Intern 1.5

When I looked my father in the eye, the faint urge to flee and panic became suddenly overwhelming, yet utterly paralyzing. I began hyperventilating, unable to catch my breath, my knees weak and hands trembling. Dad suddenly looked stricken, and broke eye contact. He bent down and scooped up an iron cannonball that was lying beside his recliner. I had seen it up in the attic before, he had claimed that one of his ancestors had brought it home from a battlefield in the Civil War. I watched as my father picked up a forty pound cannonball and kneaded it like a stress ball, taking deep breaths. The panicked feeling was fading swiftly, and my father began to shrink, his glow diminishing, until he was his normal size, rolling the distorted ball between his hands as he slowly slumped down into his chair.

"I'm sorry, Taylor. When I woke up, and you weren't in your room, I..." he sighed. "I feared the worst. I knew you haven't been the same since the... the... the Locker." a tear trickled down his cheek. I stared. I had never seen my father cry, even when Mom died. "Hell, I haven't been the same. You saw. I just got so mad, and I was mad at myself for being a bad father, and at you for going out at night, and terrified that you wouldn't come back." he glanced at me. He didn't say it, but I could see 'like Annette' written across every feature. "And when you came in, dressed like that, I just wanted you to feel like I did." he dropped the warped ball between his feet and sobbed. "I'm sorry, I understand if you can't forgive me."

I sat down on the arm of the chair, and wrapped my father in a deep hug. "I'm sorry too, dad. There's nothing to forgive, I should have told you long ago." Without thinking, my thoughts brushed his mind, and I knew that he could gain impressive strength and durability that increased the madder he got, and induced an aura of terror in those nearby once he passed a certain size. "I triggered in the locker, dad. When I was trapped, dying. I broke, and somehow when I got pulled back together, I could see the minds of people around me, and control their bodies. It's so scary dad, It's as easy as breathing. I feel like I'm holding my breath and closing my eyes all the time, trying not to take control."

I felt the tears pool up in my goggles, and ripped them off, throwing them on the floor, uncovering my face. "I want to make a difference, dad, I want to be a hero, but if they knew what I could do, they'd lock me up or worse." I got up and threw myself down on the couch. "I went out tonight, because I just couldn't take it anymore, I had to do something, I had to prove to myself that I could do the right thing. You know what I found? I can, but it'd be so much easier to do the wrong thing. I took down Lung with barely a thought tonight. Lung, the leader of the ABB, and thirty members of his gang. Just told them to go to sleep, and they did." I groaned deeply at the expression of shock on Dad's face, and explained the whole thing.

Once I got started, everything just poured out, everything I could do, what I was, what I feared I was. I told him about Tattletale, and the plans I had, hidden deep in my heart. I wanted to make things better, and I wanted to make things stay better. No more uneasy truce between racists, thugs and dealers, while aloof protectors watched from afar and posed. I wanted to give Brockton Bay back to it's people. The city I grew up in was dying by degrees, and Dad knew it too.

I could see the passion coming back, light and hope I hadn't seen since Mom was alive and Dad was working in the Dockworker's union, helping his coworkers. He explained what was going on with his workers, how everyone was firing workers, cutting wages, his friends and acquaintances reluctantly joining gangs to feed their families and getting sucked in deeper and deeper, chewed up, and spat out frail husks of what they once were. I had the ideas, he knew where he could find the manpower. Tough men and women in hard times, who refused to compromise their principles. Hard, Honest people who wanted to take back their freedom from fear and tyranny.

There, in a dilapidated living room, in the light of an early dawn, The Union was born. Brockton Bay wouldn't know what hit it.

Two days later, I met Lisa on the board walk. It was crowded enough that my range extended the entire length of the shopping strip and tourist attraction, and I had felt her coming from over a mile away. I gently guided her to where I was by making her index fingers twitch to steer her, and her power did the rest. She walked up, wearing her hair up in a pigtail, bangs and large designer shades covering her eyes, wearing expensive, but nondescript clothes.

As she walked straight by me, in my comfortable jeans and a hoodie, I made two of the thugs in suits following her get in a fist fight with the security guards, and the remaining lurker, a muscular woman sitting on a park bench, fell asleep, her newspaper covering her face. I also looted all of their paramilitary training. Lisa smirked, and I wandered off, and we made our way separately to a nice burger restaurant that was about two steps ahead of a burger king, and three steps back from Fugly Bob's. When we got there, she wrapped me in a hug again, almost squealing in glee as the giggles that she had been repressing were let loose. "That was so cool!" she looked at me, and smiled. "You're feeling better. You told somebody else... Your Dad... And he's cool with you being a freelance vigilante."

I grinned as we sat down. "Even better, he wants to help."

Lisa blinked. "Really? He... wants to help? He wants to help. And he is able to help because..." she looked at my face closely, then muttered to herself under her breath. I forced myself to keep from listening in, while I read the posted menus through four different sets of eyes, and sampled the flavors of several different dishes. Yes, I live vicariously through others. Lisa sat up. "Either he has contacts and connections, or he's a cape too." She laughed again, then sobered. "Both. He triggered when you did."

I nodded slowly. "My name is Taylor Hebert." Lisa's eyes widened. "Yes, That Taylor Hebert." The Locker had been on the news briefly, and I had made an anti-bullying statement or two. "My dad is with the Dockworkers Union, and knows quite a few good, honest people who are out of work. I'm assuming you have capital?"

Lisa nodded. "Close to 1 million, in assorted secure accounts. Nothing truly illegal, but every time the Undersiders hit a job, I skimmed quite a bit off the top, and I ransacked my boss's accounts when I resigned. All proceeds courtesy of the Vigilante Act of '89, which makes it legal to claim monetary funds collected in the process of stopping a crime. Which, technically, we were."

I grinned. "I've got the power, Dad has the people, and you've got the cash. Let's get started."

Lisa looked at her lap. "There's one more thing. I... kindaneedtomoveinwithyou."

I blinked and parsed the sentence. "You need to move in?" she nodded. "To be safe from your former boss." She nodded again. I sat and thought for a moment. I had told Dad the basics of Lisa's position, and he knew what it was like to have a nasty boss and be in a bad position. In fact, I had learned that Mom had been a hench-woman for Lustrum, before the radical feminist parahuman got sent to the Birdcage. We could take her in, even had a guest room. I stuck out my hand. "Welcome to the family." Lisa nearly leapt across the table trying to hug me, happy tears flowing down her cheeks.

Preparations went well over the next few weeks. I clued in Lisa on my last unrevealed skill, the ability to copy mundane skills, and we promptly went on a day trip to several banks and stock exchanges, where I picked up the accumulated experience of about 500 years of stockbroking and banking. While it was illegal for a registered Thinker or Master to trade stocks, I had discovered that I could loan my copied skills to other people. While the effect wasn't permanent, it had lasted long enough for Dad, who was not a Thinker in any way, to nearly double our starting capital.

We had found and purchased an abandoned warehouse near the abandoned Boat Graveyard, a massive pile of derelict, overturned boats of all shapes and sizes, a massive resource to those with the skill to use it, but a massive eyesore and obstruction to shipping, even coastal shipping which wasn't affected as much by the presence of Leviathan. We had put out feelers on ParaHumans Online, seeking Tinkers in the area who were looking for work and resources, and had found several, but most would not fit what Lisa and I had in mind.

Dad took a week's vacation, and we all went on several tours of area attractions. If they happened to go by military bases and engineering firms... well, that could be argued to be a happy coincidence. Finally, we arrived at our true destination, a little house in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains. It was a simple house, little more than a converted mobile home, but it was completely outclassed by the massive prefabbed aircraft hanger that was set half-way into the side of a cliff. I walked up to the door, flanked by Dad on my right, and Lisa on my left.

Excuse me, flanked by Havok on my right, and Intuit on my left. We were all in costume, or something close. I had switched from my original, improvised costume to a snazzy women's business suit in dark gray pinstripes, Tinkertech formal high heels with automatic gyroscopes that improved balance, and a matching pinstriped domino mask, with corrected lenses set into the eye holes. My hair was up in a tight bun. Lisa was in a matching dress and mask in dark blue, while Dad wore a black suit that was specially designed to keep a sharp cut, while flexing to match his size, while being mostly bulletproof. Right now, he was intentionally fuming about minor annoyances, and stood at nearly seven feet tall, bulging with muscles and starting to tint red. He wouldn't produce his fear aura until after he hit the eight-foot mark, and that would be extremely counter productive.

I rang the buzzer next to the door, and the intercom set in above it came to life with a crackle. "I'll be there in a moment, just gimme a sec!" shouted a distorted voice. I smirked. In moments, the door swung open. I looked straight ahead, and then my eyes drifted down. Huh. Hadn't expected that.

The man we had arranged to meet was a well built man, tanned brown from the sun, with bleached blonde hair in a crew cut, probably in his mid to late thirties. He was also sitting in a wheelchair. He thrust out one callused, scared, but freshly scrubbed hand. "The name's Grunt. Or that's what I go by."

I shook the proffered hand firmly. "Synergy. My companions are Havok and Intuit." His grip was firm and confident. "A pleasure to meet you. I was quite impressed with your portfolio. The FARES, in particular, are very similar to what we are looking for."

Grunt beamed. "Yes, the Fire And Rescue Exoskeleton System, one of my best products. I am extremely proud of that one, saved hundreds of lives, both rescue workers and civilians." He span his chair around, and rolled inside. "Come in." we followed him into a den that, while pleasant and clean, showed signs of rare use. A shadowbox with a folded American flag and a collection of military medals held a place of honor , with multiple recliners and a couch placed around a coffee table. Grunt wheeled over to one of the recliners and levered himself into it with ease, his legs dragging limply.

"So, you're looking for something like the FARES, huh?" He pronounced it FAH-res. "Full body containment, enclosed atmospheric system, durable enough to take a beating, but simple enough that regular mechanics can take care of it?" He grinned again. I was starting to like him. "But you want something slightly different." He looked us over carefully. "You know I don't do combat gear, right? Bound by my contracts for independence from the PRT and their band of meddlers."

Havoc nodded. "We're looking more for construction gear. We need to protect mundane workers while they dismantle and salvage wrecked ships, above ground and underwater, in potentially hostile territory. Power assisted, fully immersible, on-board cutting and gripping gear, whatever else you think should go on. You're the Tinker." Lisa and I had decided that Dad should do the negotiating, as that was truly his area of expertise. I reached out and touched Grunt's mind, his aura reminding me of gears and pistons moving, while somehow looking completely different. He was glancing between the three of us, his expression unreadable.

"You're from Brockton Bay." he stated, coolly. "Gang central. The 'Asshole of the East'" I winced, but nodded. "How do I know that my tech isn't going straight into the hands of the Empire Eighty-Eight?"

I spoke up. "We are prepared to offer you a contract for twenty of these new suits, but what we would really prefer is if you would come to Brockton Bay yourself, so you can oversee your work. So you can know that we are using your technology to improve the quality of life in the city. We have a large warehouse that you can refurbish to your specifications and use as a manufacturing center. You would be a full member of The Union, and entitled to an equal share of any profits we acquire." I smiled. "And you would have the satisfaction of seeing first hand the good work your products are doing."

Grunt was nodding thoughtfully. "Hmmm... You raise good points. But, I will have to think about it. This is getting dangerously close to the disaster, and I don't want to get burned. Either way, I am still going to design you those suits. I've done some construction suits, and some underwater suits, but never one that's both." He clapped his hands, and rubbed them together. "Well, It's time for the tour!" he exclaimed, and slipped into his wheelchair before rolling away swiftly.

Before we followed him, Lisa pulled me aside. "He wants to join us, but he's nervous about it. He's been chafing lately, no new demand or ways to innovate. This is something new and shiny, and he wants in." I smiled.

"Then we open the door."

We followed Grunt to an elevator, where we went down some indeterminable distance before coming out into an antechamber. The decor was very much a practical setting, just a poured concrete floor and corrugated steel walls painted an off-gray with florescent lights hanging from the ceiling. Grunt noticed my eyes wandering. "I'm not selling you something pretty. I'm selling something that works, that keeps working, that goes from here to eternity and back, and asks for more. If you want something to walk into Hell and come back dancing, I'm your man. Otherwise, as my pappy from England used to say, 'Bugger off.'" He grinned and chuckled. "But if you wanted something pretty, you wouldn't be here anyway." he rolled over to a closet off of the main door, and lifted himself up with a chin-up bar. A pair of mechanical arms came out, and strapped a metallic framework to his legs. The paraplegic dropped nimbly to his feet, now shod in metal boots treaded with tire rubber. "Felt like stretching my legs a bit, anyway."

A fist to a large red button on the wall made a pair of twenty foot tall doors slide slowly open, spotlights coming on in pairs along the sides of the massive hallway. Under the lights were examples of Grunt's work. "Welcome to the Gallery." He exclaimed, jogging in. We all beamed, his enthusiasm was infectious. And the equipment was exactly what we wanted.

Typically, most mainstream tinkers are capable of making power armor, streamlined armor that gave a minor boost to strength while protecting the wearer and maintaining agility. Grunt specialized in building suits that were less power armor, and more along the lines of wearable construction equipment. In fact, that was exactly what most of this was. Most of the suits were massive, seven to nine feet tall and built thick and heavy, with exposed hydraulics and heavy bolts. Every connection was double and triple bolted, sturdy and secure, well lubed, and armor plated to near indestructibility. We walked along, looking at various suits designed for deep earth mining, construction work, controlled demolitions, anything where you needed an expert and wanted to get him back.

A very common theme was massively recessed helmets with shoulders and roll-bars over the top of the helmet. Another was the colors. Every suit was brightly colored in a brilliant yellow, lime green, fire-engine red, even one that was violently pink and covered in strobe lights and polished omnidirectional reflectors. Grunt paused by that one. "Everyone asks about this one. This is designed for ash-cloud rescue, or anywhere visibility is an issue. It's also got built in sirens and speaker systems that play warning messages." he grew very grim. "This one saw use in the aftermath of a Behemoth attack. That one-eyed bastard decided to make a volcano erupt in the middle of a city. This baby braved the ash clouds, and probably saved fifty or sixty by itself." He waved a hand to the others lining the walls. "Everything here has been through the wars and back. I don't put a suit in the Gallery unless it has unequivocally saved its wearer's life at least once."

He indicated a FARES model suit, fire-engine red with lime green caution stripes, a massive fire extinguisher cannon poking over one shoulder on a swivel mount. On one arm, a pair of hydraulic expansion shears were mounted. The whole suit was seared black on one side. "This is Bessie, one of the first FARES suits. She survived a nuclear meltdown. I sat in that damn thing for a week solid, smelling my own b.o. and sipping on nutrient paste until they manged to get the bloody roof off of me. I walked out under my own power, and then still had to wait a day until they had washed enough of the radiation to get me out safely. The doctor said I took more radiation getting out of it for a few seconds than I did sitting in a melted down reactor for a week." Grunt patted the suit on its burnt arm. "I did a good job with that one, and it's really what kicked off my sales."

It took a couple of hours of tours and explanations, but we finally made it to Grunt's design office. In four, we knocked out a preliminary design for an eight foot tall submersible suit, painted bright yellow, with swiveling searchlights, and deploy-able waldos to hold beams and materials in place while the primary arms worked. Both arms had adaptable sockets for assorted heavy industrial tools, including a cutting torch that worked underwater. The suits were could lift enormous weights with their hydraulic actuators, and powered by a hyper-efficient hydrogen fuel cell that could last for weeks at life support levels, and actively refilled and filtered water to split and reconvert when underwater. When asked about the armor-plating, Grunt went into an explanation about nano-molecular laminate that went over all our heads, but he assured us through experience that that the suits could have buildings fall on them and come out fine, and not to even worry about bullets. The operator was cradled in shock resistant foam, and an on-board re-breather, air scrubber, and nutrient paste guaranteed safe, albeit miserable, operation for up to two weeks.

As we wrapped up the design, Grunt leaned back in his office chair and observed us for a moment. Finally, he sighed. "Screw it, I'm gonna regret this, but I'm in."

I stood and shook his hand. "Welcome to The Union."

An: Major thanks to Cosmoline from Sufficient Velocity for the initial concept for Grunt. Read and enjoy, folks, and come see me on the forum, I'm pretty active on my thread.