roving eye out.
While carefully noting the guards, Stan was undeterred. He'd faced far worse reporting on capes. Honestly this one was just to pay the bills. But even a kid could bring ratings if handled right. And the public's appetite to know everything was never to be underestimated.
"Jeff, be sure to keep the camera on the roundhouse and get good shots of the guards. I doubt they'll do anything, but if they do it'll be ratings gold," the reporter noted, clearly conflicted about what his desired outcome for this endeavor might be.
As the group approached the turntable, a railroad policeman who stood in the control cab called out to them. To Stan and the camera crew, he appeared professional, yet slightly bored, as if he was just waiting for someone to cause trouble on his watch. His weapons were slung and holstered and a pair of binoculars hung around his neck. "Good day to you there! May I have a moment of your time to get your names, broadcasting company, and precise reasons to be here?" His tone was friendly if slightly challenging.
"My name is Stan Vickery, senior correspondent currently representing WQIE here in Brockton Bay," the reporter announced confidently as the camera rolled and his crew bore witness. "We're here exercising our duty as press to represent the public of Brockton Bay and investigate what I can only describe as dangerous circumstances on public property. Our viewers have a right to know that they won't be awoken to explosions again at one in the morning. With governmental agencies on holiday, it falls to the press to investigate and ensure our citizens are safe tonight!" Stan indicated for his crew to continue toward the roundhouse and he began forward.
The officer pulled a notebook and pencil out from somewhere; Stan couldn't see from where, and jotted all of that down. "That's all well and good Mr. Vickery," the officer replied, "And while it is company policy to let the press have a look around from time to time, you must have a security officer escorting you around, just to make sure you don't hurt yourselves you understand. A railroad yard is a dangerous place to wander around in. We don't want to be held liable if you got hurt on our watch."
"Officer," Stan permitted the title even if it felt a bit wrong to use the phrase for a projected vigilante. This, a little respect, even when not earned, could clear the path and would likely help keep his crew safer. "With all due respect, there is no 'company'. You have no liability for the equipment here. This property and everything in it is property of the City of Brockton Bay and the First Amendment grants the press the right to investigate governmental negligence. The explosions last night and your continued possession of public property without leave or contract seem to indicate negligence of city officials.
"Our station has already notified the Office of the Mayor that we're here to get to the bottom of this. They seem to be disinterested in performing their own due diligence midway through a holiday weekend, but they didn't have any inclination to invite a lawsuit either. You may 'escort' us if you wish, but we have the right to be here so please don't interfere with our investigation."
The officer held up his hands in a placating gesture, still speaking politely, "No need to be hostile Mr. Vickery. While there is no official company yet, there will be. It's only a matter of time. You can look around all you like and I won't interfere, but please, these engines are all in working order. Please do not touch anything that will end up hurting you, others, or damage the locomotives and the facilities. We will assign an escort to your party just to make sure of that and to be available to answer any of your questions. Good day to you, sir."
Stan was visibly surprised at the absence of resistance, but quickly schooled his features before turning back to the camera. "It appears Dispatcher's projections are agreeable for now. Let's start in and leave no stone unturned so that we can ensure the citizens of Brockton Bay need not fear another explosive awakening in the dark hours of the morning."
With that, the team continued toward the roundhouse, passing by further guards who merely gave welcoming waves or examining glances. Approaching the open stall doors of the building itself, Stan and his crew were met by another officer, this one with a sign of rank on his lapels similar to that of an army corporal.
"Good Morning, gentlemen. I am The Corporal. I am in charge of all security operations for Dispatcher. If you have any questions regarding last night's battle, please do not hesitate to ask me. In addition, I will be your assigned escort for your visit today. As my guard previously told you, please be careful around the locomotives. We don't want you to hurt yourselves."
"Jeff and I have reported from war zones and parahuman showdowns," Stan assured the projection in authority. "I think resting locomotives will present no threat to us." With a nod to the corporal, Stan led his crew into the roundhouse.
The most prominent of the six locomotive lineup was, of course, the 4-6-2 Heavy Pacific locomotive whose name plate read Roger's Rangers. The nameplate was displayed prominently on its sides. The locomotive's boiler gave off a slightly warm feeling and Stan would recall that the engine had been steaming around the Trainyards on a reported test run. The WQIE news chopper had captured the run on its camera.
Stan turned to the Corporal and gestured toward Roger's Rangers. "That's the engine Dispatcher was going for a spin in when she did the press conference this morning, isn't it?"
The Corporal gave an affirming nod. "Yes sir, it was. Though it was slightly after the press conference that she helped get it running."
"Jeff, you know the shots I want. I'm gonna go up and take a look around that one. It looks interesting." With that, the veteran reporter walked up to the larger locomotive, taking in its lines and details from the outside before he climbed aboard. The cameraman was clearly an expert in his trade, and moved around to get both panning and close up shots. As Stan climbed aboard, Jeff ensured the reporter's every movement was documented until his friend slipped out of direct sight and into the cab.
The Corporal followed Stan up into the cab and stood in one corner, available if the reporter felt like questioning him. The firebox was closed and the cab empty of other persons but there was the distinct scent of coal dust in the air. To Stan, the various gauges appeared to be brand new or nearly so.
Stan poked around as much as the cab allowed human access. He refrained from touching things for the most part. He was a professional reporter and wanted to do his duty, but as a professional he could appreciate the work of other professionals and this locomotive appeared in near pristine shape. He may not have operated a locomotive before, but he'd had the opportunity to drive vehicles as widely varied as a tank and a helicopter. He was certified to fly two-engine aircraft on instruments. This locomotive deserved respect and he would grant it.
"Corporal, I'm going to call up my cameraman, Jeff, to take some shots. He's done the same on a Ticonderoga-class cruiser before, so he knows what he's doing." Stan hung his head out the cab door. "Jeff, come up here and take some shots."
The next couple of minutes involved Jeff's camera being attached to a harness and Jeff climbing aboard with a rope tied to his waist. Once he was fully settled in the cab, an assistant helped the cameraman lift his precious device back into his waiting arms.
Stan didn't bother directing his long-time colleague. Jeff knew his business as well as anyone in the industry. Telling his friend how to do his job would be insulting and counterproductive.
The floor of the cab grew warm to the touch, but not enough to burn or even singe. It was a comfortable, welcoming warmth. A presence filled the cab that was approving in its demeanor. If Stan and Jeff didn't know better, they would swear they were being watched. The Corporal smiled, "It appears that Roger approves of you Mr Vickery. Thank you for being polite and professional while examining everything."
"Good professionals know how to identify like-minded experts," Stan shared even as he looked around in response to the nebulous feeling of another presence. "Nothing I see so far suggests the standard gang or even an unrestrained or temperamental child," Stan admitted, his voice a little grudging.
"So you say that 'Roger' approves of me," Stan changed the subject to pursue something that had caught his interest earlier. "Is Roger a projection like you? One with a personality? I understand this engine was part of the abandoned stock on the property when the museum failed."
"All of these engines were, except that E7A, which is part of Dispatcher's personal stock," The Corporal said, pointing down the interior of the roundhouse at the extra-long dedicated passenger locomotive.
"Roger though, he's special. This year he's 71 years old and has seen 20 years of mainline revenue service and another 40 in excursion service. Over that amount of time, Roger has gained a consciousness of his own and with either a blazing fire or a bit of Dispatcher's power, can generate his own projection." The Corporal had a fond look on his face, as if the locomotive was precious to him and the rest of his comrades.
"Huh," Stan vocalized in thought. "An inanimate object with an independent consciousness? I have a hard time believing such a thing. I've never heard of ghosts or anything out here. If this "spirit" started manifesting with Dispatcher's arrival, it makes a lot more sense that it must be related to her powers like you are. Have you ever heard of Occam's Razor? The concept has taken a big hit with the prevalence of parahumans, but the point is still valid."
"I am familiar with the idea Mr. Vickery, mostly through the sayings of Sherlock Holmes, but that does not mean that complex ideas or answers cannot exist. Roger has been developing his consciousness for 70 years. The problem was bringing it out in the open. Once Dispatcher lit his fire yesterday for the first time in 12 years, his spirit was able to latch onto her power and create a projection of his own. It is much more solid and less ethereal than we are." The Corporal poked himself in the ribs and his body gave way much more than any human would safely.
"And speaking of you? What are you exactly? I've interacted with projections before but they were much more robotic. And it's not just you. Your men outside had convincing personalities. And visual details beyond that necessary to act as effective guards."
The Corporal seemed to ponder that for a moment, then said, "We are… emulations of past employees of the Boston and Maine Railroad. We are copies of their forms and knowledge of how to do the jobs we are assigned. We are not their spirits, nor do we have any of their other memories. I suppose all I can really say in addition to that, is that Dispatcher's power allows her to create us from observations it made before it ever selected her."
"And there I think is the rub. Dispatcher can simulate if not bring inanimate objects to something resembling life. She can manifest dozens of human projections with what you claim are the personalities and technical knowledge of men long dead.
"Corporal, I'll be honest, part of me is investigating to ensure we're not at the mercy of a superpowered child's temper and moodiness. I have a daughter and she was a terror as a young teen. She's in college now to be an architect, though, so I have nothing to complain about. I just know for boys and girls that the early teen years are not often pretty."
Stan's expression softened a bit. "Look, I certainly don't want to break a child's privacy, but hearing that she's not joining the Wards and seeing what she's capable of gives even me pause. And I lived through Leviathan three years ago while reporting from a Navy cruiser that survived by the Grace of God more so than anything else.
"I'm not saying Dispatcher is an Endbringer by any stretch, but she at the very least can assemble a small army of capable troops. That's a lot of power in the hands of a child for a place like Brockton Bay. The public really does deserve to know more about her intentions, her ethics, and her adult supervision assuming she has someone watching over her."
"Your caution and fears are not warranted in this case Mr. Vickery, I assure you," The Corporal replied in a relaxed tone. "Yes Dispatcher may be excitable and have a bubbly personality, but she has a family to keep her from going overboard. She is not malicious in any way and she has parents who both want the best for her and the city. They would not allow her to make any decisions that would bring harm to herself or the city in any way. Not that she would allow herself to do so anyway."
The police commander shrugged, "Your own PRT has seen fit to allow her to operate unimpeded so far. I would think that would be a vote of confidence in her."
Stan grimaced and shook his head. "The Brockton Bay PRT Director is out of town. I already checked that angle. This is all happening so fast they're trying to catch up just like the city people. No one with real authority is around or wants to call an emergency and bring their teams together on a holiday weekend. So they haven't seen fit so much as they have stuck their heads in the sand until Tuesday. I'm not sure we have that long.
"Last night proved to us that criminal elements are much more nimble than the good guys. And I can't take a projection's word for it that this Dispatcher won't throw a fit if she is disappointed, whatever her intentions might be. A fit of pique in a middle schooler is at worst annoying and can even be cute. Add dozens of armed guards and the ability to move hundred ton objects around through the air and the cuteness factor vanishes. It's the difference between playing with a house cat and a Bengal tiger."
Having said what he clearly saw as a definitive statement, the reporter moved back to the ladder down to the ground. "Jeff, let's start looking around the back rooms of this place. There must be some offices and storerooms. We should nose around there for explosives or other threat enhancers. This Dispatcher is risky enough on her own power, but we have no idea what was left behind by the railroad or the Merchants."
The Corporal frowned and mumbled to himself, "This man is too much like J. Jonah Jameson for my liking." Still, he would follow Stan and Jeff down the cab ladder and pointed to a door in the back of the roundhouse. "There are a set of offices back there for the Yard manager and some other folks. I've got a couple men going through them cleaning and dusting. You may look them over if you wish."
Stan broke his crew up into three teams to search the building, two to a team. Stan and Jeff went in different pairings to ensure their experience shored up the least senior members of the crew.
There were perhaps half a dozen offices in the small block attached to the back of the roundhouse. A couple had been cleaned up already but the other four were in the middle of being scrubbed, mopped and dusted to perfection by railroad officers.
One of the clean rooms had a massive floor to chest safe standing in it that had been impeccably shined. One officer, his pistol holster unlatched and rifle held at the ready, stood guard in front of it and two duffle bags that were next to the safe in the corner.
Stan just happened to choose the room with the most interesting stuff. "Hey crew," he called out, "come here. I want witnesses and video." In a more conversational voice, he tilted his head back and asked the Corporal who had elected to follow him and stood immediately behind and to his right, "What's in those bags and the safe?"
The Corporal shrugged, "We know that the documents of ownership for the facilities, locomotives, rolling stock and rails out to the Classification Yard are in there based on Roger's testimony but it's locked tight and we haven't found the key. By the scratches on the locks we found when we got here, there have been numerous attempts to open it but none appear to have succeeded.
"The bags have cash that was taken from the Merchant goons that were occupying the backshops behind the roundhouse. Most likely sales their drug dealers brought in. The Dispatcher is planning to use it as seed capital. A much better use for the money than putting it in the pockets of criminal gangs I should think."
"Hmm, then I don't suppose you'll mind Jeff getting video of the insides of both bags," Stan stated, not asking, as he moved to the location of the two bags. "We need to document this so it doesn't just vanish conveniently. Did you mention this to the police when they were here? I can't imagine them disposing of money like this without a court order even for a good cause."
"The money was taken in accordance with the commonly held vigilante traditions in mind. Independent heroes may take cash from villains and their teams if they ever meet in combat," The corporal noted, "But you may look if you wish. We did hand over two duffle bags of drugs to the police that we found here. There should be a receipt for them in one of the cash bags. We had the bags all together but I am not sure if the police saw the cash directly."
"You yourself called this drug money. Drug crimes are not parahuman crimes. The money was directly taken from normal humans," Stan stated firmly. "Human victims. Just because a parahuman or two was involved doesn't make a common crime fall under special cape rules. At the very least a court will need to make that determination."
Stan pulled out vinyl gloves from his pocket, donned them, and carefully opened the bags one at a time, careful not to touch the money. Jeff dutifully took close-up shots of the contents as best he could. The cash had been faithfully sorted and organized and were neatly stacked according to denomination. In one bag a receipt written by one Officer Kent Davies of the BBPD for two drug-filled bags sat on top of the cash. Stan looked to Jeff and once the cameraman nodded, Stan securely closed the last bag.
"I will say on camera that you have been surprisingly solicitous this evening, Corporal. Assuming this continues, I will state that on the air in my report."
"I thank you in Dispatcher's name," The Corporal stated, "We do not want any bad press if we can possibly avoid it. Dispatcher aims to rebuild this railroad, reopen the port and industry and bring Brockton Bay's economy back to pre-Leviathan levels. We do not want to get off on the wrong foot with the people we are trying to help."
"That's a noble cause, I'll freely admit," Stan said quietly. "And if Dispatcher is all she seems, this could be a miracle for this place. I've gone the world over in my profession, but I am Brockton Bay born and raised. Arcadia High class of '78," he said proudly.
"Still, the public deserves transparency. That's all I myself ask on their behalf. And speaking of transparency," Stan turned back and called to one of his assistants. "Adrian, call Quincy Adams. I put him on retainer for this in case I needed help entering without breaking. The mayor said I could do the former but not the latter. Let's get the best locksmith in town over here and see what's in this safe. I'm paying him enough; we should be inside within the hour."
The Corporal raised his hand to prompt Adrian from leaving, "I would like to ask a favor of you Mr. Vickery. As a courtesy to you, I have not kept you from examining the premises here. I and my officers have freely told you of Dispatcher's aims. I will not deny that the public deserves to know these things.
"However, I would like to note that Dispatcher already had plans to call a locksmith and have this safe opened. She was waiting until Tuesday to call though because of the weekend. I would like to ask you, Mr. Vickery, to allow Dispatcher the time to do this her way in return for the courtesy you have received here today. Perhaps when she is available on Tuesday, Dispatcher can give you a private interview here in this place while she opens the safe with the help of the locksmith?"
"Opening the safe won't be cheap, Corporal," Stan retorted. "I'm offering to have the station pay for it if we do it right now when we're assured of the exclusivity. There's no guarantee if we leave the safe that it won't be opened out of the public eye or by someone else. Dispatcher has demonstrated she can visit the Trainyard. She's certainly invited to join us. It's not even 7 pm yet. She looked old enough, I'm sure her bedtime must be at least 8pm. If there are no delays, we should have this thing cracked by then."
"Mr. Vickery," The Corporal's tone shifted from bargaining to chastening, "Please do not mock Dispatcher. She is a girl yes, but she does not deserve your displeasure in any of the forms it has taken today. If you wish to pay to have the safe opened, you may do so on Tuesday, when she is next available after school. I will promise in her name that she will not preempt you. You are the only reporter in this town brave enough to come out here and do the work you do. Please have some faith about this."
The Corporal watched and Stan pondered for long moments, his face ready for a round of poker. "I was press on the Aegis cruiser USS Normandy three years ago. While unable to do squat to the damn thing, we monitored the battle with Leviathan from the mouth of the St Lawrence River on behalf of NATO. We rode out the tsunamis that resulted when Newfoundland imploded. I don't scare easily." The two men maintained eye contact, although Stan being human was forced to blink first. His stature ensured it wasn't a sign of weakness.
"That said," Stan's eyes noticeably softened, "I have a daughter. A lovely, brilliant young woman who I am very glad did not choose to walk in my footsteps. I sincerely hope that she lives a boring and uneventful life designing buildings somewhere far from Brockton Bay or anywhere else that attracts capes. I do, indeed, have a heart buried beneath this crusty and greying exterior."
The Corporal nodded, "I hope she does too, Mr. Vickery, for your sake if you will permit me to say. Is there anything else I can do for you today? A more in-depth blow-by-blow account of the battle last night perhaps? Dispatcher did not have a lot of time to explain this morning."
"Does this place still have running water?" Stan asked, seemingly changing the subject. "I saw a bathroom down the hall."
"The fire hydrant worked earlier to fill Roger's tender. I think the firemen said that we had a connection to both the primary city water main and an independent connection to the city's aquifer. It should still work."
"Excuse me while I go attempt to use the facilities," Stan said, nodding to the Corporal, and left his crew behind in the direction of the bathroom.
About five minutes later, Stan returned to the group with a satisfied look on his face. "Okay, I've got a counterproposal. I'm enjoying spending time with you, Corporal. Whatever you may be, you remind me of the professional soldiers and sailors I've had the pleasure to work with. Running water and a usable toilet is all I need to make this work, other than your cooperation." He searched the Corporal's eyes for some inkling of his feelings on the matter. Seeing nothing he could interpret, he continued.
"Jeff and I are going to stay here until Tuesday when Dispatcher can appear. My crew will go get some air mattresses, sleeping bags, toilet paper, and other supplies before they go to report to the station and then get some sleep at home. We'll sleep in this room to monitor the safe. One or the other of us will make trips to examine the other three buildings just to the west and I'd like to take a look at that locomotive that you say is from Dispatcher's 'collection'. If one of the other gangs or various powers that be decide to make a move on your fortification, we'll be here to get first hand reporting of it. It's a win-win in my book. What do you say?"
The Corporal looked skyward as if pondering and listening at the same time. A couple moments later, he brought his head back down and nodded, "Dispatcher agrees with your proposal, though she thinks that the most likely and most stupid people to attack here have already done so."
"She's a smart kid. I agree with her. That said, that safe will be ratings gold and I have a daughter to put through architecture school. Expect my station to be talking about it incessantly for the next two days. Like I said. Win-win." Stan grinned and put out his hand to shake with the Corporal.
The railroad policeman shook Stan's hand firmly and answered the reporter's grin with his own. "Did you ever have family in the railroad business? I could swear I've met someone like you before but I can't place it. He was a regular bloodhound, never losing the scent of whatever crooks' trail he was on."
"My grandfather, Nathaniel Vickery. Worked for the Boston and Maine through the depression and Second World War. Like I said, I'm Brockton Bay born and raised."
"Hmm… Nathaniel, Nathaniel. It sounds familiar, but I can't recall exactly. He would be proud of you, Mr. Vickery, I am sure of that much," The Corporal complimented.
"It's nice to think so, I suppose," Stan responded wistfully. "Maybe it'll come to you tonight. In the meantime, while my crew goes to get the stuff two humans will need for a two-day rustic campout, what is this about a more in-depth blow-by-blow account of the battle last night?"
Wildbow owns Worm
Thanks to @DrYuriMom for being the best co-author
Photos are courtesy of railarchive.net
Welcome to chapter 3.2! We are taking a look at other things going on in town today. We get an update on Squealer and a canon reporter gets some much-needed background and noses around Taylor's operation. I do hope you all enjoy this chapter of The World is my Layout. We go back to Taylor and family next week.
As of the writing of this author's note, the poll can be considered closed. Of the 97 votes, there were 29 votes for 2 3500 word chapters per week, 35 votes for 1 chapter of 7k to 8k words per week and 33 votes for Author's choice. While option two ended up winning of its own accord, it was also the personal preference of myself and DrYuriMom. As such, the 7k-8k option has a total of 68 votes. We thank everyone who voted for participating.
As a result of the vote, we have 2 chapters of a 7k-8k length mostly completed and one in the works. Depending on their level of support, Patrons will be able to view these future chapters on the same day after a chapter is posted to this thread. They will be able to give their opinions and advice via Discord. Admittedly I am still new to this so advice on getting a Patreon going is also welcome. The link to my Patreon can be found either in my signature or in the Informational Threadmarks. Any support you can give will be gratefully appreciated.
Chapters will still be posted for free every Saturday as per usual if I don't feel like releasing it a day early like sometimes happen.
As of the writing of this author's note, the poll can be considered closed. Of the 97 votes, there were 29 votes for 2 3500 word chapters per week, 35 votes for 1 chapter of 7k to 8k words per week and 33 votes for Author's choice. While option two ended up winning of its own accord, it was also the personal preference of myself and DrYuriMom. As such, the 7k-8k option has a total of 68 votes. We thank everyone who voted for participating.
As a result of the vote, we have 2 chapters of a 7k-8k length mostly completed and one in the works. Depending on their level of support, Patrons will be able to view these future chapters on the same day after a chapter is posted to this thread. They will be able to give their opinions and advice via Discord. Admittedly I am still new to this so advice on getting a Patreon going is also welcome. The link to my Patreon can be found either in my signature or in the Informational Threadmarks. Any support you can give will be gratefully appreciated.
Chapters will still be posted for free every Saturday as per usual if I don't feel like releasing it a day early like sometimes happen.
Sunday, August 31st, 12:00 pm
Brockton Bay, NH
Boat Graveyard
In the depths of the Boat Graveyard amongst all the abandoned buildings, grown over train tracks and grounded ships, the former Merchant Tinker known as Squealer propped herself against a building to rest in its shade. The noonday sun was beginning to get to her. The rolling suitcase into which she had stuffed her supplies and the primary Merchant money stash served as an armrest. Through the agony and fatigue of her withdrawal symptoms and general lack of sleep, the woman wondered once again how she had gotten to this point.
Trying to think hard between her confused mind and her Tinker itch, Squealer made a list. First, she had been swooned by Skidmark's charms and then swept into his team of drug dealers, bums, and petty crooks. Kept on a steady regimen of meth, she could not make many decisions on her own, except those driven by her tinkering.
She was unsure how many months she had spent in this fashion, putting together various scratch-built invisible get-away cars, transport vehicles, and heavy tanks for Skidmark's operations. Then came the accident a week ago. On her latest high, she had gone out to make a run between Merchant outposts across town and proceeded to ignore a traffic signal and smash her invisible car into the vehicle containing a mother and daughter pair.
Because she usually heavily reinforced her cars, she had gotten away with only a slightly damaged arm from the sudden deceleration. She was sure the poor civilians hadn't fared so well. But she hadn't been able to stop. She hadn't been in her right mind, and Skidmark would've been angry if she had gotten caught. Skidmark ended up angry anyway because he had been forced to send her to a doctor who had commanded to keep her off the meth while she healed.
With the week she had spent in withdrawal and not being on a constant high, Squealer had been able to think for herself for once. It was all Skidmark's fault that she had gotten caught up in this life. All she had wanted to do with her powers was build cars and work with other vehicles as the opportunity arose. Skidmark had taken advantage of her desires with a bit of help from meth and who knows what else.
And so, given the opportunity of last night, she had booked it. She had unlocked his safe, grabbed all the cash inside, which was a considerable amount, and thrown it in the suitcase along with some food, water, and minor tools. Now, she was lost in the abandoned, unclaimed scrapyard that was the Boat Graveyard with no help and a craving for both meth and tinkering. Squealer focused on that second part. She didn't want to relapse. She wanted to get control of her life again. "I gotta find something to tinker with, focus on that, get lost in that, instead of the drugs," she mumbled, her desperation beginning to seep out in her speech.
Taking a few moments to get some strength back, Squealer considered what to do next. She had been following several of the abandoned rail tracks in the area over the day and hadn't yet found what she was looking for. Apparently, there was a dockside shed containing at least one large steam engine somewhere here. She had one more spur to check, and it curved around this building she was leaning on. If it wasn't there, she didn't know what she would do.
Clambering up to her feet again, Squealer, no, Sherrel Bailey, stood and stretched her arms wide. She would go by her own name until she could find a new one. How she allowed Skidmark to saddle her with that moniker was beyond her. She cast aside the name her former boyfriend had given her. She was trying to turn over a new leaf. She didn't want to be associated with that man ever again. Sherrel grabbed the suitcase and turned the corner of the building, following the rails.
The rails split into three spurs and as her eyes followed them, she saw that they led into a large shed structure of solid brick and steel. Many of the windows were broken however and one of the doors closing off the building had fallen off its hinges at some point. Sherrel recognized the building as a copy of the shops up at the Locomotive terminal.
She trudged as quickly as her protesting body would allow her. The craving for meth would have been overwhelming were it not for the pull of her power. She needed a place to sleep and get out of the sun. Moreover, she needed something to Tinker!
As she was passing through the open door which had barred the central position, the light through the many windows was cut off due to two hulking shapes on either side. Squinting through the light and shadow, she found what she was looking for. "Jackpot."
On either side of her, a massive shape rose toward the ceiling and stretched toward the closed-in back of the shed. On her right was a steam locomotive with 2 pilot wheels, 10 drive wheels, and two trailing wheels while on her left sat another steam engine. Each engine was streaked with rust and grime but she could still see their Boston and Maine markings and numbers. This one was numbered 3023.
The second locomotive held more interest to her for some reason. It had four pilot wheels, eight drive wheels, and two trailing wheels. It had both a number, 4108, and a nameplate. "Lily Pons, huh? That's a pretty name. I think I'll see what I can do with you first if you don't mind, girly."
Sherrel put it down to her fatigue, delirium, and confusion but as she began to fall into a sudden Tinker fugue, she could have sworn she had seen a ghost-like woman appear out of the corner of her eye. The hours went by with her in and out of the fugue, sleep, and general unpleasantness. Throughout it all, that woman dressed as an opera singer of all things appeared to encourage Sherrel throughout her day. Later Sherrel would credit that woman for keeping her sane.
A 2-10-2 Santa Fe-type locomotive belonging to the Boston and Maine.
A 4-8-2 Mountain-type locomotive owned by the Boston and Maine. This is Black Arrow, the last of the class.
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Sunday, August 31st, 4:45 pm
Brockton Bay Trainyard
Passenger Terminal
"Okay, crew. Let's start at the passenger terminal. We'll begin the piece showing the empty tracks where the southbound weekly Downeaster should be dropping off and picking up right now."
Stan Vickery led a small team of seven cameramen and assistants onto the dusty trainyard property with the stride of someone who owned the place. He'd dedicated his professional life to covering warzones and capes despite the risks. This opportunity appeared to have a low threat level, but could still be high reward given the interest Dispatcher had already collected in Brockton Bay and the surrounding areas.
Having seen the apparently young cape being interviewed on softball mode this morning, he inwardly winced that he had been vacationing north of Portland and had missed the chance to ask some of the really important questions that came immediately to his mind. He knew some of the personalities at the press conference that morning. He was surprised at the lack of insightful questions from some of them. It almost struck Stan as creepy.
"Jeff, set up the camera to face over there," Stan pointed across the tracks where the late August afternoon lighting wouldn't be too harsh on his stage makeup enhanced features. Lighting is a bitch, they say, and if Stan knew anything it was pandering to the camera.
"We'll just do our thing until someone decides to pay us attention." The reporter looked around to see if he'd caught any attention thus far, but the trainyard seemed eerily peaceful, more so then normal for the mostly abandoned property. The reporter had to admit that the previous tenants, the Merchants, hadn't exactly been good neighbors. That didn't remove his obligation to investigate the new management.
"Okay Sandra, go back to the van and bring over Mrs Livermore and her granddaughter. We'll start this as a human interest story for the five o'clock news. Then we'll get some good investigation going. The public has a right to know what exactly is going bump in the night out here on city property and not far from neighborhoods where families live."
A young woman, no more than twenty, with long brown curls and a slim skirt suit pattered in her flats back to the parking lot. A few minutes later she returned with a kindly-looking elderly woman and a bored-looking teenager.
Stan had been busy making sure everything was perfect for the shot, but he turned with a bright, welcoming smile as the two civilians arrived where he stood. "It's wonderful to see you again, Patty," he encouraged the older woman. "And Sarah, thank you for coming! You look fabulous, you know. Ready to be on TV tonight?"
The teen shrugged. "I got nothing better to do seeing as I'm going to miss my bestie's birthday tomorrow because of this canceled train. It's bullshit, you know. Some brat decides to blow up some shit this morning and I may not even get back for my first day of high school."
"Okay, just remember not to fucking swear while the cameras are rolling, alright?" Stan challenged the girl in her native tongue.
"Yeah, yeah," the girl said absently, although Stan could make out a tiny hint of a smile he suspected was a show of respect. "So when do we get started? If I can't go home I'd like to take in a movie at least with my cousins."
Stan Vickery and Patty Livermore shared a suffering glance when Sarah wasn't looking. "We're ready right now, Sarah. Let's just get you and your grandmother standing over here and I'll start asking some questions. Answer honestly and however you like, without the Seven Words please."
Sarah allowed herself to be directed by an assistant, followed shortly by her adorable grandmother. Stan flowed swiftly into position with his microphone and gave a nod to Jeff. The crew did their final checks and the cameraman started a countdown from five on one hand.
The scene was perfect and Stan smiled inwardly. "This is Stan Vickery reporting from the Amtrak terminal in the Brockton Bay trainyards. Behind me would normally be a bustling scene as passengers disembarked or boarded the Amtrak Downeaster as it returned to Boston for the weekend. Instead, only the sound of crickets and the bustle of dragonflies breaks the otherwise quiet scene. As WQIE News reported during our noon broadcast, due to an abundance of caution Amtrak has halted all traffic through Brockton Bay until the threat is evaluated and addressed. The Downeaster that passed to the north yesterday morning remains idle in Portland. This is in response to the explosive events of early this morning where blasts and fires rocked this trainyard area, waking many area residents to the sounds of a war zone."
Stan turned to Mrs Livermore. "With me tonight is Mrs Patricia Livermore and her granddaughter Sarah. The two of them had tickets to board the train for Boston and then points south, but those plans are now on indefinite hold. Mrs Livermore, what are your thoughts on the matter?"
The silver-haired woman in a striped light sweater and slacks seemingly straight from the 70's looked like she had been caught baking cookies. The scene couldn't be more wholesome and Stan was loving it. "Well, we don't live far from the trainyards but my hearing isn't the best. Sarah heard the explosions and woke me up because it sounded like a war outside. This area may have the occasional miscreant, but it's generally quiet. I don't know why the commotion was necessary, but I don't really like it so close to home let me tell you. It seems things just keep getting more unsafe every year. You can't tell the good guys from the bad guys. This Dispatcher girl seems sweet enough, but I think she threw a rock into a hornet's nest. Sometimes hornets' nests should just be left alone, you know? Or handled by the experts?"
Stan nodded to Patty's words, maintaining the neutral 'poker' face that was his trademark. When she had finished, he turned to the girl who still managed to look bored while on camera, a rare trait in Stan's experience. "Sarah, I understand you're going to miss your best friend's birthday tomorrow. What are your thoughts about all this?"
"Meh. I watched the news this morning and all I saw was some stuck-up brat blowing...things...up to make some guys who also blew things up leave her new turf. Just one gang against another with no mind for the rest of us who just have to live our lives. I have school starting on Tuesday in New Jersey and I'm likely gonna miss my first day of high school. My debut day, you get me? Personally I think they should take the lot of 'em and stuff them into the Birdcage. I hear it's not that bad. They get the run of the place and regular shipments of whatever they ask for. Let God sort 'em out while allowing God-fearing people like us to do His works in peace."
Stan nodded again , his expression impassive. "Well, there are certainly those who share your sentiment. Perhaps we might get a response to your concerns from Dispatcher herself before the day is done. I'm sure all of Brockton Bay would like clear assurances regarding her intentions."
"Cut," Stan called and the cameraman relaxed. "Okay, I think that does it for this segment. Patty, Sarah, thank you for your time. Sandra will go ahead and drive you wherever you'd like to be dropped off," he assured warmly. "And Sarah, keep the receipts for your movie trip tonight and the station will reimburse you as thank you for your time." For the first time today, Stan actually got a true smile through the tough-girl facade.
"Sandra, when you're done with the Livermores, head back to the station and check in. Also, call the number I gave you and give them a report, too. You will be our point of contact back to base. Anything the station hears should also get forwarded to that number. The rest of us are going on a little hike."
The parking lot became a scene of ordered chaos as Jeff and the crew took the main camera and related equipment back to the truck and replaced the gear with more mobile versions. Jeff uploaded the initial segment to the station for the 5:30pm news while Stan carefully wiped off his stage make-up and changed into shoes more appropriate for climbing over train tracks and around potholes.
With Jeff holding a mobile shoulder-mount camera instead of a studio mini, Stan needed a more earthy appearance for best effect. Especially when he intended to place himself under threat, even if in a manner carefully mitigated by the law being on his side. To a layman, he'd describe it as the "Blair Witch Effect".
"Okay, crew," the veteran reporter announced, "the lawyers have confirmed this all belongs to the city of Brockton Bay given the previous owners defaulted and stopped paying their bills. Whatever Dispatcher may claim, she and her projections have no more or less right to be here than we do. We don't recognize the 9/10ths rule unless shots get fired. In the event that happens, safety over sensation. Get to cover, and then get away. I don't hire heroes, remember? That's my job."
Stan appreciated the casual laughter of his crew. They were good people and Stan was dedicated to doing right by them and hopefully helping them all advance their careers. He'd had some pivotal mentors early on and he was passionate about paying it forward.
Stand stared into the distance toward the west, looking over the facilities that were his goal. "Let's go find out what is really happening here. Something just doesn't smell right about all this. There's too much softball being played and it's about time someone threw some tougher pitches. If no one else will do it, well I guess that leaves us."
Stan and his team trudged back to and then past the passenger terminal before turning west, parallel to the fueling tracks leading to the turntable and roundhouse. From the morning reports, that and the three buildings behind it seemed to be the center of activity for Dispatcher's operation. If he was to get his scoop, the center of the nest seemed the best place to go.
Taking advantage of his lapel microphone and trusting Jeff and the crew to keep the camera rolling, Stan started a running commentary that would be edited later to show the exciting parts.
"So, in the distance you can see the turntable up ahead that allows engines or other rail equipment to be spun to enter one of the bays in the roundhouse which is the biggest building you're seeing. We'll be passing equipment along the rails used to load fuel, water, and other materials necessary to make the various engines run. Well, engines that are real I should add. Part of what no one can answer yet is whether the equipment Dispatcher is projecting or commanding is any more real than her guards or crew."
The news crew, and later their viewers, noticed that the 10-stall roundhouse appeared to be half full with engines. In the first stall was a freshly painted steam engine, its new black paint job with white striping and lettering brilliantly shining in the afternoon sunlight. In the next few stalls was a GP-40-2, a GP-9, an RS-3, an F7A, and an E7A.
Each of the diesel locomotives was also freshly painted, but in the classic Boston and Maine maroon base color with gold stripes and featured the Minuteman Herald on their noses. Each locomotive was quiet but there were perhaps 10 of the projected armed railroad police patrolling around or standing in the shade keeping a roving eye out.
While carefully noting the guards, Stan was undeterred. He'd faced far worse reporting on capes. Honestly this one was just to pay the bills. But even a kid could bring ratings if handled right. And the public's appetite to know everything was never to be underestimated.
"Jeff, be sure to keep the camera on the roundhouse and get good shots of the guards. I doubt they'll do anything, but if they do it'll be ratings gold," the reporter noted, clearly conflicted about what his desired outcome for this endeavor might be.
As the group approached the turntable, a railroad policeman who stood in the control cab called out to them. To Stan and the camera crew, he appeared professional, yet slightly bored, as if he was just waiting for someone to cause trouble on his watch. His weapons were slung and holstered and a pair of binoculars hung around his neck. "Good day to you there! May I have a moment of your time to get your names, broadcasting company, and precise reasons to be here?" His tone was friendly if slightly challenging.
"My name is Stan Vickery, senior correspondent currently representing WQIE here in Brockton Bay," the reporter announced confidently as the camera rolled and his crew bore witness. "We're here exercising our duty as press to represent the public of Brockton Bay and investigate what I can only describe as dangerous circumstances on public property. Our viewers have a right to know that they won't be awoken to explosions again at one in the morning. With governmental agencies on holiday, it falls to the press to investigate and ensure our citizens are safe tonight!" Stan indicated for his crew to continue toward the roundhouse and he began forward.
The officer pulled a notebook and pencil out from somewhere; Stan couldn't see from where, and jotted all of that down. "That's all well and good Mr. Vickery," the officer replied, "And while it is company policy to let the press have a look around from time to time, you must have a security officer escorting you around, just to make sure you don't hurt yourselves you understand. A railroad yard is a dangerous place to wander around in. We don't want to be held liable if you got hurt on our watch."
"Officer," Stan permitted the title even if it felt a bit wrong to use the phrase for a projected vigilante. This, a little respect, even when not earned, could clear the path and would likely help keep his crew safer. "With all due respect, there is no 'company'. You have no liability for the equipment here. This property and everything in it is property of the City of Brockton Bay and the First Amendment grants the press the right to investigate governmental negligence. The explosions last night and your continued possession of public property without leave or contract seem to indicate negligence of city officials.
"Our station has already notified the Office of the Mayor that we're here to get to the bottom of this. They seem to be disinterested in performing their own due diligence midway through a holiday weekend, but they didn't have any inclination to invite a lawsuit either. You may 'escort' us if you wish, but we have the right to be here so please don't interfere with our investigation."
The officer held up his hands in a placating gesture, still speaking politely, "No need to be hostile Mr. Vickery. While there is no official company yet, there will be. It's only a matter of time. You can look around all you like and I won't interfere, but please, these engines are all in working order. Please do not touch anything that will end up hurting you, others, or damage the locomotives and the facilities. We will assign an escort to your party just to make sure of that and to be available to answer any of your questions. Good day to you, sir."
Stan was visibly surprised at the absence of resistance, but quickly schooled his features before turning back to the camera. "It appears Dispatcher's projections are agreeable for now. Let's start in and leave no stone unturned so that we can ensure the citizens of Brockton Bay need not fear another explosive awakening in the dark hours of the morning."
With that, the team continued toward the roundhouse, passing by further guards who merely gave welcoming waves or examining glances. Approaching the open stall doors of the building itself, Stan and his crew were met by another officer, this one with a sign of rank on his lapels similar to that of an army corporal.
"Good Morning, gentlemen. I am The Corporal. I am in charge of all security operations for Dispatcher. If you have any questions regarding last night's battle, please do not hesitate to ask me. In addition, I will be your assigned escort for your visit today. As my guard previously told you, please be careful around the locomotives. We don't want you to hurt yourselves."
"Jeff and I have reported from war zones and parahuman showdowns," Stan assured the projection in authority. "I think resting locomotives will present no threat to us." With a nod to the corporal, Stan led his crew into the roundhouse.
The most prominent of the six locomotive lineup was, of course, the 4-6-2 Heavy Pacific locomotive whose name plate read Roger's Rangers. The nameplate was displayed prominently on its sides. The locomotive's boiler gave off a slightly warm feeling and Stan would recall that the engine had been steaming around the Trainyards on a reported test run. The WQIE news chopper had captured the run on its camera.
Stan turned to the Corporal and gestured toward Roger's Rangers. "That's the engine Dispatcher was going for a spin in when she did the press conference this morning, isn't it?"
The Corporal gave an affirming nod. "Yes sir, it was. Though it was slightly after the press conference that she helped get it running."
"Jeff, you know the shots I want. I'm gonna go up and take a look around that one. It looks interesting." With that, the veteran reporter walked up to the larger locomotive, taking in its lines and details from the outside before he climbed aboard. The cameraman was clearly an expert in his trade, and moved around to get both panning and close up shots. As Stan climbed aboard, Jeff ensured the reporter's every movement was documented until his friend slipped out of direct sight and into the cab.
The Corporal followed Stan up into the cab and stood in one corner, available if the reporter felt like questioning him. The firebox was closed and the cab empty of other persons but there was the distinct scent of coal dust in the air. To Stan, the various gauges appeared to be brand new or nearly so.
Stan poked around as much as the cab allowed human access. He refrained from touching things for the most part. He was a professional reporter and wanted to do his duty, but as a professional he could appreciate the work of other professionals and this locomotive appeared in near pristine shape. He may not have operated a locomotive before, but he'd had the opportunity to drive vehicles as widely varied as a tank and a helicopter. He was certified to fly two-engine aircraft on instruments. This locomotive deserved respect and he would grant it.
"Corporal, I'm going to call up my cameraman, Jeff, to take some shots. He's done the same on a Ticonderoga-class cruiser before, so he knows what he's doing." Stan hung his head out the cab door. "Jeff, come up here and take some shots."
The next couple of minutes involved Jeff's camera being attached to a harness and Jeff climbing aboard with a rope tied to his waist. Once he was fully settled in the cab, an assistant helped the cameraman lift his precious device back into his waiting arms.
Stan didn't bother directing his long-time colleague. Jeff knew his business as well as anyone in the industry. Telling his friend how to do his job would be insulting and counterproductive.
The floor of the cab grew warm to the touch, but not enough to burn or even singe. It was a comfortable, welcoming warmth. A presence filled the cab that was approving in its demeanor. If Stan and Jeff didn't know better, they would swear they were being watched. The Corporal smiled, "It appears that Roger approves of you Mr Vickery. Thank you for being polite and professional while examining everything."
"Good professionals know how to identify like-minded experts," Stan shared even as he looked around in response to the nebulous feeling of another presence. "Nothing I see so far suggests the standard gang or even an unrestrained or temperamental child," Stan admitted, his voice a little grudging.
"So you say that 'Roger' approves of me," Stan changed the subject to pursue something that had caught his interest earlier. "Is Roger a projection like you? One with a personality? I understand this engine was part of the abandoned stock on the property when the museum failed."
"All of these engines were, except that E7A, which is part of Dispatcher's personal stock," The Corporal said, pointing down the interior of the roundhouse at the extra-long dedicated passenger locomotive.
"Roger though, he's special. This year he's 71 years old and has seen 20 years of mainline revenue service and another 40 in excursion service. Over that amount of time, Roger has gained a consciousness of his own and with either a blazing fire or a bit of Dispatcher's power, can generate his own projection." The Corporal had a fond look on his face, as if the locomotive was precious to him and the rest of his comrades.
"Huh," Stan vocalized in thought. "An inanimate object with an independent consciousness? I have a hard time believing such a thing. I've never heard of ghosts or anything out here. If this "spirit" started manifesting with Dispatcher's arrival, it makes a lot more sense that it must be related to her powers like you are. Have you ever heard of Occam's Razor? The concept has taken a big hit with the prevalence of parahumans, but the point is still valid."
"I am familiar with the idea Mr. Vickery, mostly through the sayings of Sherlock Holmes, but that does not mean that complex ideas or answers cannot exist. Roger has been developing his consciousness for 70 years. The problem was bringing it out in the open. Once Dispatcher lit his fire yesterday for the first time in 12 years, his spirit was able to latch onto her power and create a projection of his own. It is much more solid and less ethereal than we are." The Corporal poked himself in the ribs and his body gave way much more than any human would safely.
"And speaking of you? What are you exactly? I've interacted with projections before but they were much more robotic. And it's not just you. Your men outside had convincing personalities. And visual details beyond that necessary to act as effective guards."
The Corporal seemed to ponder that for a moment, then said, "We are… emulations of past employees of the Boston and Maine Railroad. We are copies of their forms and knowledge of how to do the jobs we are assigned. We are not their spirits, nor do we have any of their other memories. I suppose all I can really say in addition to that, is that Dispatcher's power allows her to create us from observations it made before it ever selected her."
"And there I think is the rub. Dispatcher can simulate if not bring inanimate objects to something resembling life. She can manifest dozens of human projections with what you claim are the personalities and technical knowledge of men long dead.
"Corporal, I'll be honest, part of me is investigating to ensure we're not at the mercy of a superpowered child's temper and moodiness. I have a daughter and she was a terror as a young teen. She's in college now to be an architect, though, so I have nothing to complain about. I just know for boys and girls that the early teen years are not often pretty."
Stan's expression softened a bit. "Look, I certainly don't want to break a child's privacy, but hearing that she's not joining the Wards and seeing what she's capable of gives even me pause. And I lived through Leviathan three years ago while reporting from a Navy cruiser that survived by the Grace of God more so than anything else.
"I'm not saying Dispatcher is an Endbringer by any stretch, but she at the very least can assemble a small army of capable troops. That's a lot of power in the hands of a child for a place like Brockton Bay. The public really does deserve to know more about her intentions, her ethics, and her adult supervision assuming she has someone watching over her."
"Your caution and fears are not warranted in this case Mr. Vickery, I assure you," The Corporal replied in a relaxed tone. "Yes Dispatcher may be excitable and have a bubbly personality, but she has a family to keep her from going overboard. She is not malicious in any way and she has parents who both want the best for her and the city. They would not allow her to make any decisions that would bring harm to herself or the city in any way. Not that she would allow herself to do so anyway."
The police commander shrugged, "Your own PRT has seen fit to allow her to operate unimpeded so far. I would think that would be a vote of confidence in her."
Stan grimaced and shook his head. "The Brockton Bay PRT Director is out of town. I already checked that angle. This is all happening so fast they're trying to catch up just like the city people. No one with real authority is around or wants to call an emergency and bring their teams together on a holiday weekend. So they haven't seen fit so much as they have stuck their heads in the sand until Tuesday. I'm not sure we have that long.
"Last night proved to us that criminal elements are much more nimble than the good guys. And I can't take a projection's word for it that this Dispatcher won't throw a fit if she is disappointed, whatever her intentions might be. A fit of pique in a middle schooler is at worst annoying and can even be cute. Add dozens of armed guards and the ability to move hundred ton objects around through the air and the cuteness factor vanishes. It's the difference between playing with a house cat and a Bengal tiger."
Having said what he clearly saw as a definitive statement, the reporter moved back to the ladder down to the ground. "Jeff, let's start looking around the back rooms of this place. There must be some offices and storerooms. We should nose around there for explosives or other threat enhancers. This Dispatcher is risky enough on her own power, but we have no idea what was left behind by the railroad or the Merchants."
The Corporal frowned and mumbled to himself, "This man is too much like J. Jonah Jameson for my liking." Still, he would follow Stan and Jeff down the cab ladder and pointed to a door in the back of the roundhouse. "There are a set of offices back there for the Yard manager and some other folks. I've got a couple men going through them cleaning and dusting. You may look them over if you wish."
Stan broke his crew up into three teams to search the building, two to a team. Stan and Jeff went in different pairings to ensure their experience shored up the least senior members of the crew.
There were perhaps half a dozen offices in the small block attached to the back of the roundhouse. A couple had been cleaned up already but the other four were in the middle of being scrubbed, mopped and dusted to perfection by railroad officers.
One of the clean rooms had a massive floor to chest safe standing in it that had been impeccably shined. One officer, his pistol holster unlatched and rifle held at the ready, stood guard in front of it and two duffle bags that were next to the safe in the corner.
Stan just happened to choose the room with the most interesting stuff. "Hey crew," he called out, "come here. I want witnesses and video." In a more conversational voice, he tilted his head back and asked the Corporal who had elected to follow him and stood immediately behind and to his right, "What's in those bags and the safe?"
The Corporal shrugged, "We know that the documents of ownership for the facilities, locomotives, rolling stock and rails out to the Classification Yard are in there based on Roger's testimony but it's locked tight and we haven't found the key. By the scratches on the locks we found when we got here, there have been numerous attempts to open it but none appear to have succeeded.
"The bags have cash that was taken from the Merchant goons that were occupying the backshops behind the roundhouse. Most likely sales their drug dealers brought in. The Dispatcher is planning to use it as seed capital. A much better use for the money than putting it in the pockets of criminal gangs I should think."
"Hmm, then I don't suppose you'll mind Jeff getting video of the insides of both bags," Stan stated, not asking, as he moved to the location of the two bags. "We need to document this so it doesn't just vanish conveniently. Did you mention this to the police when they were here? I can't imagine them disposing of money like this without a court order even for a good cause."
"The money was taken in accordance with the commonly held vigilante traditions in mind. Independent heroes may take cash from villains and their teams if they ever meet in combat," The corporal noted, "But you may look if you wish. We did hand over two duffle bags of drugs to the police that we found here. There should be a receipt for them in one of the cash bags. We had the bags all together but I am not sure if the police saw the cash directly."
"You yourself called this drug money. Drug crimes are not parahuman crimes. The money was directly taken from normal humans," Stan stated firmly. "Human victims. Just because a parahuman or two was involved doesn't make a common crime fall under special cape rules. At the very least a court will need to make that determination."
Stan pulled out vinyl gloves from his pocket, donned them, and carefully opened the bags one at a time, careful not to touch the money. Jeff dutifully took close-up shots of the contents as best he could. The cash had been faithfully sorted and organized and were neatly stacked according to denomination. In one bag a receipt written by one Officer Kent Davies of the BBPD for two drug-filled bags sat on top of the cash. Stan looked to Jeff and once the cameraman nodded, Stan securely closed the last bag.
"I will say on camera that you have been surprisingly solicitous this evening, Corporal. Assuming this continues, I will state that on the air in my report."
"I thank you in Dispatcher's name," The Corporal stated, "We do not want any bad press if we can possibly avoid it. Dispatcher aims to rebuild this railroad, reopen the port and industry and bring Brockton Bay's economy back to pre-Leviathan levels. We do not want to get off on the wrong foot with the people we are trying to help."
"That's a noble cause, I'll freely admit," Stan said quietly. "And if Dispatcher is all she seems, this could be a miracle for this place. I've gone the world over in my profession, but I am Brockton Bay born and raised. Arcadia High class of '78," he said proudly.
"Still, the public deserves transparency. That's all I myself ask on their behalf. And speaking of transparency," Stan turned back and called to one of his assistants. "Adrian, call Quincy Adams. I put him on retainer for this in case I needed help entering without breaking. The mayor said I could do the former but not the latter. Let's get the best locksmith in town over here and see what's in this safe. I'm paying him enough; we should be inside within the hour."
The Corporal raised his hand to prompt Adrian from leaving, "I would like to ask a favor of you Mr. Vickery. As a courtesy to you, I have not kept you from examining the premises here. I and my officers have freely told you of Dispatcher's aims. I will not deny that the public deserves to know these things.
"However, I would like to note that Dispatcher already had plans to call a locksmith and have this safe opened. She was waiting until Tuesday to call though because of the weekend. I would like to ask you, Mr. Vickery, to allow Dispatcher the time to do this her way in return for the courtesy you have received here today. Perhaps when she is available on Tuesday, Dispatcher can give you a private interview here in this place while she opens the safe with the help of the locksmith?"
"Opening the safe won't be cheap, Corporal," Stan retorted. "I'm offering to have the station pay for it if we do it right now when we're assured of the exclusivity. There's no guarantee if we leave the safe that it won't be opened out of the public eye or by someone else. Dispatcher has demonstrated she can visit the Trainyard. She's certainly invited to join us. It's not even 7 pm yet. She looked old enough, I'm sure her bedtime must be at least 8pm. If there are no delays, we should have this thing cracked by then."
"Mr. Vickery," The Corporal's tone shifted from bargaining to chastening, "Please do not mock Dispatcher. She is a girl yes, but she does not deserve your displeasure in any of the forms it has taken today. If you wish to pay to have the safe opened, you may do so on Tuesday, when she is next available after school. I will promise in her name that she will not preempt you. You are the only reporter in this town brave enough to come out here and do the work you do. Please have some faith about this."
The Corporal watched and Stan pondered for long moments, his face ready for a round of poker. "I was press on the Aegis cruiser USS Normandy three years ago. While unable to do squat to the damn thing, we monitored the battle with Leviathan from the mouth of the St Lawrence River on behalf of NATO. We rode out the tsunamis that resulted when Newfoundland imploded. I don't scare easily." The two men maintained eye contact, although Stan being human was forced to blink first. His stature ensured it wasn't a sign of weakness.
"That said," Stan's eyes noticeably softened, "I have a daughter. A lovely, brilliant young woman who I am very glad did not choose to walk in my footsteps. I sincerely hope that she lives a boring and uneventful life designing buildings somewhere far from Brockton Bay or anywhere else that attracts capes. I do, indeed, have a heart buried beneath this crusty and greying exterior."
The Corporal nodded, "I hope she does too, Mr. Vickery, for your sake if you will permit me to say. Is there anything else I can do for you today? A more in-depth blow-by-blow account of the battle last night perhaps? Dispatcher did not have a lot of time to explain this morning."
"Does this place still have running water?" Stan asked, seemingly changing the subject. "I saw a bathroom down the hall."
"The fire hydrant worked earlier to fill Roger's tender. I think the firemen said that we had a connection to both the primary city water main and an independent connection to the city's aquifer. It should still work."
"Excuse me while I go attempt to use the facilities," Stan said, nodding to the Corporal, and left his crew behind in the direction of the bathroom.
About five minutes later, Stan returned to the group with a satisfied look on his face. "Okay, I've got a counterproposal. I'm enjoying spending time with you, Corporal. Whatever you may be, you remind me of the professional soldiers and sailors I've had the pleasure to work with. Running water and a usable toilet is all I need to make this work, other than your cooperation." He searched the Corporal's eyes for some inkling of his feelings on the matter. Seeing nothing he could interpret, he continued.
"Jeff and I are going to stay here until Tuesday when Dispatcher can appear. My crew will go get some air mattresses, sleeping bags, toilet paper, and other supplies before they go to report to the station and then get some sleep at home. We'll sleep in this room to monitor the safe. One or the other of us will make trips to examine the other three buildings just to the west and I'd like to take a look at that locomotive that you say is from Dispatcher's 'collection'. If one of the other gangs or various powers that be decide to make a move on your fortification, we'll be here to get first hand reporting of it. It's a win-win in my book. What do you say?"
The Corporal looked skyward as if pondering and listening at the same time. A couple moments later, he brought his head back down and nodded, "Dispatcher agrees with your proposal, though she thinks that the most likely and most stupid people to attack here have already done so."
"She's a smart kid. I agree with her. That said, that safe will be ratings gold and I have a daughter to put through architecture school. Expect my station to be talking about it incessantly for the next two days. Like I said. Win-win." Stan grinned and put out his hand to shake with the Corporal.
The railroad policeman shook Stan's hand firmly and answered the reporter's grin with his own. "Did you ever have family in the railroad business? I could swear I've met someone like you before but I can't place it. He was a regular bloodhound, never losing the scent of whatever crooks' trail he was on."
"My grandfather, Nathaniel Vickery. Worked for the Boston and Maine through the depression and Second World War. Like I said, I'm Brockton Bay born and raised."
"Hmm… Nathaniel, Nathaniel. It sounds familiar, but I can't recall exactly. He would be proud of you, Mr. Vickery, I am sure of that much," The Corporal complimented.
"It's nice to think so, I suppose," Stan responded wistfully. "Maybe it'll come to you tonight. In the meantime, while my crew goes to get the stuff two humans will need for a two-day rustic campout, what is this about a more in-depth blow-by-blow account of the battle last night?"
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Tisaku
Head Chief Thinkomancer
Honorguard Ra
(Verified Lizard Dude)
Nom nom nom werdz. 😋 I'm a bit surprised by how well the reporter turned himself around in my opinion. The first bit had me thinking he'd be a dick and a ratings hog, but he's a ratings hog and a concerned native citizen. There's a decent bit of difference between the two. Happily waiting for the next chapter.