Vox De Harlequin
Consequences are for other people
- Location
- Hyalean Theoric World
He did.
Leet's power now works better the more dissociated his creations are from him.
[Worm AU][OC / SI] Pax Humanitas
- Thread starter Logos01
- Start date
- Sci-Fi Superhero
-
- Tags
- worm oc insert tinker transhumanism
- Location
- italy
Thank you!
- Location
- Salt Lake City, UT, USA
To elaborate a little; Leet's tech still always has a failure rate. But in this universe his Shard got a slightly different set of programming: the better concealed the fact that his power was the Tinker source for a device, the lower the failure rate. To the point where a totally secret construction would be only as likely to fail as a poorly maintained device that's been given a makeshift patch.
And that's why he's so hopeful now; convincing the world that he is using someone else's power is basically a get out of jail free card. He goes from having catastrophic failure on everything to merely needing to constantly invest in repairs. And better still; he could fix his old creations (though those repairs would themselves still suffer his failure rate). It would be like a direct blood infusion given to an anemia patient.
Better still is what happens if he actually DOES get another Tinker power... Since even in Canon Leet's failure rate isn't imposed on other Tinker's tech just because he worked with them.
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- Location
- italy
Huh. This is really fascinating, actually.
Arc 2 Chapter 6
- Location
- Salt Lake City, UT, USA
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Arc 2, Chapter 6 (Activation: Inspection)
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Three days later; November 2nd, early afternoon. With the warmth rolling in the wind was finally dying out -- the trip over to Calle's offices was much more pleasant than I'd anticipated -- it actually got into the mid-40's out by the time I had corralled together Sam and one of the Dozen; the marine, Jimmy Carlson. They were both in what I have taken to considering our 'uniform', the same as myself; a simple grey cotton hoodie (hood up), blue jeans, with conventional work-boots, peacoats (scavenged from Goodwills where they didn't already have their own), silk scarves over the lower face and nose, and yellowed shock glasses over the eyes. That, and black nitrile gloves under fingerless mechanic's gloves.Arc 2, Chapter 6 (Activation: Inspection)
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Over the course of the last three days I finally managed to 'lick' the constraint of needing slime-mold for recoloring surfaces, though even so I still can't create true invisibility -- nor anything truly close to it. But it is enough to get our outfits to be consistently colored. And so; sitting in Calle's lawfirm's meeting room patiently sipping from bottles of water through our scarves, the three of us -- clearly not of similar builds or ages -- all sit, otherwise apparently identical in color-choices for our outfits, the same ambiguous skintone that could either be ethnic or sun exposure, and the same almost glowingly brilliant green eye color.
We are hardly alone, though; while the Marine and Sam are the only ones accompanying me within the building, there are another three on the rooftop in makeshift ghillie suits. They've been there since last night, perfectly still and with their body temperatures carefully controlled to avoid generating too much of a signature, while they sleep in CVI-induced unconsciousness (a countermeasure I thought of after reviewing the parahumans in Brockton -- specifically, Gallant; I have no idea if it would actually work but it certainly cannot hurt matters), waiting to be triggered into action, ready to rappel down the wall and break into the meeting room at a moment's notice. And of course there are a number of the smaller members of the Stray Patrol within the building as well; rats and squirrels in the ducting, observing the rooms; and a couple of fully camouflaged cats (of the non-living variety) in the room with us. We are as prepared for any possible adversities as I can possibly make us with the resources currently at my disposal; and even so I am still extremely nervous about the idea of being in a predictable time and place not under my total control.
An anxiety that I immediately find corroborated by the additional guests that Quinn has seen fit to introduce to our little afternoon soiree; a lawyer I recognize -- from her PR events. Carol. Fucking. Dallon. AKA Brandish. And better still; she's not even the only Dallon coming to the party; she's brought her daughter Amy as well. I can see how these events will play out, now. Thinking about it, I feel my lips form into a sort of rueful smirk.
"Ki... Magister -- you okay?" Sam queries me.
"Loose lips sink ships S. Mind your tongue. Same goes for you, C."
Sam and Carlson -- it feels odd to call him by his first name, for some reason -- both nod crisply.
Some ten or so minutes later, Quinn et. al. finally make their way into the meeting room. When they do, they find me sitting with my two companions (both rather larger than myself) on either side of me, with four separate syringes and two small bottles with self-sealing caps containing what appears to be clear saline, and three individually-packaged sterile iodine wipes sitting on the table directly in front of me. Upon seeing the Dallons, Calle, and a fifth individual whom I do not recognize enter the room, I am immediately struck by the fact that the fifth person walks with a limp. Nodding to myself, I begin to draw fluid from the bottles into each of the previously empty syringes, so that there are two needles with fluid from either bottle. Lowering my coat enough to show my neck, I wipe down the area with a sterile wipe and inject myself with each in turn, at the same time that Calle is going through a speech about introductions. Said speech is cut off in mid-sentence.
"Oh I'm sorry, you were going to explain to me the terms of our arrangement. I inject this volunteer with my serum while the younger Miss Dallon here holds his hand and verifies that my serum isn't dangerous, he then examines some piece of broken Tinkertech you have in another room and makes it work again. Then she removes the serum and fixes his limp, and Brandish... err, Mrs. Dallon acts as witness whilst we sign our incorporation papers. That about it?"
Calle, still perplexed by my self-injections, manages to recover quickly enough that without instant-reply-style memory I would have missed his shock. "Yes, that covers it."
"Indeed, Mr. Calle. But there is one thing I would like to add to this conversation. You see, this bottle on the left -- with the 'H+' label -- contains the serum that I and my companions here have all taken; and it is what has given us our resilience, strength, and them their technical prowess. But this second bottle? The one with the '3M' label? It contains a somewhat different serum -- though based on the same principles. No one who has received this injection will be able to relay by any means any kind of information about how it works... without my express consent. Any attempts to do so will result in temporary aphasia."
Carol, who has yet to even sit down, places her hands angrily on the table and stares me in the eyes. "And you're going to force my daughter to take that? No deal. Calle, I should've known better than to trust you. Amy, come on -- I'm not subjecting you to ... this." Even while speaking to Calle she didn't break eye contact with me. If her eyes had been daggers I imagine she might have attempted to stab me.
I raise my hand up. "You misunderstand. No one today has to receive an injection from the 3M serum who does not explicitly volunteer to. However... however, I do insist that no one leave this room without signing a non-disclosure agreement about the efficacies of the serums I create, who was not already expressly familiar with them before today's meeting."
Carol's expression shifts from angry to ... well, angrily confused. One can hardly blame her -- I'm playing social engineering speed-chess here. "Then why the hell did you even put that on this table?"
"To allow for the possibility that your daughter might decide, upon learning what she will learn, that a mere NDA does not offer her sufficient protection against someone attempting to force that information out of her by malicious means. If it's know that she literally, physically, can't tell anyone anything, well ... no one will try."
"Really." The scorn in that statement is immense.
"Really. It's Miss Dallon's call, Mrs. Dallon. I won't decide for her -- and neither should anyone else here, don't you think? I mean, aside from myself she is quite literally the most qualified person in this room to judge the risks and benefits of what I'm offering today."
Quinn clears his throat to gain our attention. "Ahem... this is perhaps getting off track. An NDA for the details of any information acquired during this meeting is standard operational business and hardly contentious. But now, since you seem to value brevity so very much that you were willing to throw the opening of our meeting into disarray Magister, what do you say that we get down to the business at hand?"
I wave at Sam to bring the remaining hypo needle to the volunteer. Sam nods acknowledgement, slides the tray holding said item and a sealed iodine wipe towards himself, and then carries it over like a waiter delivering a check in a formal restaurant to him. As he does, he places one hand on the man's shoulder in what is clearly meant as a brotherly gesture. "From one beneficiary of this gift to one soon to be another, welcome to the fold man."
I glare at Sam and snap, lowly, "We talked about this damnit, S."
Sam looks at me, quirking his eyebrow mockingly, and sits back down leaving me to fume behind a pleasant facade on my face. By the time he's turned back around, his face is once more serene and disciplined.
The volunteer looks at Sam, myself, and then Calle all in turn and with a shrug starts to press the needle against his neck the same way as I previously did. "Aaahhh... that works better if you know where your carotid actually is, sir. Perhaps you should let Miss Dallon perform the injection?" The man looks at me a bit sheepishly -- he's clearly uncomfortable with these proceedings; out of his depth. They did not pick the deepest thinker in the world, I see.
Amy's glare is the direct and clear memetic offspring of her mother's -- genetics or no, she is clearly her mother's daughter. This doesn't stop her, however, from wiping down the man's neck in the correct location with the provided iodine wipe and then placing her hand on his cheek to draw his neck up (and, presumably, to maintain the touch contact her Striker biokinetic healing power needs) and proceeds to inject the syringe's contents into his blood stream. What follows from there is a clinical, detached, and bored description of what she observes ... right up until she goes quiet.
"The serum has entered his bloodstream ... it's now emitting low levels of light, too little for the naked eye to see. It's ... forming a sort of bolus in his plasma, and is not diluting. The bolus is ... turning like a screw, I guess, drawing itself mechanically towards the brain. It's begun emitting imperceptibly small amounts of ... light? The ... oh, there's a genetic component to this stuff; how did I not see that before? It looks like broken bits of viral material attached to something my power doesn't recognize as biological or living. That ... stuff has now passed the brain-blood barrier and is ... huh. The bits are assembling themselves actively along the pathways of his brain, but aren't actually entering the neurons themselves. There is absolutely no indication the material is actively entering any cells of his body or brain. It appears to be saturating his hippocampus, and the motor and sensory cortices. ... wait, a significant portion just decoupled from the rest and is now leeching back into the bloodstre... what? Why would it... "
She turns and looks at me with shock on her face. It would appear the shoe has dropped; she's noticed that there are now two brain activity patterns in that man's neurology; both sped up enough to process events normally without interfering with one another. "Magister, does this do what I think it does?" Her voice is angry. Brandish's body posture is keying off of Panacea's demeanor.
"Unless I miss my mark, I can only say -- not exactly. Think it through, Miss Dallon. And keep observing." I'd been observing the CVI in the volunteer all this while and the cybervirus colony's diagnostics reported some ... interesting ... events inside the man's brain. Things that could only have been done by Panacea's power, but which were clearly not related to healing. Perhaps she was simply trying to understand how the cybervirus functions.
She storms over to me and whispers at me sotto vocce, "I don't know how you did it but part of your little toy is behaving exactly like a corona gemma and corona pollentia! This is ... powers in a bottle, do you have any idea what that could do?"
It does what.
By the time I've recovered from the shock, the younger miss Dallon has injected herself with the second serum and officially signed off on the health and safety of the serum.
The first officially legal CVI implantee has no trouble determining that the device in the other room is a DragonTech earpiece whose circuitry has shorted and was able to use a spark-gap created between two circuit probing tools to correct the short, restoring the simple and meant to be widely manufactured piece of technology to functionality.
Twenty minutes later, I am the proud co-founder of Augmented Protection Services, LLC, which currently has three employees; The Parahuman Known As Magister; Quinn Calle, Esquire; and the-man-who-limps-no-more, also known as Robert Carlysle. Mr. Carlysle is now Calle's personal attaché and bodyguard. Quite the step up, I am told, from mall cop.
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Overseeing the bootcamping Dozen has been somewhat grueling as a process; even with many copies of myself, there's still coordinating between one another and going over diagnostic criteria information. I've actually gotten to the point where I had to call out sick from work again, indicating that I would 'try' to be available for questions and necessary tasks regardless -- despite the fact that normally I work from home four out of five days of the work-week.
These guys were living extremely rough lives before I got ahold of them, and it shows pretty badly. Two had incipient cirrhosis; one had a dormant case of trichinosis this kind of vigorous activity would have exposed; one had a benign tumor on his left kidney. All of them were in various forms of malnutrition, and each had some form of prolonged trauma that vigorous exercise would only exascerbate, not treat. Each then required a uniquely tailored treatment plan, and customized programming of new CVI serum batches to address their biological woes. Unlike with Sam, I couldn't really use concentrations of winter ants to deploy CVI colonies where they are needed, but having viable blood plasma gives them -- and me -- other options; enter the corkscrew mechanism that I'd designed to speed up the CVI adoption for Calle's little trial.
In addition, minus the brief hiatus of training that was my meeting with Calle, I have been having the twelve pair off with Sam and myself (sometimes one-on-one, sometimes 3-on-two; sometimes 6-on-6) in order to observe the way they are incorporating the various fighting styles I'd been training myself with, in order to develop an improved pedagogic algorithm for relating skills and abilities via the CVI. Transferring information is one thing; but actual ways of thinking or behaviors built on principles are orders of magnitude more difficult to transfer -- the traditional model of understanding them is that they are inextricably tied to the memories wherein the person acquired those skills, and thus cannot be transferred in a vacuum. I've been bypassing that somewhat by increasing neuroplasticity and having the CVI positively reinforce correct execution, but while this vastly speeds up the learning process it does not make it transferrable.
Neo in the Matrix uttering "Whoa, I know kung-fu!" this ain't.
Still, if normally it takes 10,000 hours to become an expert, for anyone undergoing this process it likely take less than one hundred. All twelve will be passing masters at the tactics and behaviors related to fighting in combat -- with or without weapons; with or without the CVI assisting -- by the time these two weeks have ended. Today has been mostly just like any of those other days of training, with one minor caveat; My mind is still reeling at what Panacea said. For the last two days since the meeting I've been pouring over my previous observational data and attempting to grasp how what she indicated could possibly be correct.
I am left with only one conclusion; my neural clones aren't just conveying memories of tinkering; they're actively remapping the corona pollentia's connectome. Armed with that observation, I have made some tentative experimental tests of the scope and impact of this and thus we find ourselves in a relatively abandoned warehouse, with fourteen sets of hands actively assembling the same pieces of hardware made of the same materials with the same skills and attention... for the sixth time in a row.
But are there 84 functional hardlight pantographs in this warehouse with us now? No. No there are not. There are twelve.
Fourteen separate throats and mouths utter as one, "This. Makes. No. Sense."
I restore the other thirteen body's consciousnesses, waking them up from their sleep. Time for the next phase of the trial.
"Alright, gentlemen. Each of you grab a device and disassemble and then reassemble it."
"Yes, Magister." That simple. Military discipline has come back to them all with panache -- along with their increased vitality and fitness, it seems the twelve have taken to the spirit of being in a squad again. With rules and patterns of conduct -- I can't say I blame them; shipborne military discipline can seem absurd to outsiders but it's a lifestyle and it sinks into the bones of those who live it. In their own way, these men are reliving their glory years.
Even if instead of disassembling and reassembling guns they're now field stripping glorified graphing arms.
A few minutes later, out of the 14 non-functional pantographs the thirteen were assigned, two now work properly. The one that I operated on, the marine's. The other twelve are still expensive junk.
This process is repeated another ten times, with a varying number of individuals executing, either as themselves or as my shadow-self. Each time I execute the task, it succeeds. Each time any of the implantees execute it -- no matter how many, no matter what state of consciousness -- only one of them succeeds. And which one appears to be an entirely random selection.
I sit and stare at the pile of pantographs -- working and non working in separate piles -- for a few minutes, contemplating this data and turning it over in my mind. And then, in a perfectly calm manner, I pick up one of the nonfunctional pantographs and start bashing it against the remaining junk ones, screaming, "GODDAMNIT THIS MAKES NO SENSE! WHY WON'T YOU WORK!? WORK!!!" This goes on for a few minutes while my ... minions? Should I call them minions? Screw it; just because you're an overlord doesn't necessarily make you evil. I have minions. My minions are nonplussed, standing by and watching me lose my shit.
Eventually I'm just thrusting my fist against the ground in timing with my sobbing. I am utterly out of my depth, and I know it.
A few minutes later, I stand up and right myself, making a visible show of dusting off my knees. "Well, that was refreshing. Back to work, gentlemen. We pick up where we left off. To the rowing machines!"
There's a collective groan that comes and has absolutely nothing to do with synchronized neural clones.
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- Location
- Wall Gazing
This is deliciously ironic.
It sounds like someone is jealous.
Oh, and Caldron might be getting a little bit of free market competition soon.
It does make sense, if you understand and accept that 'Tinker' is just a word people use for a broad range of powers acting mostly on a micro scale to make the impossible possible. These micro interactions of telekinesis, transmutation, probability alteration and other assorted bullshit shenanigans are entirely controlled by the continent sized trans dimensional supercomputer interfacing with the human brain via the Corona Potentia and Gemma. This supercomputer has assorted security measures that make it appear to be making choices about what works and doesn't. It is not aware enough to make choices, it is following a program.
At least, that is how I see it.
At least, that is how I see it.
shadowace2400
Planeswalker Extraordinaire
- Location
- Texas
I thought it was confirmed that Tinker shards were supplying information of the technology of civilizations that they destroyed in the past. It's just that getting those kind of effects on that small of a scale with the level of technology that humans are currently capable of is finicky as all getout.
- Location
- Salt Lake City, UT, USA
Close. I'm working with a specific definition of Tinker shards that makes them more-or-less a subclass of Thinker. They aren't cheating with microscopic shaker effects or anything like that. My view/usage of Tinkers is as follows: The Entities evolved their multidimensional nature, meaning that dimensions interact naturally -- or else the multidimensional aspect of their biology could never have evolved. Different regions of spacetime in Wormverse have different amounts of bleed-over or interaction from various dimensions (whose physics vary in different ways from one another subtly), so previous races they encountered had technologies that normally wouldn't work in humanspace. But; those dimensional physics fluctuations are just that; fluctuations. So Tinker shards convey specific kinds of technology and then intuit the exact location and moments when those devices can actually successfully be built/maintained on Earth, influencing their hosts subtly to only build when those things will actually work.
As to how this interacts with James's neural clones ... well. Explaining that would be giving spoilers.
Vox De Harlequin
Consequences are for other people
- Location
- Hyalean Theoric World
The advent of the modern mobile phone(Or in fact any device that used to be much larger than it is now) was not also the advent of space compression technology, so I don't get what you're getting at.
I think 'finicky' is understating things. And WoG's interpretation is different than my own. I just think that microscopic TK is probably necessary on some level for Tinkers to get the most out of the present technology. Along with altering probability so that the least likely, but necessary, reaction they need in a process happens far more than it would naturally.
Arc 2 Chapter 7
- Location
- Salt Lake City, UT, USA
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Arc 2, Chapter 7 (Activation: Introduction)
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"Fuck. Yes! I have it!" The exclamation leaves my lips before I even truly notice what I have said. All of my attention has been focused on the latest physical replication build of the trials my mainframe back home has indicated should be a successful design. And sure enough, the damned thing actually works as designed. This represents the first successful product of the evolutionary design algorithm I've been running on the mainframe based on what I have learned since becoming a Tinker.Arc 2, Chapter 7 (Activation: Introduction)
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Sam is out right now, 'tending the herd' -- monitoring the CVIs in the various Stray Patrol members and recruiting more. He's been doing this off and on for most of the month or so since I first revivified him. Of course, now unlike before he has companionship when he goes out; with the recruitment of the Twelve I no longer feel comfortable allowing any one of us to be in the companionship of anything less than two others. Not until we are much more solidly established. I've had to adjust the training and treatment schedule to adapt to this, but so far there have been no meaningful obstacles. That includes -- especially -- myself. I have no idea, yet, what might happen to my "shadow-copies"' ability to Tinker if I myself die. And I don't trust any analysis there because to date I am still stymied by the limitation of a single instance of any CVI implantee other than myself being able to successfully create technological devices not based on principles soundly grounded in non-Parahuman science or engineering.
That being a category that, now that the basic groundwork for my protection has been thoroughly implemented, I find myself more and more drawn to again. I get the feeling in some ways that if I hadn't been so hyper-focused on satisfying the goals I had assigned myself, this drive would have been a nearly irresistible itch if I had gone this long without doing more than I actually have. But that's all besides the point -- the design I have just successfully implemented is one that is based on the only real input the mainframe had to work on; the observed physical parameters under which the hardlight pantograph operates; its energy draw and so on. I've learned a lot of things about how the hardlight pantograph operates.
One of the major drawbacks to the pantograph's design is that it has to contain the hardlight field. Essentially, in order to do so, it has to "fight" itself. Photons naturally are extremely chaotic in behavior, and only weakly interact. The pantograph's emitter -- for lack of a better way to put it -- exploits the principle of quantum entanglement to create a semi-persistent "crystallization" of photons' positions to one another. This, in turn, causes them to act as pseudo subatomic particles, including the restriction of the quantum-mechanical scale field-amplitudes of other subatomic particles, while still remaining photons, which means that they would normally operate as the substrate electromagnetic fields propagate through; but their locked relational positions to one another preclude the propagation of those field-energies. In order to do this successfully, as part of the construction of the device, it must first create a "crystalline seed" -- a fully stable photonic crystal (even if it is microscopically small). From there, one shines a laser's coherent light beam on the crystal and this causes the growth of the seed; the momentum carried by the photons in that beam, however, causes the extended growth of the crystal to have an instability which causes it to break apart.
In order for even the microscopically small pantograph point to successfully operate, then, requires the continuous full input of the laser's energy. Worse still; in order to keep the growth restricted to the proper location and be able to operate as a tooltip point, multiple lasers must be synchronized and fire upon the seed-crystal in exact coordination. This all ignores, of course, the fact that such a 'photonic seed-crystal' is -- at least according to the physics that we here on Earth Bet and the researchers in Earth Aleph know -- a physical impossibility. Well -- I correct myself -- its formation is. I still have utterly no explanation for how or why the tasks that I have been executing to create those pantographs has been successful in creating the hardlight crystal only when I execute them; the process makes sense if I ignore the physics I have learned from the research datadumps, but that's a bit like looking up while simultaneously closing your eyes.
I stare down at my creation, and smile thinking about what I have accomplished. The trick here being that a significant portion of the energy consumed by the hardlight pantographs was going into restriction of the hardlight growth's position relative to the pantograph itself. One of the designs I had explored via the mainframe's simulations then asked a simple follow-up question: "what would happen if you didn't restrict the growth's location to a fixed relative point?"
The answer as it turns out is pretty straightforward; it propagates in the direction of the force of the laser impacting the seed. Or, if the seed is rotating, it propagates at a deflected angle. The growth will tend to decohere almost immediately -- this decoherence being the 'basis' of so-called softlight; the crystalline structures will tend to attract one another even as they break down, but they do so chaotically, affecting their path of propagation. The decohering "softlight" crystals however still interact with coherent photon-crystal structures, which means that they can both deflect and guide them ... but they also interact with highly energetic conventional subatomic particles (such as plasma or ions), which has lead to this little "discovery" of mine.
The take-away from all of the above is pretty simple; for a vast reduction in energy cost compared to the pantograph, I can now design hardlight forcefields that can only exist within micrometer's distance from a prepared graphene substrate ... such as those I have been using with the CVI. (The energy cost still scales with the size of the field, however.)
This bears repeating; I can now construct arbitrarily sized objects whose surfaces have hardlight fields "attached" to them ... with a practical energy consumption. Oh, the cost is still fairly large; if I were to try to generate a hardlight field over my fist with this technique it would drain the battery of a cellphone within a minute. Generating a single near-monomolecular edge that's 18 inches long, however? Far less costly. Especially since it would only need to actually operate when in contact with something. Such an edge isn't magical, however; force still needs to be applied. But. Unlike conventional matter, such a field would not dull or get displaced by use; the field maintains a fixed relative position to the emitter and that's that. When attempting to cut through a surface, you still have all the resistance cutting such an object would normally have.
But. As anyone who's ever seen a helicopter's blades spinning or the spokes of a bicycle's wheels when it's in motion can attest to, even something that occupies a single straight line can appear to have width along with length if it is rotating fast enough.
And that's exactly what I've built. A flat circular sheet of silk, attached to power cables running from a diesel hobby generator, roughly 36" in diameter, with a single such line propagating in rotation from the central emitter at something like nine thousand revolutions per minute.
Almost shivering with anticipation, I reach for the sledgehammer I have appropriated from one of the Twelve who was currently working on the rehabilitation of the formerly abandoned warehouse we were squatting in -- converting it piece by piece into a functional barracks with meaningful comforts. This as part of their physical labor rehabilitation and just because it lets them revel in their newfound physical strength and durability. With all the strength my CVI has allowed me to muster, no longer hazardous to my wellbeing thanks to the improvements I have made to the resilience of my connective tissues, I slam the sledgehammer down on the silk.
The workbench collapses under the strain. The silk is jarred enough to decouple from the power connectors as part of this reaction, and the CVI-rigidity-enhanced cloth absorbs the remainder of the blow with only a barely noticeable deformation.
No matter.
I jump up in the air, pumping my fist excitedly:
"I CAN MAKE FORCEFIELDS."
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A few days later, and I find myself making way to yet another meeting. It's a meeting I have been working on making possible for a long time now; sending the Stray Patrol out at random intervals to multiple locations, looking for the exact conditions (read: target people) necessary to properly pull it off. It's not one I'm anticipating enjoying in the slightest, but the principle of maskirovka mandates that I attend it. This 'meeting' is not one I have entirely planned, nor can I control the location, nor even all the attendees. I am not looking forward to doing this in the slightest.
And what is "this" that I'm doing? I'm trawling Merchant territory in person, flanked by Sam and four of the Twelve (two for him, two for me). Carlson and Matthews on me, Smith and Lazonbly on Sam. We're all in 'uniform'. Said uniform now including what at first glance might appear to be silk bracers oddly worn on top of the pea-coats, and store-bought police batons worn on holsters at our hips. The bracers are actually based on the design I have just created;today represents their first real field-test. Upon receiving an activation command via cryptographic radio signal, they will unfurl from around the wearer's forearm, extending into a rigid shape much like a riot-shield. Upon receiving another command (or if the embedded sensors (optical differential and thermal -- designed to detect motion or temperature changes) trigger, they will go from simply being high-tensile rigid but lightweight shields to emitting forcefields. The batons are simply reinforced by nanotube-enclosed carbyne cabling, similarly made rigid. (Of course, thanks to the electroconductive nature of said CNTs, I have taken the liberty making them able to be electrified, based on having both a physical stud pressed and receiving a similar activation signal). We are running at a brisk pace -- a 'mere' 20 miles per hour. We're only able to stay ahead of Armsmaster's vehicle because of the various members of the Patrol keeping tabs on him... and, of course, the various clearly meant to reinforce the PRT's image stops they have been making. This is too fast for active camouflage, but we're not out to be entirely stealthy tonight. No, tonight we are actively seeking out trouble.
The real trick of course is that we're seeking it in a very specific location. That is, in the path of what the Stray Patrol has revealed to be the most-likely destination of the patrol pattern of Armsmaster and Miss Militia. This is a calculated risk of the highest order; I am about to become a truly known entity to the world, and I have to get out ahead of that. Control the message. In this case, it means ... ahh. Yes, that will do nicely. The Stray Patrol has exposed what appears to be a Merchant group responding to incursion in their territory by ABB members. At least, that's what I assume given the gunfire, swearing, and so on.
These sorts of things are, sadly, almost a permanent feature of the Brockton nightlife. Not a night goes by that one -- usually more -- of the various gangs doesn't attempt to probe the territories of the other gangs. This constant push-and-pull rarely actually amounts to anything meaningful; mostly a lot of bravado and proverbial thumping of chests. If we are to be honest this incident looks no different. Most of those bullets have been getting fired into the open air, rather than at the "opposition"; and those few that are more directly targeted are not executed with any firing discipline. A good quarter of those with guns are holding them sideways for fuck's sakes. That being said, there are a few thugs on either side whom are leaking bodily fluids of various sorts. Clearly from ricochets rather than direct hits.
"Alright gentlemen. Look sharp, now! We have a candidate target up ahead. Let's go with plan theta." Plan Theta being "spread out, activate full active camouflage, focus on targets of opportunity, and engage from all directions simultaneously. No signs of cape involvement in this little debacle, but do keep in mind that even with everything I've done, a particularly unlucky stray bullet can still take you down."
"Sir. Yessir!" The five of them snap crisp salutes and vanish ... except for their eyes, which are now the same color as my own.
I of course still know exactly where they are; I can see through their eyes and they can see through my own. The flood of information should be massively disorienting, even with the CVI enhancing our visual cortex... but after more than a month with the Stray Patrol's visual feedbacks, I've managed to create a sort of mapping algorithm that receives that visual input and translates it into a 3D spatial map that can be toggled from fully active, a sort of "HUD" overlay, or disengaged. In fact, that map is also receiving input from fully-camouflaged feline Strays stalking the rooftops around us as well as that from human eyes.
The six of us are outnumbered just about five to one, in total. There are, however, sixteen Merchants and twelve ABB members in this little scuffle. I immediately make an executive decision and retoggle our numbers -- Sam and Lazonbly will engage the sixteen as a pair acting more defensively in order to draw off their attention while Smith, Matthews, Carlson, and I engage the twelve. As a part of this, I allow Sam and Lazonbly to act first.
The two disengage their active camouflage in unison, each taking on the edgemost member of the Merchants to their little grouping. The Merchants have all taken to using the burnt-out husks of abandoned vehicles -- put to torch in some long-forgotten riot or late-night "street party". Probably not the most effective cover, all things being said -- but as I said; their opponent's aiming abilities were no more notable than their own.
Both men taken by Sam and Lazonbly are taken down in almost complete silence, as one would expect given the fact that both of my 'minions' appear out of nowhere already in position to render them unconscious. With the shouts and gunfire and general, the Merchants standing next to them fail to even notice that they are now under a new assault. That changes when Sam and Lazonbly extend their batons and riot shields, making a show of taking out the gun-holding arms of both of their next targets. Neither one bothers activating the powered components of their gear; a decision whose efficacy is made apparent when their synchronicity -- afforded them by the fact that it has been less than ten seconds since they deactivated their camouflage -- extends to a follow-up strike at the inside of their new opponent's knees. Neither Merchant would be getting back up anytime soon, a fact reinforced by the bracing kick/stomps both men use to wind their Merchant targets, immediately following these actions by bracing themselves behind their shields and activating the forcefields therein.
They are, of course, intentionally drawing fire from the fourteen remaining Merchants. And it is emminently effective.
"Holy shit! CAPES." "Bobo, Slash, Jay-jay! Light 'em up!" "I ain't goin' out like this!" "Fuck your mother!!" "Deos Mio!" -- various shouts are uttered by those men, as they realize their situation and adjust their targets.
This of course is received by the ABB as an opportunity to forget all cover and charge the gap between the near-collapsed building's wall they were taking shelter behind and the Merchants who were across the pot-holed and bullet-marked street. Perhaps they thought that the new capes were on their side. Perhaps they were simply caught up in seeing their opponents' weakness. It didn't really matter, all things considered -- what mattered is that they were physically fully engaged, scrambling to get at their newly vulnerable foes; and as a result they were totally unprepared to defend themselves in the slightest.
A fact that I and my four companions made extreme work of; rather than disengaging our camouflage, we extended the riot shields, engaged their forcefields, and in a sort of emulation of a Roman Turtle proceeded to shoulder-check the four leading runners of the twelve ABB members, sowing extreme confusion amongst the rest as their inattentive eyes would be telling them that their companions had simply been thrown back by the empty air... which they would suddenly be noting was not empty, exactly. Attention drawn would show those quick motions on our part, the camouflage not quite keeping up.
Nothing being as disturbing as a hazard that can only be grasped by its effects, the psychological impact of having their imminent victory turned into a new danger had the obvious impact; they immediately started reversing their aggressive charge into an attempt to seek cover. This was, of course, a mistake: in turning they would be forced to kill off their momentum, rendering themselves easy targets for the four of us. In quick, almost mechanical strikes, we discharged electrified baton strikes against the four that we had dropped and then launched ourselves each towards another target, again winding and baton-tasing them. One of the four remaining ABB was quick-witted enough to actually get a shot off, striking my shield in so doing. The shotgun round's force was above my arm, and even with the full strength afforded by my physical training and hysterical strength induction, the blow was strong enough to deflect the shield back... a couple of inches. The human body just isn't engineered to be capable of exerting great strength when poorly leveraged; and preventing rotation of the forearm is an example of such "poor engineering". Even so, the spray of shot was deflected harmlessly into the air above my head.
In the time it took him to pump a second shell into the shotgun's chamber, I sweep-kicked him off of his feet following with an almost fluid strike of the baton into his stomach. The blow was calculated to leave him grasping for air.
I did not need to turn around to note that my companions had made equally quick work of their remaining opponents as well; the "minimap" visual rendering had left me fully aware of their activities even as I had engaged my opponent.
Sam and Lazonbly in the meantime had fended off attempts at being physically overwhelmed by demonstrating the electrifying effect of their batons on the cars adjacent to them, and were sparingly activating the forcefield effect of their silken "riot shields" to prevent direct strikes by gun-fire. I did however note that Sam had taken a ricochet-shot over his left brow. The ricochet had left a two inch streak where his skin had been flensed off. Not that this was visually apparent to me -- my second track of attention was actively observing the diagnostics inputs from the CVI colonies in all six of us.
That left six against fourteen -- with four of the six completely unnoticed by the fourteen. We launched ourselves into full-on sprints at the three clusters of Merchants, two of us pairing with Sam and Lazonbly respectively and the other two acting on the third grouping. By the time the half-panicked Merchants noticed the change in circumstances, another four of them had been baton-tased and another three successfully shield body-checked off of their feet.
Sam and Lazonbly took this opportunity to charge the two Merchants nearest them, and despite being prepared and firing at both of them with their pistols multiple times, the outcome was no different than before -- both were body-checked off of their feet by the brute physical strength Sam and Lazonbly exerted, and had their wind further removed by being stomped on with the exactly correct amount of pressure to do so over their stomachs. This wouldn't take them out of the fight permanently, but the rest of it would be best measured in seconds, given that of those still standing we now exactly matched their number -- and that only because one of the body-checked Merchants had managed to stumble back to his feet after propping himself from falling fully by holding onto the vehicle next to him. Following the plan's full execution to its conclusion was almost boring. With the speed of reflex of olympic martial artists (afforded us by the CVI implants), and the strength of full muscular coordination, we simply muscled through their attempts to block the baton strikes that took them down.
And then there were none standing but allies.
Engaging the voice distortion technique I have so far used at every public outing, I announced, "Gentlemen. Stay. Down. You are all under citizen's arrest. My companions will be restraining you shortly. Do not resist. Or else."
There was some groaning and the strong scent of ammonia struck me. I shook my head in irritation as I realized that this was likely due to the last Merchant I had taken down being struck a little too forcefully and losing control of his bladder. Lovely. Drug-addled thugs can't even maintain their health enough to tolerate stunning electrocution, and that means I was going to have to perform triaging diagnostics to make sure I hadn't just used excessive force on these fuckers ... just before meeting with the head of the Protectorate ENE. Damnit.
"Goddamned shitpissing fucknuggets can't even keep their damned bodies from rotting on their own and now its my fucking fault..." I was channeling Sarge under my breath, even as I and my companions started using zip-ties to bind the wrists and ankles of the idiots that had the temerity to be potentially seriously injured by my tech.
This process of course took several minutes, during which Armsmaster and Miss Militia "managed to catch us off-guard" as I was clearly checking the pulse and pupil dilation-response of yet another of the gangbangers. (I had of course known they were coming and carefully positioned each of the six of us with our camouflage disabled, shields retracted to their bracer-form, and batons holstered.)
Armsmaster's motorcycle was utterly silent -- impressive -- as they made their approach. The first sound uttered at all was that of Armsmaster's internationally-famous (if you include Canada, anyhow) halberd extending as he braced himself with the weapon pointed squarely in the general direction of all six of us. As it extended, a second sound was heard; him issuing a stentorian bellow, "This is the Protectorate! Halt in the name of the law!"
I didn't bother turning around as I was visually confirming the pupil dilation response of the last of the Merchants, two of my fingers on his neck. Happily the bladder-voiding event was simply an involuntary twitch response as far as I could tell. His breathing was normal, pulse non-erratic, and miotic light reflex all indicated ordinary unconsciousness. I did, however, acknowledge his presence.
"Juuust a second. Aaaand... yeah, okay, you're gonna be alright you drug-addled tweedledumbass." I then turned around and righted myself, silently messaging the others to start dragging the Merchants and ABB members -- slowly -- into positions to be more readily corralled by the police.
"I say again. This is the Protectorate. You will remain where you are. Make no move unless you are ordered."
No point in antagonizing the man. Entirely the wrong approach. I freeze -- and so do the five dragging unconscious forms. Two of which freeze with said individuals in rather awkward positions, halfway held upright. We remain that way -- completely and entirely motionless, only breathing, for the better part of a minute before the Protectorate cape recovers from the change in behavior. Clearly he had been anticipating a verbal response, or some other form of defiance. I would not be offering anything of the sort, of course.
"Very well. You," he points at me, "I am assuming that you are the leader of this group and that these others are associates of yours. Place your hands, palm forward, on the back of your head, fingers interlaced." I do so, with a slow and fluid motion. "Your cooperation is noted. Walk towards me, slowly. You others -- on your knees, hands in the same position as your leader!" The Protectorate team-leader's voice reduced dramatically in volume as he continued, clearly meaning to address someone other than me as he did. "Control. Arrival on scene as reported. Incident appears to be under control. Send two PRT squads with civilian arresting authority. Major addendum: subject 'Green-Eyed Phantom' is on scene with five other individuals in similar attire. Visual feed as follows. Note; apparent Merchant and ABB associates on-scene all appear to be restrained."
I pause in my approach, and correct the Protectorate cape. "Magister."
Oddly enough, it's Miss Militia who responds. "I'm sorry, what?" Her hands hold a green hardlight-formed shotgun, aimed squarely at my chest. Attached to its side are several beanbag rounds -- from what I have read, this is intentional on her part; she doesn't actually need to reload but having a visual cue that she's using less-lethal weaponry is something she has publicly asserted makes people she encounters less nervous.
"My name. It's not 'Green-Eyed Phantom'. It's 'Magister'. I'd appreciate your updating your records to suit."
She and Armsmaster both blink. "You could hear that report?"
"Well, yeah. I'm only eighty feet from you."
They both blink, and then look at each other -- without entirely taking their eyes off of me. The power-suited man nods his head at her, an act that causes his patriotically-themed companion to look back at me with a more apprehensive gaze. This is clearly not something that they anticipated. Oh well. Time to play up the naively friendly angle.
"Say, can we all just relax a little? I don't mean to be rude or anything, but I would really appreciate it if, you know, you lot would take these guys off of our hands. I didn't want to get involved here; I was on other business and happened to discover that they were trying to kill one another and, well, I had to intervene. They should be fine, by the way. At least, none of them are showing initial signs of concussion or erratic breathing."
Now it was Armsmaster's turn to respond. "I ... see." He seemed confused, if anything. His voice raising back to the stentorian bellow, he continued: "That is agreeable in principle. Your companions may assume more natural, seated positions. Continue approaching, Gr... Magister."
I allow myself to do so, despite the fingers interlaced behind the back of my head, with a comfortable, confident gait -- not quite a swagger, but enough to show that I'm completely relaxed. Taking longer than I probably should have to close the remaining distance, I finally come to what amounts to a criminal's parade rest before the two of them -- though with my feet slightly offset to allow myself to react at a moment's notice should their demeanors change abruptly. A fact that neither one of them fail to notice, given their body language.
"You know, sir, you're kind of one of my idols in a way." I direct to the Protectorate leader.
"Oh? And how is that?"
"Well, you see, we're both Tinkers." Again, Armsmaster and Miss Militia exchange glances without taking their eyes off me. Again, Armsmaster's barely-observable nod provokes a follow-on look of surprise on his companion's face. I put two and two together and test a theory. "It's why I moved to this city, you see; I wanted to meet you." I intentionally effect microexpressions and vocal tension patterns that should indicate this is a lie. This time, they exchange glances and Armsie shakes his head. The motion is so minute that only someone expressly looking for it would have noticed. Interesting. Unsurprising, but interesting. Armsmaster has a lie detector. 'Prepared for just such a circumstance' indeed. I'm going to have to be careful to ensure that he doesn't notice the degree of control I have over my bodily responses.
"Ahh. Well, then. If you would like to schedule a meeting with me, you need merely schedule one with the public attendant at the PRT facility downtown." Oh yes. Very subtle, Armsie. Want to see how well I react to the idea of going to the PRT building in person.
"I may just do that, sometime. Look -- I kind of have other business to attend to here and I'm somewhat limited on time. How can I expedite getting this ... incident ... sorted out?"
"Well. I'm going to have to invite you and your companions to the PRT facility for debriefing. There, you will be able to formally register yourself with the Protectorate."
Damnit. This guy really is as inflexible as always. I allow my ambivalence about this idea show clearly on my face -- and Miss Militia is the one who takes the cue. "Of course, we could always debrief ... Magister ... here and now, Armsmaster." The protectorate Tinker grimaces at this but doesn't question his subordinate. Her voice makes it clear that while this is a suggestion it's one she feels strongly about.
His voice turns to one of routine professionalism -- almost as though reading from a script -- as he continues. "Very well then. Control, I am initiating remote debrief procedures. Please confirm the time as 2153 on ... mark. Excellent; proceeding. This is Armsmaster on routine patrol, debriefing the subject self-apellated as 'Magister' in relation to incident 2010-11-05 mark frank seven niner sierra echo. Miss Militia in attendance as witness. Control has confirmed synchronicity and is maintaining realtime observation. Magister, in your own words, please relate the events that preceeded our encountering you. Please, be thorough; your personal impressions are as relevant to this process as are the material facts at hand. Note: you are not under compulsion to do so. If at any time you wish to seek legal counsel, even if you cannot afford it, it will be provided to you. This is a voluntary testimonial only. You are not under arrest; charges have not been established against you in relation to this incident at this time. IF these facts should change, you will be notified immediately."
Whew. That is a mouthful. And he didn't even stutter in the slightest. You have to wonder how many times he's had to recite that speech. Does he practice it in front of a mirror? No ... that tone and cadence -- oh that's cheating. His armor's visor has a HUD display, how could it not? He's reading from a script. Bah. Whatever.
I proceed to relate a sanitized version of the events -- I and my companions heard the gunfire as we were on our other business (which I refused to disclose when prompted but explicitly confirmed it in no way violated the letter or spirit of the law ... which it didn't; after all, arranging this meeting was my other business and meeting a Protectorate cape in the field was hardly illegal.). They found this dubious but due to my relaxed control over my autonomic responses the truth was self-evident to his lie detector. Believing that police response would be too late in coming given the region we were in, and no other assistance en route, we made the decision to suppress the violence in order to prevent potential harm. I made a show of very slowly extending the riot-shield and baton, and then the active camouflage -- in order, almost immediately deactivating said camouflage and hinting that it "only worked for extremely brief intervals and required near total stillness due to challenges related to computational complexity" while forcing my autonomic responses to indicate this was an embarrassing truth, thus demonstrating the means of the gangster's takedowns. I finished this by recanting that I had not anticipated the strength of the Merchant's reactions to being tased as I had not expected them to be so far gone in health despite being addicts, and that I had employed my previous training as an EMT to ensure as best I could on-the-scene that the men I had taken down were in no way lastingly injured.
"... and that's when you two showed up. Seriously, how did you manage to totally suppress the decibel output of your vehicle like that? I couldn't even hear the tires on the road! I mean, damn."
Armsmaster looked a little smug, if anything, at that -- a reaction he quickly suppressed. "Debriefing testimonial for incident 2010-11-05 mark frank seven niner sierra echo is now concluded. Control, I have 2202 as mark minus 17. Confirmed." With that last word, his demeanor suddenly shifted to one that was far more personable. "Hey, look. You did a good thing here tonight. It's a truly rare thing to see an independent cape who both has a sense of civic duty and executes it carefully and diligently. The Protectorate can truly use men and women with those kinds of heads on their shoulders. I won't pressure you, but please take this -- it's my business card. Feel free to contact me at any hour. In addition; you should know that, as a Tinker, the advantages in vetting your devices and collaboration on their design is vastly outweighs the purported paperwork costs involved in its creation. Brockton is a dangerous city for independents -- Tinkers especially. It would be a shame to see someone like you forced into unfortunate circumstances. Make the promise that you will at least be open to joining and you will have our protection without hesitation. You'd have it regardless... but with that promise, you will have it enthusiastically." He extends his hand with that statement, in a brusque but professionally welcoming demeanor.
I take that as a cue to remove my hands from their interlaced position behind my head, and grasp his hand firmly in mine. "I ... okay. Look. I'm not cut out for the heroic life. Putting my life on the line. I'm just ... I'm not that ... that's not who I am. But ... I would be happy to establish a business relationship with the Protectorate; provide my services in exchange at cost of resources and manhours. Both of which I should be able to keep rather low. I will definitely call you and set that up sometime soon, okay?"
Well hell. I didn't know that the Protectorate trained its personnel in shark impressions.
Hook. Line. And Sinker.
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- Location
- Salt Lake City, UT, USA
Whew! This was a long one (for me). Kinda got away from me a little bit there.
For those of you wondering why my fight scenes tend to come across as curb-stomps ... well, remember: James/Magister so far has been stacking the deck in his favor as much as possible long before the fights occur. If it had been harder or more of a challenge, he wouldn't have done it. While no single advantage he's got so far is all that much outside of what an un-enhanced human can do (tactically/strategically speaking), he's got a slew of them put together. (Of course, the problem with this sort of approach to things is what happens when you hit an out-of-context problem or else fail to prepare appropriately to the actual challenge you face...)
In other words: Tinkers are Bullshit.
For those of you wondering why my fight scenes tend to come across as curb-stomps ... well, remember: James/Magister so far has been stacking the deck in his favor as much as possible long before the fights occur. If it had been harder or more of a challenge, he wouldn't have done it. While no single advantage he's got so far is all that much outside of what an un-enhanced human can do (tactically/strategically speaking), he's got a slew of them put together. (Of course, the problem with this sort of approach to things is what happens when you hit an out-of-context problem or else fail to prepare appropriately to the actual challenge you face...)
In other words: Tinkers are Bullshit.
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- Location
- Canada
Worms endgame is haxx enough to justify stomping mooks early on.
Caelleh
Fine Arts Patron~♡
- Location
- DFW Metroplex
I think that it's a fun meme that Tinkers are somehow bullshit in a universe where Lung and Eidolon exist, but I have to agree that a good Tinker should be an unstoppable force and an immovable object.
For example, Squealer doesn't fight unless she's inside a huge monster truck with a huge tinker cannon attached, right? She doesn't go into battle swinging around a pipe on a scooter. She's fully aware of her strengths, and arms herself accordingly. Armsmaster doesn't go into fight with a normal polearm, he enters battles on his tinker motorcycle in his tinker armor swinging his tinker halberd. Neither of them step into a battlefield unless it's on their terms, or they're being forced to act.
I'd say that if a tinker isn't steamrolling everything in their path, they have no reason to be anywhere but in their labs, finding ways to make the universe bow to their big swinging tinker toys.
- Location
- Salt Lake City, UT, USA
Yeah ... Tinkers literally play the Wizard role; they possess forbidden/inscrutable knowledge and defy the rules of the world ... if they have had the time to prepare.
- Location
- Salt Lake City, UT, USA
It's not entirely mine. I was taking some liberties on recent, actual, science. Phys. Rev. X 4, 031043 (2014) - Observation of a Dissipation-Induced Classical to Quantum Transition
Basically -- here in our real world it's actually possible to "crystallize" light, allowing photons to strongly interact with one another, by quantum-entangling them with subatomic particles in extremely specific (and short lived) conditions that require a superconducting material.
This doesn't mean quite what it sounds like, though. It's not like creating holographic matter or anything. It's that the photons get locked into location relative to one another and the cluster of photons begin to take on *some* properties of subatomic particles while this state endures -- but it cannot actually endure for any meaningful durations.
The Tinkering here has this happen in circumstances where it DOES have the ability to persist.
But -- by all means, steal.
Basically -- here in our real world it's actually possible to "crystallize" light, allowing photons to strongly interact with one another, by quantum-entangling them with subatomic particles in extremely specific (and short lived) conditions that require a superconducting material.
This doesn't mean quite what it sounds like, though. It's not like creating holographic matter or anything. It's that the photons get locked into location relative to one another and the cluster of photons begin to take on *some* properties of subatomic particles while this state endures -- but it cannot actually endure for any meaningful durations.
The Tinkering here has this happen in circumstances where it DOES have the ability to persist.
But -- by all means, steal.
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Arc 2 Chapter 8
- Location
- Salt Lake City, UT, USA
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Arc 2, Chapter 8 ( Activation: Installation )
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"Wait. You want how many injections prepared?" To anyone observing I would appear to be talking to an empty room. The truth of the matter is that I was having another Skype session with Calle whilst leveraging most of my attention on my little immortalization of Bobby project. I am at a somewhat critical phase; this is the first time I have attempted to actually implement an artificial scaffolding for the neural autoassembly of the CVI. If all goes well I will be able to start replicating Bobby's neural patterns in realtime onto said scaffolded CVI structure... but that's still somehow not the most incredible thing that I have clambering for my attention right now. Arc 2, Chapter 8 ( Activation: Installation )
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No, that would be the number that Calle reiterates. "Don't worry, M; I fully understand if you cannot deliver on the full number initially. But I have used your demonstration samples of the serum to persuade a number of other clients that I could finally fulfill their requests for reliable parahuman protective services. I imagine we could probably work out some sort of rotational scheme or the like -- but the total roster of requested individuals is indeed seventy-eight."
My jaw has dropped. How in the world has Calle drummed up that much demand with a mere four additional injections? They weren't even "full-feature" CVI colony examples -- I'd stripped out major portions of the CVI's functionality compared to what I've given myself, Sam, and the Twelve. They lack the physical capacity to assemble replacement copies of themselves, though they do retain the capacity to couple with CNTs and deploy them to targeted locations. That was necessary to ensure that the hysterical-strength induction didn't continue having that pesky "tear your own muscles off of your own bones" problem. The absence of the mechanical functionality to perform general genetic and carbon mechanosynthesis means that the injectees would require occasional "topping off" (albeit in intervals best measured by seasons' passage than days or years) -- but better that than the risk of unmitigated propagation. I'd also stripped out the autoassembly and neural-clone patterning. Only Quinn's attaché, out of all the samples yet provided, would have that present; and thus only he would possess the albeit restricted Tinkering abilities of my full CVI functionality. The CVIs in those samples still had the sensory and reflex-speed enhancing capabilities, but I was intentionally "hamstringing" them compared to what the real capabilities of the CVIs can be. Despite all of those comparative limitations, Calle had still in less than a business week drummed up that much demand? All while keeping strictly to the requirement of not drawing high profile attention to APS, LLC?
"How in the hell, Calle? How did you get that many requests?"
"Hm? I'm good at what I do, Magister. I mean, what did you expect? I'll tell you a secret; half of what I did was to have Denise -- that's my secretary, rememer? -- crack open the little black book of the wait-list of executives and other magnates who had in the past requested the services of parahumans affiliated with the firm. When I told them that they could get their very own Tinker-made parahuman bodyguards, and that I could demonstrate the process... well, a number of people suddenly had an urgent and pressing need to attend conferences in Vegas. Conferences I just happened to also be attending. I arranged four different demonstrations before a total crowd of about twenty different clients, partner."
"How does twenty clients translate into seventy-eight doses of serum, Quinn?"
"Simple. They're all very wealthy people. The kind of people to whom phrases like 'Why buy one when you can buy two for twice the price?' is intelligible."
Christ on a pogo stick. These people were paying twenty thousand a dose up-front and five thousand a month in supplemental maintenance services for each individual injectee. 1.5 million dollars in gross income in the first month; 390,000 each month thereafter. And that's assuming that no extra clients come along. Granted, a solid quarter of that would go to taxes, and a quarter after that would go to Quinn. But ... damn. The man is really good at what he does.
"Seventy-eight doses ... yeah, no, I'll need extra equipment to do that many doses at once. I can prepare smaller batches initially but I'll need better equipment if I'm going to be doing business at that volume. I can deliver four to you tomorrow. But I'll need a significant cash advance if I'm going to have the infrastructure in place to really get to that scale. Especially if I'm going to provide the bulletproof-lining material for that many individuals."
"Operating at bulk going to be a problem for you, Magister? You sure you're not biting off more than you can chew here?"
"Calle, let me let you in on a little secret. I'm not going to start thinking of this as a 'bulk' operation until we're in the tonnage range." The sound I hear on the other end of the line can best be described as a spit-take. But clearly someone as entirely immaculate as Quinn Calle would never allow a reaction like that to escape him -- so perhaps it was merely an accident with the microphone? Heh.
"Hell. If that's the case, then why the emphasis on keeping it quiet?"
"Because Tinkers who truly operate at scale die. Quickly. Horribly. Generally accompanied in doing so by everyone they have befriended or loved. And I won't be one of them." I carefully control my tone of voice to one that is almost bored as I say this.
Calle fails to respond for a short while thereafter. "... I ... see. Okay, then. Moving right along here, an interesting point of fact has come to my attention. It seems that someone failed to mention that his business partner should be expecting to be contacted by the PRT ENE. Something about providing at-cost services to said illustrious body?" Calle somehow managed to draw out the word "moving" without it sounding like a cow's utterance. I am fairly confident that I could not pull such a trick off, even with the CVI's assistance. I shake my head as I think about this notion.
"Damn. They operate quickly. That was literally last night, Quinn. I had intended to tell you to anticipate being contacted by them in today's meeting. I ... took some advice from one of my min.. err, associates, in terms of getting ahead of the message as it were. I may have arranged a meeting with the head of the Protectorate ENE."
"Oh? Go on." Calle's voice makes it clear he either already knows the rest of the story or else expects there to be more.
"Ahh ... yes. Yes, well. Let's just say that I from time to time anticipate providing unexpected assistance to the Protectorate and Ward capes here in Brockton. And that I ... well. It's better to stay on the friendly side of the people who can make your legal life a living hell, you know? So ... yeah. At-cost services. Don't worry, I'm including your firm's expenses and representational costs in 'at-cost'. I did make it clear that manhours at least would be included in that. I expect you'll work out the details."
"Ahh. I .. well, I can't fault your reasoning in that. I'll have to have Denise contact Richardson in the PRT Quartermaster's office."
"Oh. Right. Quinn ... I never did get around to mentioning the injections to Armsmaster, you understand? Let's keep that under wraps for now. No point in getting them all worked up over nothing."
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Emily Piggott hated eventful days. Even when things worked out overall positively, things being eventful means that things are unstable. When things are unstable they are unpredictable. And it was always the bullet you didn't hear that killed you. Today's after-action report summary for the overnight period made it quite clear that she was going to ache harder than usual for a nice, smooth, single malt."Alright, Hana." Emily, through long habit, made it a personal point of pride to get personal details of those who reported to her -- like how one prefers their name be pronounced -- correct; even if the individual in question never announced such things to her directly. It showed amongst other things that she did not limit herself to surface reports; and left her subordinates with the impression that she really, meaningfully, knew them. In Miss Militia's case, that meant pronouncing her name without anglicizing it. In Colin's case, it meant using his cape name to refer to his actions in the field. "I can understand Armsmaster's actions of last evening as reported. But would you care to flesh out for me what didn't fit in the AAR? Why did you push him to not bring in this ... " she made a show of looking down at the report, though she'd already memorized it by now " ... Magister and bend procedure for a field debriefing?" Emily very carefully did not voice her anger. Hana knew her well enough to know it was there -- and by not showing it, Emily was effectively communicating that she knew that Hana knew. Which of course made it more persuasive to this conversation than if she were actually venting said anger. An old managerial trick her first LT taught her -- by putting her on the receiving end of it.
The patriotic cape, who was still in costume, responded almost immediately. "Well, ma'am, it's simple. Those six individuals together had just successfully defeated two groups of individuals who were collectively roughly five times their number. Based on Armsmaster's initial report, this 'Magister' seems to have some sort of Brute abilities. On top of that, the captured footage showed an execution of combat technique that speaks either to enhanced reflexes or else extensive martial prowess. Adding to that, he was able to hear from eighty feet's distance whispered communications that I, standing less than ten feet away from the speaker of said whispers, was barely able to make out."
Emily at this point was "listening with intent". She knew how Hana communicated and knew that these disparate points of fact were all going somewhere. And frankly she could already begin to see the shape of where it was going; but prompting Miss Militia before she finished would be poisoning the well. And so, she listened as the former Ward continued.
Still; Hana sensed Emily's impatience -- largely from experience with her. "To summarize, Director -- a large number of disparate but low-significance individually speaking observations led me to the conclusion that Magister was holding back about what he could really do. What we have seen is someone with the kind of martial prowess that normally speaks of prolonged experience and training. We also know that each of his associates were equipped with exactly the same kind of gear that he has, and furthermore they all had the same color eyes. Factor in his claims -- as corroborated by Armsmaster's lie-detecting equipment -- and that last fact paints a very disturbing picture. In short; we don't even know that the man who we met with is the real cape, ma'am -- and if that were the case, then preventing he and his people from going about their business was something I simply was not comfortable with risking."
Emily blinked at this statement. But if Hana was saying that she had noticed such a small detail and found it relevant, well. The worst part is that she had to agree with her assessment.
"So what are you saying, Hana? That we're actually dealing with a Trump or Master? Were these men projections?"
Colin -- no, Armsmaster -- was the one who responded to the question. "The five unsub associates working with the individual who self-identified as Magister all appeared to be extremely well-coordinated, Director, but they also were each acting entirely independently based on input and situations unique to each; they were all performing basic first-responder style triaging/immediate care on their target subjects. This speaks to a complexity of analysis and situational awareness that exceeds the capabilities of individual projections -- at such numbers, at least -- yet observed in the history of capes. In addition, forensic analysis of the implements used to bind the unpowered gang-members indicates that they were carried by actual, non-projected, individuals. Trace fibers from various makes, dies, and ages of manufacture for the peacoats they were all wearing -- that sort of thing. No, they were all separate, real, individuals."
Emily raised an eyebrow at him. "And this I am assuming is all in your report?"
Armsmaster didn't even skip a beat. "The extended report filed electronically, Director. Linked to the various analysis as needed. No -- those were all almost definitely separate individuals. Which makes their coordination and prolonged ability to hold even reflex responses silent for several moments all starting within milliseconds of one another almost disturbing. In short -- that's the sort of behavior you normally only see from Mastered crowds, but is somewhat at odds with the degree of independent reasoning necessary for medical observation. Miss Militia and I both passed basic Master/Stranger field protocols; my armor's EEG sensors noted no pattern disruptions indicative of external influence; and so far none of the approximately thirty gang members brought in have shown any neurological distress or behavioral oddities. They remain under observation per protocol regardless; should any exhibit abnormal response Miss Militia and I have both pre-committed to reporting in for further isolation and observation per protocol."
"So what are you saying?"
Hana was the one to continue. "His men were all slightly differently built, and one had a scar over his right brow that the others did not have. Some kind of road rash or something. I agree with Colin; they were all separate people. No, the cooperation I saw was the sort that comes from long-term military personnel who've been in the same squad for most of their term. They were also definitely looking to Magister for cues. It's the sort of thing you learn to recognize by witnessing it. And honestly that's possibly the most disturbing aspect of all of this; their organization, their equipment -- they weren't in costume so much as in uniform, Director."
"Stop beating around the bush, damnit, Hana, and just say it."
"Director, I think this Magister may be the front for an existing organization. One that to date has managed to stay below the proverbial radar... but for whatever reason wants very much to be on good terms with the Protectorate. At the same time, the tech and behaviors displayed did not bear up with the model of the mercenary personnel typically employed by Coil. I can't point to empirical facts on this, but my intuition is telling me that what we've seen so far is the tip of the iceberg."
Emily pressed her fingers to her temples, and attempted to massage away the incipient headache she knew wasn't going away anytime soon. "Let's both hope that your analysis is mistaken, Hana." Her own voice was dripping with the cynicism that showed that she wouldn't be betting on it, and she didn't bother trying to hide that fact. "In the meantime... Armsmaster, I need you to act immediately on this offer for Tinkering support from this Magister character. How 'he' responds is going to be a major element in -"
The damned blue tin-canned halberd wielder didn't even wait for her to finish. "Ma'am, I've already taken the liberty of following up on that contact. If you'll look at page 4 of the AAR, in the 'tertiary notes' section, you'll see who I was put in contact with when I made that phone call."
Glaring daggers at Armsmaster, Director Piggott flipped the report to the page and section that the Tinker invariably filled with excessive detail. And then she saw the name that he was referencing. A name she knew altogether too well.
"QUINN CALLE!?"
Fucking hell did Emily Piggott need a drink.
- Location
- Wall Gazing
This really brightened my day, and now my roommates are looking at me funny for laughing.
- Location
- Salt Lake City, UT, USA
Truly I am sorry for your lots.
DevilinDetail
Salty
I'm surprised he's "only" charging 20k/5k for a low brute upgrade package.